Today, I will be home with my parents. While I am excited to see them, I am mentally preparing for the changes in them—what will be remembered (their childhood), forgotten (yesterday), or lost (glasses). Will their knees still hurt? Is Dad using the new ramp or still protesting and taking the stairs? Are they dehydrated? Sleeping through the night? Are gluten-free pancakes still the go-to for mom if she’ll eat? Is our legally blind Dad still swinging that axe to chop wood? Can he have more than one beer? And how many Dove bars can Mom have?
I know one thing remains the same—my conversation with mom every day:
“Mom! It’s me, your daughter.” This is what I holler each time I talk to my mom on the phone and every time I see her.
“What?” She’ll ask.
“It’s your daughter, Lucretia,” I say a little louder (the unused hearing aids on the counter are nestled among eyeglass cases and lens wipes, claiming to be the most expensive earplugs Mom owns).
I emphasize the words daughter and Lucretia, and my words come out like a mantra, a prayer that maybe if I say it enough, she’ll open her eyes and exclaim, “Lucretia! There you are!” Like saying the Hail Mary in a Rosary, over and over, in the hope that maybe Mary herself is listening.
Instead, Mom asks, “What number daughter are you?”
“Fourth, Mom, and your favorite,” I say in my sing-song-jokey voice, holding the A in “faaaavorite.” She laughs and says, “Oh! Okay!” It’s not convincing, but I’ll take it.
I’ll record their changes on paper—while my head and heart take time to process and accept them.
What I’ve learned:
Distance can be a blessing and a curse—the heart may grow fonder, but it sure aches in the process.
This Friday, I will be home with my parents. I thought I’d repost a story I wrote a few years ago… the changes they’ve gone through, mentally, physically, and emotionally, over the years are evident. Still, they are eternally guided by faith, hope, love, and my super supportive sisters.
Repost from 2023 Lenten Reflections #4
I am one of four sisters. The youngest and farthest from our parents. Growing up, people would refer to me as “the baby,” and mom would swoop in like an eagle – wings flapping and correct them in her unyielding tone, “Nooooo, she’s the youngest”. At the time, mom was busy raising four independent girls, and the term “baby” was reserved solely for those in diapers, which we were all out of by age two.
As in most families, we each had our textbook roles as siblings: the oldest – reliable and overly cautious (as kids we barely glimpsed at the Grand Canyon as she herded us like a Border Collie away from the edge), the middle sisters – a tad rebellious, with large social circles (probably helped that they had a cool 1957 Ford truck to drive), and me fun-loving and easy-going perhaps a bit lazy. Now that Mom and Dad are 84 and 87, respectively, (AMAZING! I KNOW!) life has changed a bit, and we have adjusted our roles.
That being said, when it came to caring for them as they waltzed hand in hand through their later years, I was not the daughter to step up to the helm and guide the ship. There’s something called “Seagull Syndrome,” where the sibling who lives the farthest away tends to visit, poop on everyone’s ideas about caretaking, and fly home. I try not to do that but rather be the “fun uncle” type daughter who says yes to everything (“Yes, cookies for breakfast counts…yes, we can binge watch Blue Bloods until midnight”) , and then I head home.
Thankfully, with three sisters and the Catholic faith as our north star, one of my sisters retired from her job and moved back home to care for them. With a Master’s Degree in psychology, 30 years of experience managing engineers, and a heart of gold, she was clearly qualified and has made what is possibly the noblest of all jobs look easy. She’s the Helen Keller of caretaking. She knows where mom hurts and how to heal, she knows when dad needs to go for a drive or use the wood splitter, and she knows exactly when they both need a nap. Although they both say they “don’t nap”.
As a bunch (think Brady’s with attitude), we each contribute what we can. My oldest sister is always on call and will drop anything to be present. Outsourcing as needed, and sending Pedialyte, Boost, or whatever is needed via Amazon. My sister, closest to me in age, will jump in and clean, manage all outside work, call daily, and do more between 10 pm and 2 am than most people do all day. We all have our jobs, whether it’s calling to tell them stories of our day, making sure mom takes her medicine, or dad sits down to rest. But my sister, the primary caretaker, has developed a skillful management of herself and our parents, and for that, we are all grateful.
How does she do it?
Always reading and learning, she finds the perfect balance between caretaking and respecting our parents’ need for independence. In the book Being Mortal, author Atul Gawande posits that whether a teen or a senior, they both value autonomy and crave the feeling of purpose and worth every day. So, when Dad, who recently stopped driving, wants to drive the truck from the front yard to the back, we let him buckle up and go…better to help him remember he still can, even if just a little bit.
Equally, when mom wants to give the next-door dog, Ned, leftovers through the fence (even though he’s been fed), she takes care of dear old Ned. I read a story about Bill Thomas, director of a nursing home in NY, who brought in pets for the residents to nurture because he says giving people something to care for makes them more active and alert. Thus, my parents’ surplus of suet, bird seed, dog bones, and corn.
Being part of the “Silent Generation,” our parents are workers. Raised in the Depression Era, everything is recycled, reused, repurposed, and appreciated. Growing up, wood piles were (and still are) precious commodities, prom dresses were made by mom (!), and going out to eat at “The Royal Fork” Buffet was a really big deal.
Luckily, Dad starts each morning by saying, “Another good day, right, Mom?!” Mom replies in her realistic tone, placing her coffee in the microwave again, “Okay, Dad”. They do this, call each other “Mom and Dad,” the titles God bestowed on them that they cherish and will use day after day until there are no more days.
During my visit this past week, I wrote down some notes. As they are specific to my parents, I believe the lessons can be applied to taking care of any senior or otherwise. I wrote this list for my sisters, so it may read like a journal, but I thought it might help someone out there.
I strongly believe “everyone needs a destination.”
Respect what I call “the triangle”: Church, the doctor’s office, and the grocery store. These are their familiar stomping grounds – weave in a few other outings (restaurant, casino, a walk), and it gives the day purpose.
Note: If you have to reschedule a doctor’s appointment, do it. Better to take them when they are prepared and feeling okay than stressed and apprehensive.
Listen to their stories – it connects them to a familiar time
My mom’s stories at the age of 14 are formative years and the spotlight of her daily memory.
When Mom talks about giving up the St. John’s College scholarship offer she received, I think about the huge sacrifice she made for her family by working and supporting them when Grandpa was sick.
Mom will remind you of the way grandma and grandpa warmed water on the stove for their baths and how they sang songs like “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain” in perfect harmony.
Dad will tell you stories in Spanglish as vividly as if you were there.
Speak loudly
Especially if you are reading a crossword clue to dad or the jumble letters, or driving and mom is in the back seat, or telling a story, or or or…
Diet and meals – let them eat cake!
Mom will eat more and digest better if the food is cut into small pieces.
Gatorade powder (more economical per Dad) is rejuvenating. Stir thoroughly or he’ll tell you there is “perfectly good wasted sugar at the bottom of the glass” and refill it.
Happy Hour is sacred; respect it. Open a beer for Dad and poor Mom’s Pedialyte. Place cheese, gluten-free crackers, and fruit on a plate and enjoy.
The “Big” meal is at 3:00 pm.
Dove Bars – we bought eight boxes at the commissary – it’s a highlight of the day…and a fair bribe to get mom to eat.
Outdoor Activities – Emerson said that the happiest person on earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So walk outside a lot.
Mom will always have things to show you around the yard, enjoy the tour. Upon my arrival, she said, “Come meet our new family members.” I went out back and was greeted by 24 cranes who began squawking at me as I approached the fence. “If we go to the poor house,” Mom said, “it’s because Dad and your sister keep feeding these guys so much corn”.
Watching Dad move wood from the ground to the truck to the splitter and stack it is as exhausting as doing it yourself.
Dad will work harder than any 20-year-old you’ve ever met and wonder why “me duele de todo” (everything hurts).
Later, talk Dad through why “todo duele” (everything hurts) and gently remind him he is 87 years old and must pace himself.
Indoor Weather – Dress for summer
It will always be warm inside Mom and Dad’s house. Our brilliant sister has the thermostat programmed to plummet to 72 degrees. (Highly Recommend!) To set the thermostat, press the bottom button on the left once, then walk away nonchalantly. Mom will later turn it up to 81 degrees. Once you are drenched in sweat, repeat the process.
The fireplace will be used if the weather is 70 degrees or below.
Indoor Activities –
Mom thinks her hearing is excellent, but according to a hearing test, it’s not. So, before watching Jeopardy, Mom will ask you to “turn up the volume because Dad can’t hear!”
Mom’s filter has gone from almost there to MIA, so when watching Jeopardy, be ready for a roasting of Ken Jennings, who, according to Mom, “acts like he knows everything” …ummm…he did win about a million times.
With Dad’s macular degeneration, he is still able to enjoy and make out the scenery when watching the Alaska shows. “Good hard workers!” he says. He also loves “Nat Geo”, “The History Channel”, and “The Weather Channel”. The more dramatic, the better with the weather.
Puzzles for mom…have one set up and another on deck at all times. This is her quiet space.
The Newspaper
Holding the newspaper in their hands brings comfort, familiarity, and joy. Even if Dad can’t see enough to read it.
Let Mom read the paper to Dad in the morning while he slurps his way through the coffee and pastries or cookies. Tread lightly, this is their time.
When Dad shakes out the newspaper, he’ll say, “Let’s see who’s left and let’s see who moved out of town.” Then he’ll hand me the obituary section to read aloud “slowly”. I announce the names as if they were crossing the stage at a commencement ceremony, or rather, St. Peter’s gate.
The crossword and Jumble are great mental gymnastic exercises and keep their minds active.
Top 10 Do’s and Don’ts
Don’t do laundry. That’s mom’s gig.
If Dad is struggling with something, DO take over and help.
If mom is struggling with something, leave her alone. She “CAN DO IT!”
Don’t move the scissors, pencils, coffee, Kleenex, or blankets. Life is now done by feel and rote memory.
Do agree more.
Do let Dad cheer up Mom. Dad equals levity.
Do help them remember: Dad may not remember what he ate the night before – i.e., “Oh, we ate enchiladas last night? Did I enjoy them?” “Yes, Dad, you loved them.” “Oh, good!”
OR “Did we watch Blue Bloods last night?” Yes, Dad, you fell asleep in the last five minutes. “Did I enjoy it?” Yes, Dad – you loved it.“Oh, good!”
Do answer the phone mean people prey on the elderly.
Don’t ask them, “Do you remember when…” just retell the story.
What I’ve learned:
Being far away is hard. Wondering if this is the phone call is hard, hard, hard. Saying goodbye to them at the airport when I leave is hard…homesickness in my fifties looks a lot different than it used to, and I mentally prep myself for the lifelong homesickness yet to come.
But I love that God and Grace and Mercy exist. I love that when I cry and truly let out my fear of their absence, the tears feel like a Baptism. I love that I have my sisters. How to care for those who cared for us…I love that we are like a pit crew, repairing what is broken, filling up our parents’ tank with all the love we possibly can because we’re on the clock. I love that we take care of each other.
Thanks for joining me,
Lucretia
On writing…
“You are going to feel like hell if you never write the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves in your heart–your stories, visions, memories, songs: your truth, your version of things, in your voice. That is really all you have to offer us, and it’s why you were born.”
Last week, Cora texted her brothers: “When are you coming home next?”
Friday rolled around, and I heard the rumble of Dexter’s truck in the driveway. He was home for the weekend.
Then, early Saturday morning, Zavier soared through the door, yelling, “What’s up, Fam!”
Cora had asked, and here they were.
It reminded me of when the kids were younger, and Cora would direct the boys in several plays they created. Sometimes she was the police officer, and they were the deputies in a big sting operation, or they were headline performers for a Christmas show. Cora would choose the songs, and the boys followed directions and sang the five holiday songs they almost knew the words to, multiple times. They threw on bonnets for Little House on the Prairie reenactments, performed Baptisms for every doll in the house, and took their bows one show at a time.
Everything went smoothly until it didn’t. Without fail, lyrics would go awry – a dreidel would get mixed into Rudolph’s Reindeer games, the dogs would drink the baptismal water during the doll ceremony, or potty talk would slide its way into a script, the boys laughing hysterically along the way until Cora would shut down the entire show.
But this weekend, they accepted their casting calls and showed up when asked.
Before I knew it, clean laundry was packed up, I wrote them each a little note, and their cars rumbled away. It was a wonderful weekend.
I absolutely love running and used to do it almost every day. After a long run, I would read Runner’s World Magazine from cover to cover. I’ll never forget an article from 2010 about running streaks. It was about an elderly man in his 70s who would wake up every morning and run 10 miles, rain, snow, or sun. Ten miles. Every day. No breaks. That’s a streaker.
This month, encouraged by my sweet daughter, I am working on my own streak.
Enter Duolingo.
Unlike my natural drive to run daily, Duolingo has a little green, galloping owl that makes happy, squeaky sounds that are super motivating. Some days I feel like I’ve reached Mensa level in IQ, but instead, I simply earn one more point.
Bless me Father…
For 28 days, I’ve been consistent with my language lessons… until last night.
This morning, I woke up to find that darn Duolingo owl with droopy, depressed eyes and a big, fat band-aid holding it together. The forlorn owl, seemingly lost without its language partner.
I quickly learned that if you skip a day on your streak to becoming a Duo-linguist, the app will smother you in guilt. Good guilt.
Good, healthy, Catholic guilt.
Luckily, my penance was simple: a review and three extra lessons. I threw in a few Hail Marys for good measure.
What I Learned:
I thought I’d better do some research and understand a little more about streaks. Dr. Kay Milman, a behavioral scientist at the University of Pennsylvania, said streaks work for two reasons: potential gain, “because there’s something bright and shiny that they can reach for. There’s a prize, in a sense, that’s making you more motivated to get a thing done.” The second is loss aversion, where the pain of losing something is more intense than the joy of gaining it.
I also learned that consistency – in Duolingo and life – is priceless. Whether it’s showing up on time (every time) wherever you’re headed, following through on what you said you would do (like writing), or consistently praying. Every day, even when you don’t need something from God immediately.
Prayer is truly private—a pure communication from one’s heart to God.
Today is Ash Wednesday and since February 2018, I have written my Lenten Reflections for 40 days each year.
320 posts.
320 Stories of my family, my fears, my fallacies, and my favorite moments.
This is my Lenten practice.
My Holy habit.
According to Charles Duhigg, author of The Power of Habit, there is a three-step loop to building habits: cue, routine, and reward. For example, my cue (Lent) triggers my brain to go into automatic mode and start the routine. The routine (Writing) is the behavior itself. And the reward (Sharing and Showing up) is what my brain likes and helps it remember the habit loop in the future.
Duhigg goes on to say, “…there’s nothing you can’t do if you get the habits right.” So here I am again, trying to get the habits right. One day at a time.
TODAY’S FACTS:
For the first time since 1863, three significant traditions intersect this week: Lent, the Lunar New Year, and Ramadan all begin within less than 24 hours of each other. This rare overlap will not happen again until 2189.
As billions of people across the globe begin their spiritual seasons, it might just be what the world needs…a little more faith in ourselves and our neighbors.
The Lenten Season consists of 40 days of spiritual preparation for Easter, with the three pillars of prayer, fasting, and acts of charity bolstering it up.
Across Asia, the Lunar New Year (the year of the Fire Horse) begins a new cycle with family reunions, food, and traditions.
Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, when Muslims fast from dawn until sunset. Ramadan is supposed to be a month of mercy, goodness, and light that extends to everyone around them, in the hope that everyone receives the ripples of that light.
When interviewed on NPR, Saad Omar, an imam with the Islamic Society of McLean, Virginia, said that the convergence of these religious holidays carries a reminder of our shared humanity. There is a spiritual dimension where two people can have very different ideas and world views and politics, but when they both feel love, the love probably has a similar flavor.
What I learned:
If there is one thing I’ve learned in life, so far, is that we are more alike than we are different. No matter why we pray or fast or give alms, we are all doing it for a reason that is greater than all of us. This is why we are here. To help each other through the murky moments, to feel the hunger for spiritual strength, and to pray that peace will once again be restored.
On Easter Monday, Pope Francis, our first Jesuit, Latin American Pope, left this world on a day steeped in hope, the day after Easter. This hope is the exact message he delivered every day by just being himself. Easter Monday is known as ‘Monday of the Angel’ in remembrance of the women who went to see Jesus’ tomb and were told of his resurrection by an angel. Hope.
So, Monday morning, when I heard of Pope Francis’ passing, I thought about the angel that delivered the message, and as I am profoundly saddened by his death, deep in my heart, I pray Pope Francis is the angel to give God a nudge and remind Him of the struggling here. The lost jobs, the migrants, the poor, the marginalized, our neglected earth, and the lack of compassion for humanity. Losing Pope Francis was like losing our last hope.
Moral Courage
Moral courage is the ability to stand up for and practice what we think is ethical, moral, and right. Pope Francis chose to meet the world where it was and believed the church should recieve everyone -todos -todos.
I’ve dabbled in moral courage…I remember my son’s kindergarten teacher keeping the kids in for recess when it was 50 degrees, “too cold,” they said. I set up a meeting with the teacher. “Let’s agree to disagree,” she said. So I went to the PTA to start a petition, “too controversial,” I was told. Then the principal said, “Sorry, PE can count for recess.” Finally, I joined several parents from all over the city and went to the state capital in Atlanta, three kids in tow, to speak about how critical recess is for our children. How recess is a right and NOT a privilege. I researched kids, movement, and the brain for years, and finally, legislation was passed mandating 30 minutes of recess daily. Baby steps.
I remember standing amid Catholics for Choice at a march in Washington, DC, when it wasn’t the popular view to take. Yet I stood in the rain for hours with survivors of sexual abuse, and anyone who dared to respect a woman’s rights.
Some call this ludicrous. Others call it courage.
What I learned:
We find ourselves at a juncture when hope and courage dwindle with each headline and news break. Back in 2016, Pope Francis said, “Anyone, whoever he is, who only wants to build walls and not bridges is not a Christian.” He was right. He urged the cardinals and bishops to serve as a field hospital for the people, not a country club for the rich. He chose his name Francis from St. Francis of Assisi who saw all of creation as a sacred manifestation of God’s love, how perfect.
So, let us live like Pope Francis and choose humility over ego, the poor over the powerful, and people over property.
Rivers do not drink their own water; trees do not eat their own fruit; the sun does not shine on itself and flowers do not spread their fragrance for themselves. Living for others is a rule of nature. We are all born to help each other. No matter how difficult it is …. life is good when you are happy, but much better when others are happy because of you. – Pope Francis
Thank you Pope Francis for being our beacon of hope and unrelenting courage.
Every week after church, Dad asks if our church fills up. “It’s pretty full, Dad, but we have fewer churches here in Marietta,” I say every week. In fact, my hometown of Albuquerque has 32 parishes for the 37% of Catholics in the city. Meanwhile, in Marietta, Ga…there is a grand total of 4 Catholic churches to accommodate our 1% of Catholics. I cannot speak to the amount of practicing Catholics, but even for the Christmas-Easter crew, there are plenty of options to kneel and say an Ave or two.
Mom and Dad attend the 4:30 pm mass on Saturday evenings. Arriving late to church is very stressful for Mom, and arriving early to church is unheard of for Dad. I decided to choose my battles today and leave early (for mom) and drive slooooowly to church. Dad, whose driving speed from ages 14-86 could only be described as manic, noted my speed and said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice, “Wow, you really follow the speed limit.”
Cars zoomed past, and as we approached an intersection, we passed a dry, grassy field on fire, uncontained and spreading toward the road. We (Siri) called 911, and the fire department said they were on their way. Mom asked for the time, and I reassured her that we had 30 minutes to complete an 8-minute drive. As the firetruck passed, we finally pulled into a packed parking lot. I carefully (and slowly) squeezed our Honda between a huge SUV and a flashy Impala lowrider with gold rims.
When we opened the door to the Sanctuary, we were surprised to see the pews filling quickly. Not only was it Palm Sunday, but it was also First Communion for 17 kids. Concerned that Mom and Dad would get tired and hungry, I proactively gave Mom a mint, which calmed her, then leaned over and whispered to Dad that I bet God would let us leave early since we showed up for the rosary ahead of mass. Unrattled, they both sat patiently and sang along to the Spanish and English hymns, except when Mom plugged her ears because the guitar was just “too loud”.
First Holy Communion is a family event. This evening, pews were filled with extended families. Palms were craftily folded into crosses, babies were passed from row to row, and children were dressed with care – bows in place, tiny neckties straightened. The communicants all sat in the first two rows with pressed suits and snow-white dresses. Flowers dotted the girls’ hair, and boys stood proudly in their shined shoes. One by one, they walked, leading with their prayer hands as they received their First Holy Communion. Their parents and siblings beamed because it was a big deal. This sacrament truly is tremendous. As Catholics, we know that the Holy Eucharist is the origin of our faith. Pope Francis has called it the “Sacrament of Love”. He says, “The Eucharist is at the heart of ‘Christian initiation’, together with Baptism and Confirmation, and it constitutes the source of the Church’s life itself. From this Sacrament of love, in fact, flows every authentic journey of faith, of communion, and of witness.”
Pope Francis knows what he’s talking about. He’s a big deal.
What I learned:
I reminisced about our church in Marietta. Every Saturday before the final prayer, two elderly men meet the deacon at the foot of the altar, bow their heads, and receive a blessing and a pyx with care. A pyx is a handheld tabernacle that holds the Eucharist to provide spiritual nourishment for the homebound. Each week, I try to envision their situations, marvel at their kindness, and pray for their ongoing strength and hope.
Then I thought of every little lovely wavy-haired child whose dark eyes glistened after receiving the “Sacrament of Love”. I pray that every one of them will encounter extraordinary joy, grace, mercy, thanksgiving and communion on this side of eternity.
40 Reflections – #12: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
I’m not sure when we transitioned from the word “forgetting” to Dementia when referring to Mom’s sweet mind. “My memory is not so great anymore,” she’ll say. My three sisters and I learned tips to lessen her pain of not remembering. Things like: Don’t start a sentence with “Remember when…” or ask”What did you eat for breakfast?” or “How many teaspoons of salt in tortillas?” It’s a process. My sisters are pros; I, on the other hand, plop in for intermittent visits and say the wrong things, but in that sense, dementia will work its black magic and present her mind with a clean slate.
I wrote a few quick essays about my most recent trips to see my parents, which I’ll share here. They are simply passing moments in my experience with them. Now 86 and 89 years old, they have been married 65 years next month. I reminded them separately of the milestone date, and they both had the same reaction, “That’s all!!!!?”
Here’s to Another Good Day with Mom and Dad
Wednesday 11:00 pm –
I arrived home late, too late for Mom to understand it was me, so I led with my blanket line, “It’s your daughter Lucretia”. I realized there was a good chance she was too exhausted to get it because sleep is critical for every age and in all functioning. They were clearly exhausted. Dad was trying to run out and give our friends who picked me up from the airport carne seca (jerky), but they had already headed home. Dad just wants to thank and give and be a part of the world. When your mind rarely rests, like his, activity and social stimulation are healing.
It’s sobering helping your mom figure out which end of the toothbrush gets the paste because now toothbrushes are huge or helping her find the back of her PJs. This is the same mom who could solve the puzzle of Simplicity sewing patterns, notches, and all. She could sew anything, measure, adjust, and add zippers, ruffles, and sleeves with ease. She’s my hero. She wanted 10,000 times more of what she had for us. And by God, she made it happen. Looking back, I bet with every application she typed (real-deal typed) for us, whether for a college, scholarship, award, or 4-H whatever, she probably thought, you know what, these girls are going to devour this world and spit it out when they are done. Totally crush it.
What I learned:
Dementia stinks. But I am so grateful for every visit to see my parents.
At the 5:30 mass on Sunday, the Monsignor said there would be a “Penance Service” on Monday night. At the time, I only processed the word Penance. Not Service. So on Monday evening as I walked to the church from th11e parking lot, I was chatting with my parents and sister on the cell phone. “Why is there a mass going on?” I said – mainly to myself.
My sister who excels in listening said, “You said it’s a service also.” “No way, that means a mass?” I said, sounding not very devout in my Catholicism, “Okay, I’m going in, any sins you guys want me to tack onto my list for you?” Dad said, “Just the standard sins”. I could hear my sister in the background yelling to my mom (who still doesn’t think she needs hearing aids), “Sins! She wants to know if you have any S-I-N-S she wants her to tell the priest!” Mom chuckled and said, “Not that I can think of, but say hi to kids and Justin for us.”
I signed off, “Alright, I love you guys, I’m off to find the oldest priest in there, maybe he won’t hear me when I say it’s been a very long time since my last confession.”
As I walked in, a woman was behind me and I asked her, “Is there a mass also?”
Sounding rushed, she said, “I don’t think so, I mean, I need to be somewhere soon.”
I jumped in, “I know, I thought it was just a quick in and out thing. Well, I guess I’ll go play it out.”
“Me too.” she agreed.
I stopped myself at the baptismal font, reaching the tips of my fingers in and reflecting on what I just said. I needed to reset. The reason I was there was to take time, ask for mercy, and try to be a better mother, wife, daughter, and overall being. I guess I better add “lacking devotion and patience” to my list for the priest.
Going to this Penance Service was kind of like going to a divine drive-thru and ordering Mercy with Compassion and Grace on the side. About 10 priests dispersed themselves around the church and waited for the lines to form. And boy did they form. Since I arrived a tad tardy, I was already standing by two chairs in the back of the church set up for confessional conversations. I was first in line. I sat down facing a kind young priest who bowed his head – my signal to start spilling the beans.
I actually kind of choked and couldn’t remember the sins I rehearsed in my head so I started with the line I memorized when I was seven, “Bless me Father for I have sinned…it’s been a really long time since my last confession.” Then I just started talking, both our heads bowed, staring at the worn church carpet. I closed with the best line I know when forgiveness is on the table: “I am sorry for these and all the sins I MAY have forgotten”. Covered all my bases. Father did some fancy absolving and blessing and sent me off with a penance and a gentle reminder to really try to go to confession at least once a year.
What I learned:
I left the church with a second wind, a big flux of dopamine floating in my brain. I felt a little lighter yet a lot more full. This Act of Contrition. Voicing my wrongs. Saying sorry out loud for being selfish or judgy or ungrateful helped tug me out of the marshy waters and back to Mother Earth.
Quotes I love:
“Forgiveness. The ability to forgive oneself. Stop here for a few breaths and think about this because it is the key to making art, and very possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life.
I believe, more than anything, that this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing. Again and again throughout the course of my life I will forgive myself.” – Ann Patchett
When Lent arrives I come out of the box sprinting. Typically loaded with big plans to give up sugar or gluten, maybe stop being so judgy and lead with kindness, or remember to pack extra mercy and grace with me wherever I go.
I settled on sugar, but by 4:40 pm today as I popped a Werther’s candy in my mouth (fail), I told myself it was time to go back to my 40 days of blogging.
40 days of raw reflections I like to call them. Little snippets of life – the messy, funny, daunting, and unpredictable moments I experience or observe. We all bundle up so much in our hearts and heads, that sometimes it may be worth it to take a risk and share…to release our emotions and remember we’re not alone in this world. So I’ll share a view from my chair in life.
To get started before I begin, I turn to Pope Francis to guide me toward moments of solace. He has said, that to give hope to others, it is sometimes enough simply to be kind, to be “willing to set everything else aside in order to show interest, to give the gift of a smile, to speak a word of encouragement, to listen amid general indifference”.
So whether you listen to Taylor Swift or Taichowsky, follow NPR or Fox News, or believe in God or Ganesh, let these 40 days be yours to grow in faith and love for yourselves and one another.
So I’ll end with a quote from my 88-year-old Dad – something he says as he pours himself a little scotch,
“Join me!”
~Lucretia
On Ash Wednesday…
“This evening, in a spirit of prayer and humility, we receive ashes on our heads. This gesture is meant to remind us of the ultimate reality of our lives: that we are dust and our life passes away like a breath (cf. Ps 39:6; 144:4),” Pope Francis
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