While walking in Marshalls Store today, I passed by an elderly woman and saw she had a bright pink cherry blossom wreath in her basket.
“What a beautiful wreath!” I told her.
“It is, isn’t it?” She agreed.
I went on to say the wreath would brighten up any space.
“It’s for my daughter’s grave,” she said, wilting a little. “She died one year ago, and since her tombstone hasn’t been placed yet, I thought I would find a way to use this to dress it up.”
“It’s absolutely perfect,” I said. She went on to tell me her husband also died just three weeks shy of their 75th anniversary, at age 100 and 6 months.
“That’s the way life is,” she continued. I leaned in a little, thinking she was about to give me the secret to what life “is,” but instead, she stared at the flowers on the wreath.
I remembered my years in DC, where the cherry blossom trees define spring and renewal. After a few weeks, the delicate petals on the trees float off, symbolizing the impermanence of our fleeting lives.
As our conversation slowed, she said, ” I’m 95 years old.”
“What a blessing!” I said.
“Sometimes I’m not sure if it is or not.” She said, her voice tired.
“So nice talking to you,” I said…and God bless you…The wreath really is — absolutely perfect.”
She smiled, touched my arm, gave it a mom squeeze, and continued pushing her basket toward the clothing section where her caretaker waited.
What I learned:
My five-minute conversation with one kind, elderly woman was priceless to me, as were the connections we made. I pray she will find peace.
I also pray that maybe someone stop in and chat with my parents when they are out and about. They won’t be at Marshalls, but maybe Goodwill, Trader Joe’s, a yard sale, or the Commissary. Sharing a moment with someone and listening to their stories is lubrication for the soul.
Lenten Reflections #15 – Motherhood — the moments, the madness, the profound joy, the heart-breaking sorrows
A few years ago, on a Friday night, we went to a local pizza place, sat in our regular booth, chatted, and stared up at the outdated TVs, watching any team play basketball. It was March Madness, and with so many teams playing, the stakes and drama were high—it was truly a basketball binge-watching dream for fans.
That night, I watched the teenage workers pace back and forth delivering pizzas to booths, clearing tables, and refilling their clear cups with colorful flavors at the soda fountain machine. I saw a new employee stop and stare at one of the screens, riveted. I looked up. Wrestling? What? I hadn’t seen wrestling since high school…and on a March Madness night? It turned out it wasn’t just any match, it was the Division 1 Wrestling championships, and Iowa’s three-time national champion, Spencer Lee, was in the depths of competing for a chance at a possible fourth straight title. In the end, however, Lee lost the semi-finals to Matt Ramos from Purdue, cementing one of the most historical upsets in D1 wrestling.
Why did it matter to me? Spencer’s mom…
As notable as the loss, Spencer Lee’s mom was shown reacting to her son’s defeat. As soon as the referee lifted the winner’s arm (which was NOT attached to her son), Lee’s mom tore her glasses off her face and smashed them in her hands, not one, not two, but three times, hurling them to the floor.
Now that’s mad! Mad at the ref? The opponent? Her son?
Or is it passion? Or sadness? Or frustration?
My mind reeled. Sometimes as parents, we are overly invested emotionally and financially in our children’s activities, sports, and school progress. That is to say, wemay fail to recall who is swinging the bat, writing the essay, swimming the mile, and solving the equation. Hint: It’s not us…something I forget quite often. Our (sometimes unreasonable) expectations of what our kids can and should do are crystal clear in our minds: run faster, pitch harder, and study smarter. Easy for us to say.
Is it the “happiness” we want for our kids?
The joy of winning the race or getting into their number one college? I suppose the accomplishment is kinda like a Prime package at our doorstep where underneath the bubble wrap sits all the justification you need for your investment of time, money, and heartache. Of course until the next thing and the next.
Perhaps, as parents, we conflate passion and perfectionism.
Let’s face it, seeking perfection is a fool’s errand. We are all messy and cluttered and muddling through the days. Maybe the lesson here is that sometimes other kids are going to do a lot better than our own kids on the field or in the classroom. Sounds like real life doesn’t it?
I recently read about Esther Wojcicki, author of “How to Raise Successful People”. She is best known as the “Silicon Valley’s godmother” and mom to three very successful daughters: Susan, the former CEO of YouTube, Anne, co-founder and CEO of 23andMe, and Janet, a professor at UC San Francisco. By implementing her parenting philosophy, which Esther refers to as TRICK: trust, respect, independence, collaboration, and kindness, she feels she was able to raise capable, successful children. As far as being a parent, Wojcicki suggests focusing on your behavior. She says, “Parenting gives us perhaps the most profound opportunity to grow as human beings.”
What I learned this week:
Real life is all I know. Real joy, real feelings, real pain. Sundays I sit at church and gaze at the Stations of the Cross on the walls, and I see our own journeys to Calvary. Falling some days, getting up the next. Being carried and lifted, scorned and loved. Some days we need to carry each other on the path. Mr. Rogers’ mother used to tell him in times of tragedy, Grace will always show up in the helpers. Be the helper. Be there for the mom who hurls her glasses, the kid who misses the fly ball, and your own child who needs your presence, not your commentary. Not today anyway.
While at Publix Grocery Store, I struggled to read the back of an oat milk bottle (holding it as far away as my arm would reach), and a neighbor stopped to say hi. “I have to do the same thing,” she said laughing at my squinting. Mrs. Ross lives right around the corner from us but I honestly think the last time I saw her was in the same dairy aisle months ago. Her home overlooks the playground down the street and when we began sending our kids off to play on their own, I imagined Mrs. Ross would watch over them like a guardian angel the same way our neighbor across the street would when our kids walked to the bus stop alone. It truly takes a village and ours is stellar.
We chatted for a bit about the kids and how time flies. “It really does fly,” we agreed. We spoke about time flying as if we were the first to coin the catchy cliche. As the conversation ended, she said, “Before you go, my mom is turning 99 in August. Please pray she makes it to that day so we can have a party for her 100th!” Of course!
So I added her mom to my mental prayer list which also includes our dear friend who is aching for some relief from his cancer, and the seven-year-old at school whose hair is growing in so beautifully after her recurring cancer. I also prayed for peace in Ukraine and Gaza, the Pope, our dogs’ arthritic legs, and a successful college year-end for our three kids. Then for the good of the order, I used the script from my childhood God bless list: “And everyone in the whole wide world”. Never hurts.
What I learned:
Pray for them all.
Also, oat milk is just water, oats, and sea salt. And it tastes like water.
40 Reflections – #13: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
I began sewing when I was nine. Mom guided my sisters and me as we stitched everything from duffle bags and terry cloth shorts to Gunne Sax dresses. She was a champion of whatever we wanted to tackle. One year I had my heart set on making a very fashionable ribbon dress. As I pinned and matched every notch, I was sure everything would look just like the picture on the McCall’s pattern. I was wrong, and I quickly learned the importance of a “ripper” the handy tool used to take out stitches and start again, and again and again. My ruffled sleeves puckered in the wrong places, and I even sewed one on completely upside down. Another do-over. Then I sewed on the gazillion pastel ribbons unevenly, so Mom helped me try again. She reassured me and encouraged me through every misstep, letting me trip a little and then helping me up. She built my confidence one stitch at a time.
I thought of this story the other day when Mom and I were making tortillas. The dough was a little sticky and Mom had the most gentle way of telling me the water I used to make them was too warm. She said, “Let’s see, did my recipe say warm water?” I reached into the cabinet for the weathered tortilla recipe she started using again to remind her about the 2 teaspoons of salt and baking powder.
“Yes, Mom, it says warm, not hot”, I replied.
“Okay, well, maybe you discovered something new,” she said.
“And look at all the different sizes of the tortillas! You know if you get the feel for how big each one will be, they’ll turn out the same size…but these are very colorful and creative.”
It was like I was 12 years old again and mom was reassuring me that I could rip out the stitches and start again. Everything would be okay.
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.
40 Reflections – #11: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
Lately, I’ve been worrying about stuff. Mom stuff, kid stuff, work stuff, parent stuff. As a cock-eyed optimist, I try to focus on only worrying about 8-10 things at once. It’s not easy when my mind spins like a kid on a Ferris wheel who just ate 3 funnel cakes. A little joyful a little nauseous. I worry about retirement, Medicaid, cholesterol, my parents, taxes, heaven, hell, you name it. A new worry is what if it’s my time to go and God is in a cranky mood and brings up that trigonometry test I may or may not have cheated on and still got a C?
At work, first graders are constantly worried about equal turns, cheating, and name-calling and think if they holler “It’s not fair!” all things will go their way. Maybe if we voiced our qualms like kids and yelled our fears into a megaphone the world would nod aggressively in agreement, give a thumbs up, and you’ll say “Aha! I knew I wasn’t alone!”
What I learned:
Worries are valid, but after all the worrying, you move forward, listen to John Lennon sing about everything being okay in the end, take one step, then another, and breathe. You slow down.
You find that when the wall of worry falls brick by brick, underneath it all sat love waiting patiently…and you saved it from being smothered.
Ending with a favorite…
Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 12:31-13:8a
#9 – Lenten Reflections – 40 Raw reflections during the Lenten Season
A few weeks ago I went to visit my parents. I’m the youngest of four girls and my parents, now 86 and 89 require more caretaking these days. Before I left, I let my students know I was going for a few days to take care of my parents. As always, I tried to weave a life lesson into why I needed to go. I excel in overexplaining.
I began, “You see your parents take care of you now and then someday when they get older, you’ll take care of them. Also, my mom is having cataract surgery.” Suddenly there were a few connections to the word surgery. “Ohhhh…my mom had surgery on her knee!”
“My dog had special surgery too! Wait, what is surgery?”
“Can we play the chair game or do a scavenger hunt?”
The subject change sounded a lot like my own children’s strategy. Abort! Eject! Way too much information. I lost them in the life lesson.
Maybe some of the first graders were listening…either way, they knew where I’d be out for a few days. I’m sure they jotted it on their Google calendars. Ha.
After my return to school, class began like any other Monday. First grade came in bustling, loud, and joyful. As the kids took off their jackets and found their spots on the rug, Reagan, a bright-eyed girl, strode over, looked directly at me, and asked, “How are your parents?”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I was floored by her sincerity. I hugged her, thanked her, and told her they were doing well. They are just older. But I’m so lucky to have them. “Oh good,” she said. I spoke to her like I would an old confidant. One of those gem friends where you can pick up right where you left off. An angel with a high ponytail wearing a plaid skirt and a blue polo shirt.
Reagan skipped off, plopped down on the carpet and immediately reached over to the friend next to her and began tying his shoes for him. Another boy chimed in, “She ties mine too. I mean my dad is trying to teach me at home but Reagan ties mine here.”
I shook my head and thought, wow…this six-year-old has more love in her heart than I’ve witnessed in years. Thank God for the Reagans in the world.
What I learned:
Some people, no matter their age see a great need. They load up bottles of water in their cars and hand them to the thirsty, one soul at a time.
They start small. Maybe check on a friend, listen to someone’s story, tie a shoe.
Simple gifts are empathy. Simple gifts are healing. Simple gifts mean never leaving anyone out. Jesus didn’t. Even Judas got a place at the table.
Here’s to another good day. Please pray for a quick recovery for the Pope.
40 Lenten Reflections #6 – a daily raw recollection during the Lenten Season
Ever since I was young, I’ve pined for the feeling of safety. The warmth and security a robin feels when it buries its head under its wing to stave off the bitter cold. I crave comfort and abhor fear. I was once told (yes, by a therapist), that my personal tendency is to place myself in situations that are not safe because I yearn to conquer this panic. Moving to DC on my own, running at night, living in India where I traveled alone, and sleeping on the beach in Mexico by myself (with several mosquitos). These were all experiences I chose to help strengthen my being, or so I thought. Then one cold day in January 1994, a jet-black puppy with ears as soft as satin, spirited eyes, and a gentle soul found me and pledged to keep me safe. It was a non-verbal promise, but as soon as we became family, a sense of relief, happiness, and belonging ensued.
Now it was me and Misty living in DC running at night, together. In a sense, she carried me through adulthood and gave me the courage to try things that were new, daring, and at times not too bright. She’d wait for me in the car at night if I had to run to the store, she’d linger for hours while I worked double shifts and was ready to jump in the car at 3:00 am so we could find a parking space across the street at “the far lot” and we’d run back together. She caught my tears, listened when I had to talk, and sat next to me while I went for a drive, ears flapping in the wind.
I’ve been on a lot of walks and runs in my life. Some with friends with whom you share your latest triumphs or queries; others with family where you talk about growing up, religion, or maybe even politics – if you’re careful. Being outside with someone – or alone, whether walking or running is a time when a bond is formed. After running with Misty, my brain always thought more clearly, and my soul felt more alive. She ran with me, ahead of me, next to me, jumped in Rock Creek, and powered up the rocks back on the trail to finish our run. I was always leery to let her run off-leash thinking she’d decide to really catch the squirrel this time — once I even thought I’d lost her, but on that snowy day in Maryland, she was out running with deer in a field as happy as could be. She saw me and came right back. The elation she showed when flying down a hill, herding another dog during a game of fetch, or jumping in the water, was priceless. Had I restricted her, she would have missed out on all of those moments dogs need to thrive and be alive.
Then, when Misty was 17, I had to let her off her leash, literally and figuratively. My running partner needed to rest. As mournful as it was, it was the right thing to do. Our children were five, seven, and eight years old then and were very attached to her, so we went to the backyard and spent a few minutes with Misty before we took her to the vet. The breeze was strong that Saturday in February as we all prayed, cried, and gazed into her eyes one last time.
What I learned:
“Having a good dog is the closest some of us are ever going to come to knowing the direct love of a mother or God.” —Anne Lamott, Small Victories
Lenten Reflections #4 – Raw recollections during the Lenten Season
While weeding in the yard today I walked over to our kid-size picnic table, purchased at a yard sale years ago. We had just moved from DC to Georgia and the little gem was the perfect addition to our new yard. Blue paint on the table peeked through the two layers of a glossy red shade we used to cover it over the years. It sat there tired as an old oak tree – enduring, yet vulnerable to heat and the many visitors who had rested on its wood. It needed some love, so plank by plank, I scraped off the old paint and tightened all of the rusty screws. I thought back to the sunny lunches at the table with the kids, the obstacle courses they’d create jumping over the table to the finish line. Easter eggs were found tucked in a bottom corner, our dogs slept in its shade, and freshly carved pumpkins perched on it every Halloween. Our own version of the Giving Tree. I brushed it off, convincing myself I’d get back to its restoration sooner than later. It held a zillion memories and I felt like just maybe I could preserve them with some sandpaper and more paint.
The sun was setting so we took the dogs for a walk. On the way, we stopped to visit with a few neighbors who were out piddling in their yards. Around the corner was “the big candy house” duly named because the sweet couple always gave the kids full-size candy bars on Halloween. We chatted with the dad about a few trees he had to have taken down. “They were childhood trees,” he said. The kids even named one Blossom, it stood right there. He swept his arm toward an empty spot in the yard as if he were painting a quick replica of Blossom in his mind. He continued, “But, we had to take it down, then came the basketball hoop. It was sad, but, it was time.” He stood a little taller, “Well, we’re all getting older, so it’s okay. It’s what happens”. On the way home we saw one of our dearest friends who jokingly asked us if we wanted the truck in her driveway. She just wanted to get rid of it but her husband has an emotional attachment to it…and all his boys’ baseball gear filling the garage. It all sounded so familiar. The lessening was all around us.
What I learned:
I’ve always pondered the kids’ memorabilia within the four walls of our home, the old uniforms, the artwork, and the trophies. Then that darn picnic table stirred up my emotions, followed by Blossom the tree, and the truck. Nostalgia is triggering. But time scoots off like a chuckling cheetah and we have a choice – to sink into the quicksand of loss or relish the memories, plant new trees, and repaint that cute picnic table.
Please pray for the Pope and thanks for joining me,
40 Reflections – #3: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
When our children were younger, I would accompany them to birthday parties, playdates, practices, and other events and watch, wait, and chat with other parents. I loved connecting, it was like I would imagine the old Eharmony but for parents. A time to find your tribe of trusted moms and dads, then ever-so-carefully pick a few who relate to your cheeky humor, and pray your kids and theirs are in the next room bonding over a juice box.
As our kids aged, I noticed parents would leave these events, and return at the “pick-up time”. I always opted to stay, plopping down on the ground, cherishing my chats with the few other parents who would sit in their comfy cup-holding canvas chairs (such a great invention). Sure, sometimes, I was the mom who brought a book that other parents respectfully knew meant – whoever holds the book has just put themselves in a quiet, parental time out, a virtual “do not disturb sign”. That was rare. I needed to chat, commiserate about the losses, and celebrate the wins.
As the kids got a little older there was another shift. Either I grew more confident (or less patient waiting) and would go for a run while they practiced. As long as I was within a mom’s stone’s throw between them, I felt I could still get to them and perform CPR as needed. Of course, I was always happy to get in a run, but I missed the parent-share conversations… those words exchanged between parents that only the gap of time when our children are engaged with their friends allowed.
One night, all three of our children had events simultaneously, and a tough moment ensued. Clearly, we had to pick our least favorite child, leave them at their designated practice, and accompany the others.
Kidding. Our eldest was the default, and since some nights I was the lone mom hanging out for the two hours at swim practice anyway, I figured she’d be okay while I took our son to baseball practice. As I drove away, of course thinking the worst, it was one of the few times I was grateful our daughter had a phone. Plus, at baseball, there were other helicopter parents like myself to share best practices, a clear bonus. It all worked out.
What I learned:
Our children’s activities, whether we realize it or not, give us a chance to pause and discover we are not the only ones bouncing around blindly in this parenting pinball game. While our kids solidify their friendships at birthday parties or discover they truly despise dancing in toe shoes (my daughter), we are given the gift of connection to share our stories with other parents and listen to theirs.
Back then, I remembered feeling the weight of parenting lightened knowing I wasn’t the only parent who…
yelled at my children and regretted it profoundly seconds after
colored my gray roots at home out of a box
cursed at Siri when she doesn’t listen
never checked pockets before doing laundry
considered cereal dinner
took apart the washing machine, found the penny bonking around, and ended up with extra screws when reassembling
stayed up way too late listening to our children’s worries that only bubbled up at bedtime
wiped the tears from our children’s eyes, and our own when their hearts were broken
prayed our children would find their best friend
forgot to pick up their child at school/practice/Sunday School
delivered their child’s forgotten homework to school
bought bras at Costco (“one size fits most”)
panicked about working after years of staying home with the kids
clutched onto their children – as someone who is way too young died in a car accident, from a health complication, or God forbid — inside their school.
Our children are now all in college, but the bonds with those parents from the little league field, mountain biking trails, pool, and dance studio have stayed strong. Simply allowing ourselves to be transparent, and investing in relationships makes us better parents. It takes pluck to be vulnerable, but there is courage in the imperfect, strength in sharing, and certainty in the uncertain.
Dig Deep: Time your run (or walk briskly), then challenge yourself to do the same thing faster tomorrow.
Lenten Challenge: “Give feet to your faith”. Feed the hungry, pray for the sick, and share your grace with everyone who crosses your path.
Pope Health Update: VATICAN CITY, March 7 (Reuters) – Three weeks to the day after being admitted to Rome’s Gemelli hospital, Pope Francis is still struggling to shake off the double pneumonia that has battered his already fragile health.
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