Tag: fiction

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

What do you post?

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

Lenten Reflections #18

March 8, 2026

In our world that seems like it is set on an interminable spin cycle setting, I found solace in the variety of thoughts shared on Substack:

  • THE I CAN’T BELIEVE MY STATS POSTS: “Last week I had 10 followers, today I just hit 450!” I mean…wow. I have had the same 11 followers for awhile, I had 12, but Dad is legally blind now and can’t read anymore or drive (which everyone with car keys should be thankful for…)
  • THERE ARE THE LONG POSTS THAT ARE BRILLIANT AND RELATABLE: Permission to Chase Work you Love
  • THERE ARE SHORT, DEEP THOUGHTS THAT HOOK: usually about mindfulness, anxiety, fluttering stomachs and clenched jaws. I connect immediately with these as I try to relax my jaw for a moment.
  • THERE ARE JOINT CELEBRATIONS: Happy Women’s Day announcements – (”I am woman, hear me roar”). These draw me in because, well, I love a good celebration, especially when coupled with Helen Reddy lyrics.
  • THE QUESTIONS GET ME TOO: Simple ones like: “Are you listening?”
  • Finally, proclamations by genius-minded people like Anne Lamott just make sense:

So: I don’t know. I’ve told this story here before (what else is new?) but when my mom was getting sicker with Alzheimer’s, on top of diabetes, my panicky brothers and I spilled to an elder care nurse at our HMO our fear and confusions about her future, and our not knowing much of anything about what to do next.

She listened gently and then said, “How could you know?”

Say what?

How can we know what it means, and what to expect and what to do?

We can’t. But I do know that when we take the next right action, glimmers of insight follow.

We’ll read and listen to the voices we trust, and they will help guide us. – Anne Lamott

What I learned:

Writing your story matters. You matter.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

Laughter in church is a Godsend

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

Lenten Reflections #12

March 2, 2026

It was “One final announcement” time at the end of mass – that moment when everyone is planning their next move. But the elderly congregation at my childhood church is settled. This is their destination. They arrived 20 minutes early to recite the Rosary and the Memorare. They kneel, sit, and stand gingerly and devoutly, and are settled in the pews where they sit every Saturday evening. Same row, same kneeler, same well-worn pine showing generations of worshippers. My own parents move methodically to “their row” each week, led by muscle memory, devotion, faith.

As the small, joyful woman made her way up to the altar, she was like a bright light in the form of a five-foot nun from the Philippines. She was from the Little Sisters of the Poor.

After a sermon I do not remember (though in the middle of it I did wonder if priests ever use ChatGPT)… we all sat on the edge of our pews, eager to hear what she had to say.

She began with a pun, “Father Nick asked me to keep my speech short…he must not have noticed I’m already short.” The congregation loved her immediately. She went on to tell us about the services the Little Sisters provide. “For nearly 200 years, our order has welcomed the elderly poor and dying into our homes as we would welcome Christ Himself.”

Wow, I thought, sitting next to my elderly parents, what a blessing.

She went on to tell us they have homes where they serve people in over 30 countries and 20 in the U.S.providing personalized care, with sisters living on-site.

With a huge smile on her face, she said, “But to keep things short for Father Nick, I’ll just say, YOU PAY! I PRAY!” Laughter filled the cavernous church. Levity. Something our aging church had not had within the brick walls for years. I feel like even Jesus on the cross gave a little Mona Lisa smile.

Her voice slowed, becoming more measured, “We take turns sitting and praying with the dying.” She said. “As a young nun, I would take my turn and pray. But I was so nervous…” She went on, “My prayer was always: Please don’t die during my shift. Please wait for the next sister’s shift.” She smiled, the congregation laughed, and then told us she finally learned how special and sacred it is to bear witness to someone leaving this world.

She closed by saying in her lively voice, “For those girls who are interested in becoming a Little Sister, we have your veils waiting in the Narthex.” More laughter followed.

What I Learned:

As Sister Maria walked down the aisles with a collection basket, one of the poorest communities in Albuquerque opened their wallets and gave what they could to help. Because that’s what we do – share laughter, share love, share what we have.

Thank you for joining me,

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

Daughtering is a verb

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

February 28, 3026

Lenten Reflections #11

“Oh, gosh, do you cry every time you leave?” I asked my sister as she fastened her seatbelt, blinking her watery, tired eyes. “Some days,” she replied, glancing at her phone, ready to make a call on her way home to help someone with something; it didn’t matter who or what—if she said she’d help, she would. I waved goodbye and said a prayer, hoping she’d get a little rest.

I was on. Mom walked outside with a Dove Bar in hand, and in the distance, I heard the rumble of the wood splitter starting. There’s nothing like seeing your legally blind 90-year-old dad operate a motorized, hardened steel blade by himself. I shifted Mom over so I wouldn’t lose focus on either of them. Then Mom suddenly went into nurturing mode and said, “I’ll get you gloves.” Dad and I began splitting wood into smaller, more manageable sizes that he could carry. After the first wheelbarrow full, I didn’t see Mom return, so I said, “Let’s finish tomorrow.” “We still have all of this,” Dad said, sweeping his arm toward the rest of the woodpile, and kept working as if tomorrow depended on it. I looked up briefly and saw Mom approaching, cradling gloves and a hat.

“I can’t believe I found them so fast,” she said proudly, handing them to me like a treasure she discovered only to share with her daughter. I slipped the two right-handed gloves on and secured the bucket hat on my head. “You have to protect yourself when you help Dad with this. Go slowly and don’t rush.” I thought about how Dad rushes as if there’s a wood-splitting deadline he’s barely going to meet, while Mom works methodically, pacing herself like the metronome on the piano—measured, steady, calm. We finished up, and I mentally prepared for Mom’s sundowning—the dreadful circadian rhythm disruption when her confusion becomes overwhelming for all of us.

Before dinner, our dear neighbors stopped by with a plate of freshly made Biscochitos, a small piece of plastic wrap revealing cinnamon-sugar-coated cookies. I thought about how these are the allies we need in our lives. Neighbors like this sweet couple, who built a gate between their home and Mom and Dad’s to make it easier to help, visit, or deliver cookies.

At 1:20 a.m., the sundowning occurred.

“This is not my home. I’d know if I had a daughter. How did I get here?”

I texted my sisters: How do I get Mom to transition from her reality to today?

The three dots on my phone pulsed like a heartbeat: “Try to agree with her and accept as much as possible. Try music and singing, and if she’s up, give her a pancake. Walk her around the house.”

When Mom is in this altered reality, she clocks in at about 3,000 horsepower, a 4-foot-10-inch force.

As the text from my sister rolled in, I felt like she was sending answers to the SAT so I could ace the test: “Food usually calms her down. Try changing the subject or asking her questions like, have you milked a cow…”

There it was. Two pancakes later, and a detailed explanation of how she would spray milk directly into her mouth while milking, Mom was back. “You want fresh milk? THAT’S fresh milk,” she said emphatically.

54 minutes later, and we’re back in bed.

What I learned:

Daughtering is a verb.

The focus toggles between loving and languishing, admiring and administrating, memories and management.

While I need to remember to ensure Mom and Dad are hydrated, medicated, and rested, all must be connected to care and non-operational love.

A blessing.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

My Life Has a Superb Cast

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

February 23, 2026

Lenten Reflections #5

Lucretia Cahill

Feb 23, 2026

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.

What I learned:

My life has a superb cast.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

The blank page…

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

40 Reflections #31: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

Tonight is one of those nights when I stare at a blank page. No clue what to write. Guess I should have planned rather than gone organic. Let’s see…

Yesterday, I watched a woodpecker balance upside down in a very acrobatic foraging pose, using its tail feathers like a tripod and clinging effortlessly to peck the heck out of the nuts and seeds we had out. I mean, even this guy went in with a plan, and I’m sitting here with a blank page!

I arrived at the airport this early morning, thankfully with lots of time before my flight, as security was packed. I felt like I won the lottery when my bag did not get flagged, and I could lace up my shoes and head to gate A19.

As I settled in my aisle seat, my window neighbor had arrived. He was an elderly gentleman with only his Sudoku book and a pencil capped with a red eraser marking his last page.

“Sudoku will pass the time”, he said.

He had zero electronic devices to set on airplane mode, no earphones taken from the flight attendant to plug in and watch whatever Delta is offering on the screens dotting the seatbacks. Instead, he stared out the window like we used to, watching luggage load and busy workers shuffle around the tarmac.

We had the loveliest conversation. Turns out he’s a motorhome guy with fascinating stories. Which I will share…soon!

I arrived at my childhood home to help take care of my parents. Mom recognized me (thank you Jesus), and Dad asked if the flight was full as he had my last 1,583 flights prior. Ahhhh…normalcy.

Now, my blank page is full, and so is my heart. More tomorrow.

Here’s to Another Good Day!

Thanks for joining me,

Lucretia

Posted in Family, Faith and Fitness

The blossom, like life, is fleeting

Posted on by Lucretia Cahill

Lenten Reflections #17

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.

Here’s to Another Good Day!

Thanks for joining me,

Lucretia