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.”
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.
As Holy Week begins, I’m reminded of how things have changed over the years. Growing up, Holy Week was a quiet time.
PREP:
Typically, we would have Thursday and Friday off from school and prep the menu for Easter Sunday, including ham, mashed potatoes, red chili (instead of gravy), and the other usual Thanksgiving/Easter suspects. Also, Mom’s pineapple salad made with cream cheese, Cool Whip, and crushed pineapple and topped with shiny maraschino cherries was a Dad-favorite. Aunt Eugenia’s finely chopped salad always made the list too – she was the aunt who rode motorcycles, brought her bird “Bonita” to visit, and played the accordion for Sunday mass. I’ve been told I have the same sharp-slanted nose as her.
HOLY THURSDAY
On Holy Thursday, as we loaded up the station wagon and headed to St. Anne’s, Dad would remind us that mass “would be a long one”. Typically, he would do the readings as a lector, and Mom would play the organ. I had a choice to either turn pages for Mom or try to sit still with my sisters for the two hours of feet washing and the Last Supper. Up the stairs, I climbed to the choir loft for my bird’s eye view.
GOOD FRIDAY
Under the cloudy Good Friday skies, we would attend services at 3:00 pm sharp every year. I still remember the cold, empty altar and solemn sentiment inside St. Anne’s Church. Mom reminded us, “This is the one day we don’t need to genuflect, and we don’t call it a mass. It’s a service.” She went on to explain why, and I said, “Ohhhh,” knowing I really wasn’t paying attention.
But back then, I knew I could ask her anything, anytime I needed to – that time of life when you think your parents are going to live forever and moments stand still like lighthouses shining bright.
HOLY SATURDAY, we buckled in for another “long one,” and I loved that mass. One Easter weekend, after Holy Saturday Mass, we visited my oldest sister at New Mexico State University. That was the year I gave up soda for Lent – even though we never had soda in the house except for Dad’s RC Cola. I remember going out for pizza right after mass and getting the coldest, most delicious Shirley Temple ever. It was served in one of those big red plastic cups with a fat straw. One of my favorite Holy Saturdays on record.
What I learned:
Over the years, my view of Lent became less soda and more sacrifice. In college, a friend of mine and I vowed to say a Rosary together every day. During the long drive to San Diego for spring break, we prayed, after going out with friends we prayed, and even before watching Shamoo jump through hoops, we prayed the Rosary. Yup. I was wild and crazy then, too.
Today, unless kids attend a school starting with the word “Saint,” it’s likely they will be in school during Holy Week. Even Good Friday. Because times are different. Holy Week just seemed holier back then. Calendars are filled with games, practices, and activities, with church fitting into the gaps. Like anything else, age readjusts the lens on what matters.
Lent is about sacrifice and love – giving the homeless water, really listening to a friend, praying for peace in our world, and realizing we all truly need each other.
Nine years ago, I decided to ditch giving up chocolate or coffee during Lent and instead, track my 40 days right here. Since then, I’ve shared little snippets of life – the messy, funny, daunting, and unpredictable moments I experience or observe. My hope is that anyone who reads this will connect and learn something on the journey because people’s stories spark emotion, and emotion sparks memory, and if you’re like me, my memory needs as much spark as it can get.
As I begin Lent each year, I am inspired by the words of Pope Francis, who, as of today, is in stable condition and will be put back on a ventilator tonight after spending the day in his armchair.
So as I prayed for him, I found his Lenten message focused on journeying together tender and true:
“Journeying together means consolidating the unity grounded in our common dignity as children of God (cf. Gal 3:26- 28). It means walking side-by-side, without shoving or stepping on others, without envy or hypocrisy, without letting anyone be left behind or excluded. Let us all walk in the same direction, tending towards the same goal, attentive to one another in love and patience. This Lent, God is asking us to examine whether in our lives, in our families, in the places where we work and spend our time, we are capable of walking together with others, listening to them, resisting the temptation to become self-absorbed and to think only of our own needs.”
Let’s start this journey and focus on what brings us joy, what drives us crazy, and what brings tears to our eyes. Personally, some days I feel like I’m the only one whose back hurts every time I stand up or am the lone mom whose nest is empty, and I just want to bring them all back and hear the laughter or yelling or random singing in the shower. I know I’m not alone, and neither are you.
When the children were younger, we longed to be that family for one hour per week at church. You’ve seen them. The family with the brood of children who sit with their missals in their laps, following along the readings and pointing to the words with their fingers. During the sermon, the same kids answer the priest’s questions with “Genesis!” or “Luke – Chapter 12!” Then they flawlessly sing all the high notes of”How Great Thou Art”.
During the mass, these “model children” are referenced by onlooking parents who tell their own children “See they’re sitting” or “That boy doesn’t have his brother in a headlock”. Finally, upon their exit, they receive oodles of acclaim from elderly folks grateful for parents raising the next generation with respect and goodness in God’s House.
Unfortunately, even after putting our kids through practice/training type masses during the week when they were young (not recommended although it seemed brilliant at the time), Sunday mornings remained drenched with whines, untouched missals, Matchbox Cars stashed in pockets, and little eyes staring up at us asking to be held. To this day, my husband and I sway involuntarily from side to side like palm trees in church, poised to hold any toddler needing a better view.
Enter Palm Sunday.
Knowing Palm Sunday is on deck to kick off Holy Week, brings me great solace. You see, even though our kids are older, there is still restlessness during mass for all of us. As we enter the church we are greeted by our warmhearted Monsignor who bellows out in his Irish lilt, “The Cahills are here! Must be time to start mass!”. On that uplifting note, we make our way in, avoiding the usher so we are not scooted up to the front row. Pre-college, when we would sit as mass began, there was a lot of blaming, loud singing, correcting, and “not touching” that went on in the pew, followed by my shushing, and my daughter’s re-shushing.
But Palm Sunday brought little gifts for everyone. Palms. Pliable, soft, fresh, green reeds begging to be manipulated into works of art. This is the Sunday for a long homily when Father can freely cover the highlights of the New Testament and even throw in a few biographies of some saints. Everyone is busy forming their humble cross tied in the middle with palm strings, accompanied by a calm throughout the church as we exit.
One Sunday when the kids were little, I vowed not to get too many palms because growing up, Mom and Dad taught us to take special care of them like you would a prayer card or rosary. So in that spirit, I placed our unused palms on the table in the narthex for the next fidgety parishioners.
As we climbed in the car, my youngest son said, “Mama, look what I found on a pew on the way out!” He passed me a handful of palms. “Oh great” I lied, “Let’s google how to make a basket when we get home.”
God, Thank you for keeping Palm Sunday nice and calm.
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
Yesterday at the Easter Vigil mass, Monsignor walked around the Narthex saying, “darkness, darkness, darkness.” He tends to use these mantras often. Sometimes he’ll see a parishioner and repeat their name loudly, “Peter, Peter, Peter!” And follow up by completely enveloping them with strong, loving hugs.
No lights were on in the church, candles were being passed out and the pews filled up slowly. It was similar to the darkness of the closed-up tomb where Jesus’ body lay on Holy Saturday. The stone propped in front of it. Not a sliver of light entered. A dark void.
There are days we too sit in this utterly dark space. Unsure of what tomorrow will bring or why today was filled with angst. Holy Saturday is a reminder of our reality. The beginning and the end. The alpha and the omega. The darkness and the light.
My mom has always been able to walk in the dark. She knows the path, never stumbles, and has faith in her every step. There is strength in the darkness for mom. She is one of the strongest women I know. Speaks her mind and fears very little.
There is that time of evening when the dusk descends uneasy despair in me and I flip every light in the house on, dimmers way up. That middle moment when the darkness steals the light, taking me on journeys back to places and times when fear was at the helm so I push through and focus on the light.
In the book Learning to Walk in the Dark, by author, teacher, and Episcopal priest, Barbara Brown Taylor, she says, “Darkness is shorthand for anything that scares me–either because I am sure that I do not have the resources to survive it or because I do not want to find out.” In her book, she guides us on a journey to understanding darkness — and reminds us of all the times God shows up at night. Because God does.
Some evenings fear is consuming when the darkness arrives. Then I remember, fear is normal. Fear needs breath. Someone said, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.”
So I embrace courage and say my prayers and thank God for another day and night.
I thank you for joining me on my Lenten journey and hope you will follow me as I tackle my next writing endeavor.
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