weightlifting 101

Recently we celebrated the life of yet another mother who was taken by Alzheimer’s. My friend Roxanne wasn’t Shirley’s primary caregiver but she was her dad’s first mate as they sailed together on this long journey that would end in goodbye.

Roxanne, a good daughter by anyone’s standard, shared honestly and honorably about the “complex” relationship with her mom and closed with a poignant poem by Mary Oliver. “It’s not the weight, but how you carry it.” Grief. It’s dense. And oh, so heavy. It brings with it a foul stench of pain and suffering so we hold it in a stiff-armed stance like a baby with the smelly poo-filled diaper. Keep it far away from our nasal passages so we are not overpowered.

But grief outweighs any baby so our attempts to hold it at arm’s length will send us toppling forward in no time flat. Whether a barbell or a box of books, the proper technique for lifting more weight safely involves very close proximity to the body. Positioned correctly, we maintain our balance and can lift heavy with less risk of injury. Try it.

Like a sweet elderly aunt, eyes dim with age, we say to our grief, “Come over here close where I can get a good look at you.” And upon further examination, we catch glimpses of the richest gifts of suffering, as they shimmer through hairline cracks all along the surface that appeared so dense and solid from our earlier vantage point. Tiny fractures that we could never hope to ascertain from a greater distance.

As we hold it near, gathering the courage to inhale deeply (because proper breathing also matters when we’re lifting weights), the delicate and subtle aroma of hope tickles our senses and we begin to believe that we can live again. One by one, in God’s perfect and patient timing, we reach with expectation into the cracks to take hold of a gift. And then another. Empathy, perhaps. Or courage. Maybe patience. Gratitude? Presence? Perseverance?  The possibilities are endless and, when dress ourselves in them we discover that they always fit us perfectly and they always look good on us.

Gifts that come by way of sorrow cost us dearly and increase in value over time. What is the gift that is waiting for you today?

Heavy 

That time

I thought I could not

go any closer to grief

without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
“It’s not the weight you carry

but how you carry it –
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled –
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply

– Mary Oliver

s u r r e n d e r

Something happened to me last week. I’ve never had an epiphany before, so I don’t know if that’s what it was. I don’t think God has ever spoken to me directly, so I can’t claim that as my inspiration. But my soul was awakened. My spirit restored. Life was breathed back into my deflated body. I woke up one day with a sense of joy where before there was only ambivalence, defeat and resignation.

Dad died 23 months ago. These have been the longest and the shortest 23 months of my life. In some ways, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at my resilience. I’ve learned all about Medicare. I’ve joined a caregiver support group. I know the names and side effects of all of my mother’s medications, who her many doctors are, what nights she plays bingo. I’ve been able to continue to visit her, run errands for her and take care of her dog all while dealing with my own physical challenges and recovering from 3 unsuccessful hip surgeries in one year. Yay me, right? But, mostly, during this time I have learned how totally needy I am. I can’t do any of this by myself. I need the support of my friends and community. I need for them to be on call to supply last minute rides when I’m too busy. I need them to answer the phone when I call in a blubbering state. I need them to remind me that I’m not alone and that I’m not THE WORST DAUGHTER IN THE WORLD.

For the past year or so I’ve let all kinds of things in my life slide. My house is a mess. I have stopped exercising – partly because it’s too painful, but mostly because I just didn’t want to. I’ve gained weight. I’ve started eating fast food again. A lot. I’ve stopped spending time with my friends. Most importantly I put Mom and her needs on the back burner. I still ran her errands and took her to appointments, but I neglected her need for a daughter. I also made my job my lowest priority. I had become someone I didn’t recognize, and that scared me. I’ve always credited my work ethic to my Dad. I’ve always met deadlines. I’ve always been reliable. It killed me to disappoint someone or not to exceed their expectations. But lately, none of that has mattered to me. I had succumbed to the whisperings of Screwtape. I had started believing that I wasn’t competent to do my job. That the increased responsibilities and challenges on the horizon, opportunities I would normally have been crazy with anticipation over, were going to be my undoing. I was going to disappoint my boss and put our organization in jeopardy. But, even more crippling than that was the realization that I was destroying my relationship with my mother by trying to make her into who I wanted her to be instead of loving her for who she was naturally becoming. Likewise, I was beginning to hate myself for not being able to live up to my own expectations instead of accepting that I was exactly who I was created to be. God made me. He made me beautiful and He made me broken. He knew that in my brokenness I would run back to him, eventually, and be made whole again. He knew exactly what I would struggle with and He gave me just what I would need to win those battles. He also gave me the option to resist Him, and that’s the option I chose for 23 months. He used those days to smooth out some of the rough edges and to let me learn, at my own pace, that I can’t create a perfect world. I needed to experience these huge failures. I needed to have my boss, who I love dearly and respect more than words can express, tell me that he was concerned because I had become someone he didn’t know; that I was in the darkest place he’d seen in the 10+ years he’d known me and he was afraid for me. I needed to make my mother cry that last time and not be phased by it. That is what opened my eyes.

Last week I took a couple days off and cleaned my house. I prayed. I yelled at God. I cried until my eyes hurt and I was a snotty mess. Then I apologized. I showed myself grace. I gave up and surrendered. I admitted defeat in the best way possible. This was a contest I needed to lose. Love won this one. I can feel joy creeping back in. I’ve laughed a lot lately. I accepted the admonishment from my boss with deep gratitude. I could have been bitter and defensive, but I feel so fortunate to have heard those words from someone who loves me. Two days ago I spent the day with Mom. To my surprise and delight, I didn’t care that her slip was 3” longer than her dress. Or that her jewelry didn’t match her clothes. Or that she put candy, cherries, gummies, nuts and hot fudge on her fro-yo. I didn’t care that she wasn’t who she used to be, who I wanted her to be a week ago. I was happy that she was simply who she is now, and that she never loved me any less these past 23 months when I was busy trying to be someone I’m not. She knew all along I’d come back. And I did.

                                                     Surely you will

                                                     Use me, oh God,

                                                     Regardless of what I believe to be my

                                                     Real worth.

                                                     Everything about me was designed by you.

                                                     Nothing you have created can be

                                                     Destroyed by the

                                                     Enemy.

                                                     Remember, I am loved.

(Kelly is a longtime friend and Director of Operations for my faith community, Warehouse 242. Her job description on the website reads, “Kelly makes sure the lights are on and the doors are unlocked so that we have an open home for our community. She also spearheads our move toward online database integration, to make all of our lives more seamless. In general, she crosses the T’s and dots the I’s for our whole team, and she lives for dark chocolate.” Yep, that about sums it up. She and her wonderful mother, Brenda, inspire all of us with their unique senses of humor and Kelly’s daily photos of her three Boston terriers have become quite a sensation on Facebook.)

So. Much. Not knowing.

One of the last memories I have of emotional connectedness with my mother involves standing in my backyard crying over discarded flowers, grieving the loss of a tiny baby that was gone as quickly as she came. In my mind’s eye, I see my mom hugging me close, quietly repeating, “I know. I know.”

Now, four years later, my mom doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that my little Blond One wildly jumps into pools with no reservation but carefully enters a room full of people, just like her own daughter did. She doesn’t know that the Little One was born without life but we still saw that this child had her husband’s ears. She doesn’t know that the Baby One was a surprise and now, in the 97th percentile for weight, is a daily reminder to his mama that there is a bounty of goodness.

She doesn’t know me, and that stings the deepest recesses of my heart. The hug years ago in the backyard that conveyed understanding and brought such comfort has been replaced by a hug that is laborious to endure. She hugs me now with the same amount of enthusiasm that she hugs any stranger. Because I am a stranger.

My mother doesn’t not want to know. On the contrary, she would want so deeply to know everything. But Alzheimer’s Disease is wreaking havoc on her mind, systematically stripping away all of her knowing in the process.

I long for the mother who knows.

I long for the incredible cousin-camp-hosting, memory-creating grandmother she would be.

I long for the stories I had yet to hear that remain locked inside of her.

I long for her help

I long for her hugs.

I long to know because I don’t know everything either. I don’t know how to love her where she is. I don’t know how my grief will surprise me next. I don’t know how to tell my children about their grandmother. I don’t know what she WANTS, as she isn’t able to express her needs and desires. And I don’t know what the next steps for her care should look like.

All my attempts to tie this up cutely at the end have failed. I can’t say, “Well, neither of us knows, but at least we’ve still got each other,” because that is not the reality of our situation. I don’t have my mother and there is not a thing in the world that is cute about that. But I do have hope, and that is also the reality of our situation. Because of it, I place stock in the future Good that there will be a time that all knowing is redeemed. And when that happens, no thing and nobody can stop me from having the cutest reunion ever with my mother.

 (Erin lives in Charlotte, NC, with her husband, Joel, and their two adorable children. She seeks balance in her life with exercise, cupcakes & ice cream. From our vantage point, that seems to be working pretty well for her!)

1984: This photo is treasured by Erin, as her mother is “doing the life” that Erin is now living with her young ones. Pictured here as an infant with her brother, Brian, and sister, Allison.

I couldn’t have said it better | 2

It is sometimes said that gratitude is the least felt of all the human emotions. Why is that? We know down deep in our know-ers that a grateful heart is the key that unlocks real contentment right here right now. And yet, it remains just outside of our reach, kind of like my crazy cat Richie, who sometimes escapes from the house and then runs immediately under the deck, planting himself just an inch beyond my outstretched hand which, by the way, holds a taste of his favorite food or a favorite treat. Yes, the same treats he begs for ALL. DAY. LONG. It makes no sense.

I’m always drawn to the stories of people who have somehow managed to grab the golden ring of gratitude and actually hang on to it. I first heard about Ed Dobson several years ago through his video “It Ain’t Over,” just as my friend Jennifer’s mother, Peggy, was starting her own arduous uphill battle through ALS. (If you missed Jennifer’s beautiful post last week, you can see it here.) I checked out the video, mostly thinking that it might be something I could share with Jennifer to encourage her and her family, but found myself profoundly impacted by his honest take on his own situation. He had tapped into a wellspring of hope, reached only by the deepest roots that tend to flourish in the midst of suffering. I have continued to follow this remarkable man’s journey as it is chronicled in his ongoing series of short videos. Having lived with ALS now for over a decade, it’s safe to say that he and his wife know suffering in an everyday-BFF-kind-of-way. And still, they remain grateful.

Good daughters often wear caregiver hats for many months or years and, over time, the relentless grind sucks out our joy, leaving us anything BUT grateful. We somehow convince ourselves that we’ll get it back once we return to the “regularly scheduled programming” that our parent has so rudely interrupted. Nice dream.

A sense of gratitude doesn’t magically reappear once circumstances fall into line with our expectations for a happy life.  Click here to view the free trailer for Ed’s video “Grateful.” Then please consider renting or downloading the whole 9-minute video. (I purchased the entire bundle of all his videos.)  Because, honestly, I couldn’t have said it better.

Plant your feet on the firm foundation of gratitude each morning as you open your eyes and swing your feet over the edge of the bed to the floor, breathing “thank you.”

“He woke me up this morning

He started me on my way

The Lord is blessing me

Right now.”

Leaning in to life.

Peggy and Rainer.

Mom loved to snow ski. Being outside all day on the beautiful mountainside and the exercise made her love it so. Her short, thin, athletic body effortlessly glided down the mountains. She was known most of her life as a “die-hard skier” as she wouldn’t come inside until the slopes closed, no matter the weather condition. She took many ski lessons over the years, but the instructors told her the same thing over and over: lean forward! She would laugh and say it was a little scary to lean down the mountain; she might pick up too much speed.

She had been living with her diagnosis of ALS for about six months the winter of 2012 and needed the constant support of a brace on her right ankle to keep her balance. However, she wanted to try skiing on our annual family weekend trip to the Virginian mountains. She had strategically not asked the doctors’ permission, figuring she’d tell them about it later. Mom shared in an email to a friend before the trip: “I want to try skiing, maybe on the beginner slopes. Can you think of a better brace for a weak ankle than a good ski boot? If it doesn’t work, there are plenty of other things to do, like water aerobics, yoga, weights and golf as well as reading and drinking wine.” I loved her enthusiasm even if I was a little unsure if she could ski safely. I also was resigned that regardless of what I thought, she was going to give it her best shot.

My mom, dad, and brother arrived on that Friday evening from one direction and my husband and three young children arrived from another a bit later full of excitement. We ate dinner together and the hope of the next morning’s ski attempt continued to mount.

That Saturday morning was beautiful. The sun rose over the mountains with exquisite pink, purple, and orange streaks. The frigid air filled our deep insides with familiar memories of many past ski mornings together as Mom, my brother and I took some slow deep breaths and bent to buckle our boots. I helped Mom into her skis as she balanced holding her ski poles tightly. Dad silently observed from the dry path near the slopes, his deep expression held emotions of hope and worry. Mom turned to him and waved, a full ski pole wave and a big smile on her face. His face brightened and he returned her grin and let out a “You can do it, honey!” yell.

“I think I’m ready,” she announced. She slid forward on her skis; her petite body eased into the mountain’s slope to find her new balance point. She leaned slightly side to side to test her ability to stay upright as the ski slope started it’s slow downward descent. She always liked to snake back and forth making huge “s” tracks down the slope; her theory was that it was better to go slowly and get more mileage each run. She did this very thing today, but I knew she was taking in the adventure with a new significance knowing her body was changing in a way that was betraying. She inched downward and I witnessed her body finding that old familiar slightly bent-kneed posture. Mom leaned forward into that big stable ski boot and skied!

We went up and down the bunny slopes all that day. This winter was also the first time my son attempted snow skiing. We signed him up for ski school and he lucked into a solo lesson the whole day. By the afternoon, the kind instructor was taking him up and down the same slopes we were skiing. I caught sight of his dark green jacket with his bright blue helmet and excitedly pointed him out to Mom and my brother. We were skiing only a little faster than they were, but slowly navigated our way over to them. My son’s face burst into a huge grin and he said, “Look!! I’m skiing!!!” as he demonstrated his newly found balance and speed on his skis. We skied together for several runs.

Mom was completely exhausted from this huge effort to balance herself on those skis and enjoy the day. I remember her sleeping long hours for several days following. Mom later said, “It has always been a dream of mine to ski with my grandchildren.” She smiled and her expression revealed it had been worth every effort to do something she loved with her grandchild and children.

This was the last time we skied with Mom. The devastating disease of ALS continued to rack her previously strong body. Watching Mom enjoy her day of skiing permeated in me that enjoying today is important. Time is sacred. She chose to live leaning forward into the things she loved, the small things like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine and then certainly the bigger things like making it down a mountain on her skis. These things often meant sacrifices for her such as her energy. It also meant sacrifices for her caregivers, especially as her body needed more and more assistance. But somehow, she created moments full of deep meaning. She obviously treasured and enjoyed them tremendously as she balanced losing pieces of her body’s function with sadness. We learned to trust her lead. The everyday became sacred.

Where can you notice or really “see” your loved one as they journey on the hard, unflattering road God has called them to? How can you say, “I see you and I see your bravery?”

(Jennifer is wife to Anthony, and mother to 3 lovely children, trained as a social worker and rediscovering her love for writing. Her amazing mother, Peggy, was diagnosed with ALS in the fall of 2011 and passed away just 2 years later. So, as you can imagine, the changing of the seasons from summer to autumn is an especially reflective and poignant time for Jennifer. Like her mother, Jennifer loves to be physically active outside, hiking, running and exploring. She is passionate about helping her family and community live more healthfully, simply and wholeheartedly.)

I couldn’t have said it better | 1

It’s officially fall and people all around me are downright giddy. Annoyingly so, if you ask me. Everywhere I turn, it’s the frenetic autumnal rush for pumpkin spice lattes, corn mazes and gourds-on-the-porch. Nobody seems to give a care about the impending doom of winter that looms on the horizon, with it’s dark days, barren branches and frigid temps that leave me paralyzed on the sofa for months. But that’s just one girl’s opinion.

Clearly, I am in the minority. So perhaps the problem is me. (Whaaaa???) How can I turn my sky-is-falling funk into genuine gratitude and appreciation for the spectacular show that most consider to be an incredible annual gift? I mean, nature is simply participating in what it was created to do and friends of mine who didn’t grow up in climates with actual seasons are actually in awe of what is happening all around them. What the heck is wrong with me?

Enter my friend (and good daughter), Roxanne, who had the audacity to share an article entitled “The Wisdom of Autumn” with some of us. Stirring my pot. Again. I felt obliged to at least give it a glance so I could in good conscience “thank” her for sending it my way. I didn’t actually expect to be affected or challenged by the content but, three sentences in, the author had me at, “I have much to learn from trees about living brightly and then letting go at the right moment.” Dang her.

So, without further ado I share it with you, my community of good daughters. Yes, we are all falling. And yet, there is Someone whose hands continue to hold us up so, in the letting go, we remain safe.

The Wisdom of Autumn

Relentless Love

Kelly and her mom, Brenda.

I went to a funeral today. It was for a man I’ve never met, but I knew him through his grandson and his daughter. His is the story of a life well lived. As I listened to different family members tell their stories of life with him, I couldn’t help but drift back 19 months to my own Dad’s funeral. And the hard days that followed.

When Dad died I became Mom’s caregiver. Mom has several disabilities that make it impossible for her to live alone. Dad spent every hour of the day making her safe and happy. She wanted for nothing. It consumed his life, and I don’t think he would have had it any other way. I’m truly grateful that Dad died before Mom, because if it had happened the other way around, it would have destroyed him.

I always thought I was a good daughter. I spent time with my parents, did things for them, stayed out of trouble. But, transitioning from daughter to caregiver – decision maker, responsible party, power-of-attorney – changes everything. There was nothing good about me. I became impatient, abrupt, harsh. I lost my sense of humor. I became selfish and joyless. As I saw these changes happening in me with no ability to stop them, the spiraling decent accelerated until I was falling, out of control, into my self-dug pit of despair. My morning mantra was “I don’t want to do this again today. I can’t.” But I did it anyway, as people kept telling me what a good daughter I was. “Bulls**t,” I’d think. “If only you knew.” Add failure to my list. I don’t like to fail. I hate it. But I had failed at being able to take on this role that I was totally unprepared for. I had become everything I hated about people.

A few months ago a friend of mine asked me to join a contemplative practices group she was leading. I’d heard about these groups – not my cup of tea. But I trust her, so I said yes. I’m not sure when during the six or so weeks that we were together it happened, but at some point it hit me. I HAVE NO CONTROL. I’ve always understood that in theory. I go to church. Heck, I work there. Let go and let God, yada, yada, yada. But, oh the relief I felt, realizing all I have to do is love my mother. I can’t protect her. I can’t heal her. I can’t make her eat more vegetables and go to bed earlier. God has all of that covered and it was never my job to begin with. I’m not a failure. I am good. I am a good daughter. The days can still be hard. But at the end of that hard day, I can go to sleep knowing that His mercies will be brand new in the morning. And He will give me exactly what I need to get through it. If I will just let Him.

********************************************************************************************

Kelly and Brenda, sharing yet another “mountaintop” experience.

Can I trust the only
One who fully
Understands my heart?
Relentless love is what He gives.
Abandon is what He wants
Grace is free.
Everlasting is His promise.

(Kelly is a longtime friend and Director of Operations for my faith community, Warehouse 242. Her job description on the website reads, “Kelly makes sure the lights are on and the doors are unlocked so that we have an open home for our community. She also spearheads our move toward online database integration, to make all of our lives more seamless. In general, she crosses the T’s and dots the I’s for our whole team, and she lives for dark chocolate.” Yep, that about sums it up. She and her wonderful mother, Brenda, inspire all of us with their unique senses of humor and Kelly’s daily photos of her three Boston terriers have become quite a sensation on Facebook.)

Loving a Good Daughter Well

This post was written by my husband, Kurt, who “rode out the storm” by my side, from long before the beginning of this journey until, well…he hasn’t stopped! Of course I know that all good daughters are not necessarily married but I would imagine that what he has shared and the way he was able to support me can translate to just about anyone who is in some sort of close relationship with a daughter who is in the midst of her own particular situation. It’s not easy to know how to care for the caregiver but Kurt did it just about as well as anyone could and I am incredibly grateful. Maybe what he learned will benefit someone you know who is struggling to know how to support you. – Kathi

When your wife is a “good daughter,” you have to decide what it will mean for you to become a “good son-in-law.” At the start of that journey, we know in a superficial sort of way that it means we must become good supporters. But how can we really know what the journey ahead requires?

Early on, it is enough to listen more attentively, pick-up some of the chores around the house and engage with your mother-in-law with a bit more kindness. Eventually though, your wife is going to face excruciating moments and nothing will have adequately prepared you for those times. You cannot know what it will mean to be supportive ahead of time, because you cannot imagine that moment now. And, upon arriving there you will likely be filled with your own exhaustion, anger and fears.

I remember one such moment. As my mother-in-law’s dementia and tempestuousness increased, the complexity of the decisions kept pace. There were no black and white answers, everything was shades of grays. My wife was about to take action on a decision she had made and I was beginning to wonder if it was a mistake.

As I sat in the office of my counselor, I recounted the details of the pending decision and he surprised me with a searing set of questions:  “What is more important, making a good decision or supporting your wife?” I had not realized before that the two objectives would ever come into conflict. I thought for a while, and then we pushed back and forth at each other. “What if the thing of most value for Kathi was not a perfect solution, but simply a husband that loved her unconditionally? And what if there are no good solutions anyway? Why is ‘right’ so important here? Who needs your love more, your mother-in-law or Kathi? How much longer do you think your mother-in-law is going to live anyway? If your wife knew you were supporting her unconditionally, would she likely have more emotional strength to bear up and love her mother better?”

We went on like this for some time and then he brought out the big gun. “Who will you live the rest of your life with? Because, you know, Alzheimer’s has broken-up more than one marriage.”

I walked-out of the counselor’s office that day with one very surprising decision made, that no matter what my wife decided regarding the care of her mother, I was going to back her all the way. And here’s what’s funny: Once I made that decision, a lot of other decisions just seemed to fall into place. Our marriage did not simply survive that difficult time of suffering. It flourished. Love can be like a tree that does not appear to be growing, but all the while its roots are expanding underground, putting down strong anchors in deep, dark soil, watered by our tears.

I am going to benefit from the choice I made in my counselor’s office for the rest of my life. I love my wife deeply. I am not perfect by any means, but I know for sure that our marriage is going to last our lifetime together.

And in that moment, though I did not realize it, I fully became a “good son-in-law.” And if I can, you can too.

(Kurt Graves mentors people on how to flourish in all of life. Through his alliance with Vistage International, where he runs private advisory boards for business owners and as CEO of WorkWorthy, as he consults with executive teams and also through investment in his faith community where he enjoys a life of meaningful impact. Read more inspirational posts from him at http://www.work-worthy.com/.)

 

Join my club.

Lucille and me, Mother’s Day 2010.

By this time, Mom was well into the mid-stages of Alzheimer’s and her cognitive ability to stay within certain limits or boundaries, both literally and figuratively, was fading. She had lived in her own separate apartment in the rear section of the first floor of our house for about 7 years and, up to this point, we always had an “understanding” that the upstairs part of our space was sacred for my husband and me. I don’t remember the details but for some reason on this particular day, Mom chose to break through the invisible barrier and I responded in a way that still fills me with shame. We were arguing over something, she from the bottom of the steps and me upstairs in the laundry room. At some point, she stubbornly and defiantly began ascending the stairs despite my warnings to stay put. She was pushing every internal button of my being and all my alarms were shrieking, “Danger, Will Robinson…….” When we met in the hallway my hands went to her shoulders and for a brief second in the height of my anger I wanted to shake her. Hard. I wanted her to be physically punished. Not just for that moment, but for all the other days, weeks, months and years that she had “interrupted” my life. By the grace of God I was able to restrain myself, and for that I am grateful, though there were many other moments of frustration in the years to follow.

Three years ago, we bade a final farewell to this shared journey through Alzheimer’s, often referred to as “the long goodbye.” My precious mom was finally set free from the chains of her own suffering and my caregiver label was now in the rear view mirror. All I wanted now was some time to enjoy my life without having to think about death and dying for awhile. But then, one by one, various girlfriends had parents who were getting sick and, yeah, I was the one who came to mind when they needed help. Occasionally I had some answers or advice but they knew I couldn’t fix their situation. But what I could provide was a judgement free zone and the understanding ear of someone who had once traveled to that place…and lived to tell about it.

In hindsight, I am able to see those years with Lucille less hysterically and with more clarity. What if I had understood them as less of an “interruption” and more of a gift? Perhaps that’s too much to expect in the heat of the moment, but as the notion of “everything belongs” slowly seeps into my soul, some of the bitterness subsides and the smallest seeds of gratitude begin the process of germination.

My desire is that this will become a regular stopping place, a virtual respite of sorts, for good daughters everywhere who are writing the stories of their own lives as caregiver, whether gratefully or grudgingly, with joy or jaws locked in determined commitment. Every story is unique but the common cord that binds us all together is the deepest desire we possess to honor our parent, perhaps even when they have not parented us honorably. We long for someone else who understands the absurdity of parenting a parent. Someone to say, “I get it and I’m linking arms with you in your struggles and in your joys.”

Come back often and bring a friend.

Courage + Beauty,

Kathi