The Gift That Keeps On Giving...

My eight-year old G-girl could hardly wait to meet my brother's foster baby. It was love at first sight, instantaneous and pure... exactly how we are supposed to love each other.

“Why doesn't her Mama want her?” Mandie Lee asked.

“Oh, I'm sure she wants her; but Baby P's Mama has some problems that she needs to work on before she can take care of her.” I tried to answer.

“But... doesn't she love her? Because if she really, really loved her, she would fix her problems and get her baby back.”

“I'm sure she loves her, Mandie. It's just that some people are better at love that others."

Man, ain't it the truth?

The problem with love isn't love.  The problem with love, is us.

Whether it's parents or politicians, janitors or Jesus... some people just know how to love better than others.

It actually took me quite awhile to realize this.  I assumed everybody had grown up as well-loved as myself. In fact, I was halfway into adulthood before I began to understand the havoc that insufficient love can wreak.

I watched as Mandie cuddled with sweet Baby P, and I realized two truths about love:

1. It is not the quantity of the love, but the quality.
2. Is is not the grandiosity of the love, but the consistency.

Love is a process and we can all learn to do it better. I know we can, because we were given the blueprints. 

And those blueprints even come with a guarantee...

Love doesn't fail, y'all. 

We do.

Aren't we just a bunch of  knuckleheads?  

God gave us this perfect love, and we just keep on messing it up. We get stupid and fearful, insecure and petty... and all of a sudden we convince ourselves that love is something we can withhold or ration like a miser. Pfffft!

Either that, or we become so egotistical that we must display our love in such a grand and magnificent fashion that people can't help but sit up and take notice...

Big love is fun! It's flashy! It's enviable!  But, for reals, it is ridiculously hard to maintain.

All we really need is the kind of love I witnessed between my G-girl and Baby P.

A simple, nonjudgmental love that doesn't ask whether or not someone is worthy.  The kind of love that sees through the brokenness and accepts each other for who we truly are.  Love that reaches across religion and race and politics and old family wounds.

We need to get better at it, this thing called love.  We need to practice and practice, until we get it right.

Because, this I know for sure:  God doesn't break promises.

There are only two things I want for Christmas this year:  a forever home for Baby P, and a world filled with love that does not fail.

I hope you like your gift from me.  And I hope it won't bother you when you find out I've been doing a little re-gifting.  

This year for Christmas, I'm giving everybody the promise of Corinthians 13.  I'm going to take that old promise, fold it neatly into an over-sized box, wrap it with shiny paper and tie it up with a big fat red ribbon.  

You can act all surprised when I give it to you and say, "Oh, you shouldn't have!".  And I'll just smile and say, "Oh, it's not much... just some lil' ol' thing I wanted you to have.".  And I hope when you open it, you will rub your face in it and wash your hands with it and share it with everyone around you.  I hope you will hang it over your mantle, tattoo it on your bicep, and sprinkle it in your spaghetti.  Whatever, man!  Just don't be afraid of using it up...  there's plenty for everyone and more where that came from. 

Love, Love and More Love.  That's what you're getting from me this year.  

A patient, kind, hopeful, trusting, persevering kind of love that never fails... all wrapped up with a pretty red bow.

Merry Christmas... from me, Mandie Lee and Baby P.

THANK YOU, JESUS

"For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."

Psalm 91:11

The first memory I have of him is walking through a shopping center in Odessa, Texas on our way to see Santa Claus. I remember reaching up to grab his hand, because, you know... Santa is a big ol' scary dude when you're a little girl. 

He was barely a teenager, but he was My Rock.

The sweetest memories I have of him are during the weeks following my Daddy's funeral. I was so sad and overwhelmed and ready to drop out of graduate school. But almost every evening, Rocky would call just to see how I was doing. Several times a week he sent cards to cheer me up and encourage me along the way. 

I keep his cards in a special place.

The saddest memory I have with my cousin Rocky is the day we had to tell his Mom (who had suffered a severe stroke two years earlier) that her husband of more than five decades had suddenly died from a blood clot. Rocky's Mom – my sweet Aunt Betty Bob – could not talk or understand language due to the effects of her stroke. But in that moment, she clearly understood our tragic jumble of words. I climbed in bed beside her, our tears mingling on her pillow, as my Rock held her in his arms.

The most sacred memory I have with Rocky is when we were once again on either side of my sweet Betty Bob, holding her hands as she struggled with her last breaths. I remember telling him a funny story about his Mama, trying to lighten his burden. He threw back his head and laughed that big, boisterous laugh of his.  In the very same moment, his Mom stopped breathing. I've always loved that the last earthly sound she heard was the laughter of her beloved only child.

We've been through a lot together, my cousin Rock and I. He has helped me climb some mighty tough mountains and I've talked him down off cliffs. Somewhere along the hills and valleys of our journey, we became so much more than cousins...

He is my friend, my soul mate, my brother.

On November 4th, I received a call from Rocky's daughter, Camille. “Dad has been in a wreck,” she told me. “He rolled his truck and flew out through the windshield. He's been airlifted to the hospital, but he's conscious and talking.”

Angels.

That was the first thought that popped into my head. 

It was Rocky who taught me to pray for angels to surround our family and protect us from harm. I prayed that prayer for Rocky the night before his accident, just as I had every night for years.  

And every single night, I fell asleep knowing he prayed the same prayer over me and mine.

As the events of the wreck unfolded, it became apparent just how huge a role angels had played in his survival.

Rocky was thrown twenty feet away from his truck, which was a mangled mess of glass and metal. He had gashed his head in two places, lacerated his spleen and broken his neck and ribs. A Good Samaritan found him trying to crawl away from his truck, afraid it would explode.

He doesn't remember much about the accident, but remembers being strapped to a gurney and loaded into a helicopter. He told me he could feel blood trickling down his face, and did not think he would survive.

“Were you scared?” I had to know.

“No... not at all. I felt a deep peace.”

At the ER, the trauma doctors and nurses were amazed. “You are a miracle, you know. We seldom see patients with injuries like yours who are conscious and talking coherently, much less moving their arms and legs.”

He should have been severely brain injured... or paralyzed... or dead.

Instead, he was talking to me on the phone, complaining about having to wear a neck brace for the next three months.

I went to see him as soon as I could. Even though I knew he was going to be okay, I just needed to see his dear, precious face.

He never looked better to my grateful eyes...

I kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Thank You, Jesus”.

He laughed his magical laugh and said, “Funny you should say that...”

Just before his wreck, Rocky was climbing into his truck when he heard someone yelling his name.  It was another trucker he had prayed with recently, as he often did with the truckers God placed in his path.  She ran up to him, waving a paper in her hand.

“Here, I made this for you, Rocky! I want you to keep it and carry it in your truck while you travel.  I thank Jesus for you.”

Rocky thanked her and laid the paper on the seat beside him.

The next day, a friend of Rocky's went by the accident site to have a look around. 

Inches away from a blood-stained patch of grass, he found this paper lying on the ground...

 Thank You, Jesus.  

(And be sure to thank those angels for me,  too.)

SAY WHAT YOU MEAN TO SAY

Mom and I just got back from an frazzled eventful weekend getaway to the Hill Country.

I had been planning this trip for months. The beautiful daughter of my beloved childhood friend was getting married in Boerne, and I was looking forward to getting away from my crazy family the hustle and bustle to spend a few days of poop-free talk peace and quiet in a cozy hotel room.

Three days before leaving, my Mama decided she didn't want to be left behind with those Haney boys wanted to come along for the ride.

“Now, if you want to go by yourself... just let me know. But I would really would like to go with you.”

How could I say no to my Mom? I couldn't.  

So, I said,  “Uh... sure, Mom. There is nothing I would rather do than enjoy my own company a road trip with you --- we'll have fun!

By the time I got through packing her copious amounts of crap necessary items into the car, it looked like I had loaded up the truck to move to Beverly.

Hills, that is.

After strategically packing three suitcases, two hanging bags, one walker, a wheelchair, breathing machine, portable O2 tank, and assorted medication dispensers... I had to break the bad news to Mom that we would not be able to bring her fan.

“What if I get hot?” she asked? “My ovulating fan doesn't take up that much space.”

“First of all, Mom... fans do not ovulate. They oscillate. Second of all, I outweigh you by 50 35 pounds and sweat like a pig in a bacon factory way more than you do. If I don't need a fan, you don't need a fan.”

“But I like the noise. What if you snore?”

“I'll try really hard to hum instead of snore.”

“Hummpf.  You probably haven't even oscillated in years...” she said.

I prayed for patience and an attitude transplant adjustment all the way to Happy, Texas.

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

As we passed Tulia I wondered how I could have forgotten just how much fun Mom is on a road trip, with her hilarious perspective on life and her penchant for eating like a third grader on steroids.  

My Mama is the perfect co-pilot.

By the time we got to Plainview, I was laughing so hard I had to stop and pee answer nature's call.

“Wait til you're my age,” Mama warned. “Nature doesn't call you, she sneaks up on you and squeezes your bladder before you can get to the toilet.”

Right outside of Abilene we passed the giant turbine wind farms and Mom observed, “I wonder if anybody ever parachutes around here...”

“No, Mom. I'm pretty sure this is a parachute-free zone.”

“Well, if it's not it certainly should be.”

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

I was a little worried about leaving her unsedated alone for so long while I went to the wedding.

“I'm going to call your cell phone to make sure you can hear it ringing”, I explained to her as I dialed her number.

After three rings, she looked over at her phone and said, “Is that my phone? Are you calling me, now? Am I supposed to answer?”

“No, Mom. I'm just checking... it rings just fine. You have to promise you'll call me if you need anything.”

She opened her antiquated handy dandy flip phone and said, “Oh. It looks like I missed a call from you recently. I'm sorry.”

“It was now, Mom. I called you just now.”

“Oh.  What did you want?”

I made a food run for her before the wedding. She ordered fried chicken and gravy and a coke and Rocky Road ice cream. And Cheetos's, please. 

Never mind that she is on a low salt / no caffeine diet. I hooked her up like the enabler obedient daughter that I am.

A couple of hours later, I called from the wedding to check on her. She answered on the third ring, TV blaring, crunching in my ear.

“You doing okay, Mom?” I asked.

“Sure! I've eaten everything in the room and I'm watching a Sylvester Stallone movie marathon. You stay just as long as you want.  And bring me a hot fudge sundae on your way home!”

After the wedding, I returned to the hotel to find my 79 year old Mama sitting up in bed, surrounded by empty food containers and smiling back at Stallone like a besotted teenager with grease on her chin.

“I see what you've done. You've had yourself a food and Sly orgy while I was gone. What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

“It was fun! There's a Spook-A-Thon on tomorrow night. Let's stay another day.”

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

Was it an easy weekend? Heck no.

Relaxing?? Hardly.

But being there to watch Vicki pin that veil on her daughter... 

... reminded me of all the trillion million ways my own Mom has exquisitely cared for me and loved me throughout my life.

Between Callie getting hitched and Mama getting high on Rocky and Rocky Road, it was an absolutely perfect weekend. 

And I really do mean it.

Ovulating Oscillating wind farms and all.

LOVE MAKES YOU REAL

“There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter. We sometimes lose sight of this force when there is suffering, too much pain. Then suddenly, the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call and answer in extraordinary ways.” 

― Mother Teresa

My brother and his wife dropped by to introduce us to their foster child – their very first foster child.

I couldn't even look at Baby P without my eyes getting all shiny. Holding her and breathing in her sweet baby smell kicked those tears right on over the tipping point. 

It wasn't just the idea that this baby had not been loved ENOUGH... but also the fact that my brother and sister-in-law had made room in their busy lives to love her NOW.

I'm always trying to convince my brother that he is a hero – because he absolutely is, to me. He shrugs it off every time; this time by saying, “I really didn't want to do this, but apparently that didn't matter to God.”

About a year ago, the tug on their hearts to become foster parents became a calling. A God calling. Even though the timing seemed a bit off (they are old enough to be sniffing the delicious odor of retirement, yet young enough to be enjoying their own precious grandbabies) they trusted in His perfect timing.

What an amazingly unselfish act of love and obedience.

And now, they are absolutely besotted by this tiny brown-eyed wonder. Even knowing that she will likely cause their hearts to break, they hold nothing back in loving her. Why? Because somebody needs to love her at this time, in this moment. And because that's what they signed up for... to provide an interim home for children, a safe place to land until a forever home is found. 

Heartbreak be danged.

===========================================

I sat in my chair, listening as the Dickman shared lunch with his Mom.

“Where's the Other One?” She asked.

“You mean Jackie? Your son Jackie is upstairs.” Dickie replied.

“Oh, okay.  Where is Dickie?”

“That's me, Mom. I'm your son, Dickie.”

She took a long look at him – really looked. Then she let out a little self-conscious laugh and said, “Of course you are. But I didn't know your name was Dickie, did I? Isn't there another name I call you?”

“No, Mom. You've always called me Dickie.”

As her attention turned back to her food, he looked out the window and blinked away the tears.

It's not easy watching their hearts break as their Mama fades before their very eyes, a bit more every day.

But taking this journey with her is worth the heartache.  We have chosen to live in the pain.

Just like Baby P's brand new foster parents... we have been called to this moment. God's fingerprints are all over this. He planned it, He organized it and He will carry us through. 

Heartbreak be danged.

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He specializes in broken hearts, you know. God does extraordinary things with the light that shines from the broken places of ordinary people.  He never wastes our pain.

Which is why we shouldn't fear suffering. We should never be afraid to put ourselves in the path of heartbreak for a purpose greater than ourselves. Because it's not about us.

And there is promise in the pain. Promise of a deeper understanding... a stronger faith... a richer, more purposeful life.

Loving one another, even if our hearts break.  That's what makes us real.

Ollie Ollie Outs In Free

I have never been comfortable with people who think the Dickman and I have the perfect marriage, and in truth, that myth is perpetuated only by those who don't know us well.

Don't get me wrong. I have a great marriage, a blessed marriage. 

But a perfect marriage... no freakin' way. 

We are an imperfect couple who are too dang stubborn to give up on each other. And after 37 years of marriage, we have learned to accept our differences and embrace our strength.

No, that's not a typo. We have A strength. Just one, but it's a good one. Almost like a superpower.

Our strength:  COMMITMENT

Commitment to our marriage. 

Commitment to our dreams. 

Commitment to our faith.

Commitment to each other.

So, even on those days when I'm bloated and pissy and taking my stress out on him... even on those days when all he wants to do is watch six hours of uninterrupted football while I'm chopping cotton and milking cows for sustenance... even then, our commitment holds firm.

Maybe it has something to do with falling in love when we were just puppies... all those years and all those layers of life solidifying into an unbreakable bond...

Whatever it is, wherever he is... is home.

And now that our home is in the country, we have turned into two old spoiled farts.

We've gotten used to the tranquility and addicted to taking deep breaths off the back deck. So much so, that when one of us is gone for awhile, we have our own silly way of letting the other know we are safely home, again. 

Heck, I even made him a sign...

Remember when we were kids and stayed outside playing until the street lights came on? Playing games like “Kick The Can” and “Hide And Go Seek”, remember...?

In our little neighborhood, we had a rule: if someone had hidden themselves so well that nobody could find them, then they got to come 'home' free.

Whoever was "IT" let them know they were safe by yelling, “Ollie Ollie Outs In Free!”.

There was no better sound to hear; no better feeling than to know you could come finally come out of hiding and run home, free and safe.

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

This week, my heart has been heavy for a beautiful friend whose husband found his way home.

I'm not exactly sure how the Dickman and I became friends with Paul Revere and his lovely wife, Sydney. But I must say, it's been an honor.

The famous rock star... 

and his stunning wife, a popular Marilyn Monroe impersonator...

Though we were duly impressed by their accomplishments and notoriety, the biggest honor of knowing the Reveres was to witness their amazing love, to breathe in the rarified air of their devotion.

Both were larger than life, even before they met.

Yet, conversely, to each other they were but mere mortals. She was his beautiful Syd and he, her Baby.

They were completely sappy to be around, and you never left their presence without a smile on your face.

It breaks my heart to write of them in the past tense. They were a team in every sense of the word. If ever two were truly one, it was Paul and Sydney. Commitment had become their superpower, as well.

I have read dozens and dozens of tributes and memorials for Paul Revere... for his contribution to Rock and Roll... his work with veterans through his foundation (http://ridetothewall.us/)... for the life that he lived so well. I hope the accolades for him keep coming and never stop.  He deserves them all and so much more.

A huge void is left in the absence of the force of nature that was Paul Revere.

But now, my thoughts are with his Sydney... the beautiful wife who never left his side, who always had his back, who gave him strength to keep smiling and laughing until the end, even when she did not know how she would carry on without him.

This incredible woman has inspired me to live better and to love deeper and to never take one single day for granted. To guard my commitment and keep it strong.

Her commitment never wavered. And in the end, she gave her Paulie the most unselfish, loving gift of all. Sydney helped him to run home, free and safe.

Ollie Ollie Outs In Free...

It's Not the Message... It's the Messenger

I stomped out to the car and angrily slammed the door. I was having a no-good-terrible-horrible-very-bad day and now I had to make another freaking trip into town to pick up more medicine for Da Mamas.

As I merged onto the loop, my sucky attitude went into overdrive. I was angry at that trucker for going 5 miles under the speed limit! I was frustrated with my brother-in-law for slamming cabinets while searching for Fritoes!! I was furious with the Dickman for being twenty minutes late for supper (I made REAL mashed potatoes, dang it!!!).

At that precise moment in time, I felt overwhelmed and underappreciated.

Then, I turned onto Bell Street, and saw this beautiful lady holding a sign just for me...

I stared at her as I drove by, and caught her eye just long enough to give her a 'thumbs up'. 

The further away from her I drove, the more impactful she became.

I wanted to know what had motivated this lovely soul to spend a selfless afternoon on a windy street corner, offering sweet inspiration to random passersby.

I wanted to give her a hug.

I drove thru the pharmacy and headed back her way, intending to stop and find out her story.

At the last minute, all I did was slow down enough to snap a picture and wave to her like a besotted admirer.  Because by then, I was.

It wasn't so much about the message; I know I am important to my people. I know  they love me whether or not I spend hours slaving over a hot stove mashing  potatoes. 

So, even though the words on the sign were powerful, I was much more inspired by the messenger than the message.

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A few weeks ago, I got a text from my hairdresser, Penny, asking me to stop by her shop for a minute.

Of course I went by. She's my hairdresser, for Pete's sake. She knows more about me than the Dickman. She hates my gray and she washes it away. She refuses to give me a perm, even when I beg. She saves the best issues of PEOPLE magazine just for me (Is Bruce Jenner really a tranny?). AND... she lets me wear a cape.

I got there as quick as I could, and she handed me a big box full of gifts.

“What for...?” I asked in surprise.

“For you. You'll understand when you read the card.”

Among all the goodies in her sweet care package, Penny had included a pot of impatiens (for patience with Da Mamas), a pot of sedums (because she wanted me to have One Freaking Thing that was Low Maintenance – thank you Baby Jesus), a sunflower head to plant with my G-Babes, and my favorite of all, a wooden sign...

In her card, Penny said she made the sign because it reminded her of me.  She said that I was an inspiration to her.

Oh, man.

To say Penny's thoughtfulness touched me deeply would be a ridiculous under-statement.  You know in the Bible where Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples and Peter gets all squirrely, because he knows he is not worthy? I was Peter. As I held that box full of love and thoughtfulness, I knew exactly how he felt. 

I was humbled to the roots of my professionally colored hair, y'all.

Here's why...

You see, Penny is not just an awesome hairdresser. She is one of the most amazing and inspirational human beings I have ever known.

She is a single mom who, after standing on her feet for twelve hours straight dealing with schmucks like me, goes home to take care of her disabled daughter whom she refers to as Her Angel.

Her daughter was born with disabilities so severe that doctors said she would never live a functional life... she was blind, she was paralyzed, and they said she  would never be able to communicate.

But Penny didn't listen to no stinkin' doctors. She took her baby girl home and loved her as only Penny can.

That baby is now 14 years old. She's a beautiful, silly, brilliant girl who plays a pink guitar and loves her brother and her puppy dogs and has the most infectious laugh you've ever heard.

Penny's daughter is a force of nature. All because her mother refused to believe she would be anything less.

As if all that is not enough, Penny spends her 'spare' time helping out with women's shelters, taking in strays and feeding the homeless.

And, oh yeah... she also brings dogs back from the dead.

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After a particularly stressful day, Penny walked into her house and glanced out the window to see her dogs chasing each another around the backyard. All of a sudden, one of Penny's dogs fell limply to the ground. She and her son rushed outside and were shocked to see that their big strong boxer had stopped breathing.

"Diesel's dead!” cried her son.

“Oh, no he's not!” screamed Penny. “You don't get to die on me, Diesel!  Cause if you die, I have to dig a grave. And I'm way too tired to go digging a grave. Not today!”

Then with all her 100 pounds of might, Penny started slamming her fist into the huge boxer's chest.

Her son was screaming at her to stop beating on the poor dead dog when they heard Diesel cough softly.  Once.

Then he began to move...

“He's alive!!!”, her son exclaimed in surprise.

“Yep. Now we gotta figure out how to get him in the car.” Penny said. “And then take him to the vet. And pay the vet's bill.  But at least I don't have to dig a grave. Not today.”

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Words are important.  Words teach.  But when you're too tired to dig...

Da Mamas... No Teeth, No Beard, No Worries

Our Mamas are as different as night and day. Literally.  

His is an early-to-bedder and mine is an up-all-nighter. His is a worrier and mine is fearless.  His has teeth... and mine does not.

There must be some existential meaning behind Mom cutting her wisdom teeth at the ripe old age of 79, though I'm not sure what it is. All I know is that there is something way wrong in the timing of wisdom teeth that decide to come in after all the other teeth have gone.  That just ain't right...

So, there we were – Mom and I – sitting in Day Surgery, awaiting extraction.

“Two Things, Robin. I want you to remember Two Things.”

“Okay, Mom. What are they?”

“When I get out of surgery, make sure nobody sees me without my top dentures. And even if I'm drunk as a skunk, tell them I'm okay so we can hurry up and get out of here.”

True to form, she came out of the Recovery Room chirping, er... slurring, like a drunken magpie with top dentures intact, telling the nurse she was starving and ready to go home.

“Tell them I'm ready to go home, Robin.”

“But Mom, you can't even feel your tongue.”

“So...? Go get that nurse and tell her I'm ready to go home.  And bring me a hamburger.”

She finally wore those poor nurses out. My Loopy Chipmunk was discharged home in record time.

======================================

Home...

Dickie's Mama has wanted to go home ever since we kidnapped her.

We lured her out of her house by convincing her she was sick and needed to see a doctor. (There are few things my mother-in-law likes better than a trip to the doctor.)

I got her an appointment with a geriatric specialist in hopes of obtaining a definitive diagnosis regarding her dementia.  (She thought she was going to talk to a professional about her favorite topic:  Stool Softeners.)

Throughout the testing, she charmed the doctor completely. He kept patting her arm and telling her what a "good job" she was doing. By the end of the test, she was convinced she had passed with flying colors.

“See... there is nothing wrong with me!” Dora proudly announced. Then, she looked at the besotted doctor and said, “Now will you tell them I can go back to my home?!”

The doc patted her hand again and said, “One more week. I think you need to stay with your family one more week.” Then pulled us aside and said, “Hopefully, she will forget and eventually settle into her new surroundings.”

Fat Chance, Doc.  

Every couple of days Dora would ask to go home.  We became increasingly clever in our delaying tactics...

“Uh, the car is in the shop...”

“Sorry, not today – it's supposed to rain. Hard. Heavy rain with hail and stuff.”

“I would take you home today, but you promised you would help me fold the laundry.”

Yep. Our excuses were growing as thin as Mama Dora's patience. 

There was wailing. There was gnashing of teeth (because, like I said... Dora still has hers).  

Her frustration landed heaviest on the two she loved most. 

Even though they surprised her with flowers...

And tempted her with sweet, fat Great Grandbabies...

Our Mama Dora never stopped asking to go home.  

She was perpetually angry at either Dickie or Jackie, sometimes both at the same time.  And she was especially frustrated when she couldn't remember which one was which.

“You're married to the youngest one, aren't you?” she asked me, over and over.  

“Yes. I'm married to Dickie, the one with the gray hair and beard.”

“He needs to shave that beard!! It makes him look older than the Other One.”

“But the Other One act likes he's the Younger One.” I reminded her.

Which only made her more confused. And frustrated.  

And sad.

======================================

Until today.

Dora woke up this morning saying she had been here “more than a week” and had something she wanted to tell us.

“I had a long talk with... Him... you know... The Man Upstairs. I couldn't sleep. I prayed for two months. I mean two hours. I asked him to... I said 'help me'. And He did. And then I had dreams. Of boys. Those two boys that are brothers. They were little and playing and it made me so happy. And I just want you to know... that I am staying here. I'm gonna live here with my family.”

We whooped and we hollered and we jumped for joy.

Then, she got that wily little gleam in her eye and looked right at her baby boy.

“Now. What are YOU going to do for ME?” she asked Dickie.

Never underestimate a Mama's ability to get her way. Alzheimer's be danged.

======================================

And say hello to Dora's younger looking son...

...the one who shaved his beard for his Mama.

Da Mamas... We've Got This

My 4-year old G-boy watched with interest as I smeared make-up on my face.  

"Why do you wear all that stuff?"  he asked.  

"Because I am old."  I replied grumpily.  

"You're not old.  You're still stretched."

"Huh??"  I asked.

"You're still stretched, like me.  Grandmother is old, because her skin is all bumpy.  But you are still stretched." 

Dear Lord, I love that boy.  

And just a few days later, I understood exactly what he meant.

I stuck my head in my mother-in-law's bedroom to check on her...

... just in time to catch her rolling her boobies up into her bra.

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My Mama didn't quite make it to the end of her self-imposed 90-day trial in assisted living.  When I went to pick her up for her hair appointment a few weeks ago, she looked at me wearily and said, "Okay, I give up.  I'm ready to move back home with you.  I'm tired of being surrounded by old people. They're boring."  

We moved her back in that very day.  

Knowing that my mother-in-law was living down the hall, made my Mom's decision a little easier.  "If you're gonna be taking care of one old lady, you might as well have us both," she said with a grin.

And it didn't hurt that my brother-in-law had taken up residence upstairs.  There is nothing boring about Jack.  

That's right, folks... I am now living with the Dickman, his brother, and our Mamas. Unscripted Reality TV at its very best.  Honey Boo Boo ain't got nothing on us. Motley Crue, indeed.

I know it sounds crazy.  

And I'll be the first to admit:  there is no small amount of cray-cray under this roof. Hardly a day goes by without tears being shed.  

Occasionally the Mamas even shed a few themselves.

But there is also plenty of laughter and hugs and exquisite moments to treasure. Most of the time, it feels like a blessing.

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Shortly after Dora moved in, I walked in on the Haney Bros having a deep discussion about the stages of Alzheimer's and what to expect as the disease progresses.  I heard Jackie say that he was praying hard for his Mom to somehow find peace amid all her confusion, and he didn't understand 'why' God wasn't answering his prayers.  My heart squeezed a little at the pain in their voices, but I already knew what Jack was soon to discover...

God is all over this place.

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My G-babes came to see me a few days ago and brought their parents with them. I was in my Happy Place, my face buried in the neck of my 4-month old G-boy, when I glanced up to see this...

And then, this...

My precious daughter-in-law rubbing Da Mamas' feets with oil.

This young Mother of my Five Favorite Babies, Wife of My Son, Sweet Daughter of Jesus... had carefully packed her oils into her diaper bag just for a purpose such as this.

Tears rolled down my face as I watched her hands, swollen with rheumatoid arthritis, gently and lovingly rub the tired old feet of our Mamas. 

I don't believe I've ever seen a more selfless act of caring and love.

God is all over this place.

He is teaching us patience and humility.  He is challenging our perspective.  He is softening our hearts.  And he renews our strength every day by using us in ways that amaze and bless our spirits.

Oh, yeah.   We've got this.