What I've Learned From Rhinos...

I became a health care professional because I wanted to make a difference. Because I wanted to help people. Looking back, I probably should have been more specific about who I wanted to help...

There was the morbidly obese homebound patient, who was literally dying from laziness and fear. She had agoraphobia (an irrational fear of leaving her home), and had managed to shrink her entire life into the walls of her bedroom, from which she refused to leave. She lived her life from the comfort of her bed. She even grew tomato plants on her bedside table so that anytime she wanted fresh veggies, all she had to do was roll over and pluck a tomato off the vine.

Trying to help that poor lady was an exercise in frustration. After weeks of futile attempts to get her out of bed, I finally said, “Ma'am...if you don't start moving, you are going to die. You know that, don't you?” To which she replied, “Sure I'm gonna die. We're all gonna die, someday.”

She was one of my very first patients, yet I think of her often.  The lesson she taught me was an important one: as long as fear is holding you back, you will never get stronger.

I have learned many valuable lessons from my patients, but none have challenged or convicted me greater than my stroke patients. From them I have learned more about communication, patience and the indomitable human spirit than from any other source.  Stroke patients are uniquely challenged in mobility and communication. Simple language is often meaningless babble to their ears. These patients are wounded and confused, filled with fear and despair. Their soul is intact, yet vital parts of their brain have been destroyed.  Life, as they know it, has been forever changed.  I have learned that in order for them to trust me with their body, they must first learn to trust me in their heart.

It is intensely humbling to be a catalyst of healing at such a vulnerable moment in someone's life.

Through my education, I have garnered a bountiful bag of tricks to help these patients re-learn functionality. But my tricks are not enough to help those patients who are unable to push past fear and embrace the hope of recovery.

I have learned that fear can be more paralyzing than a stroke.

Through my faith, I am able to offer hope to my broken patients. I have learned to take the time to hold their hands and look into their eyes to connect with them on the deepest level possible.  To see the essence of who they are...to look past the depressed form laying limply on white sheets. To see the living, breathing person they once were: the grandfather who tossed his giggling grandchild high up into the air; the gentle gardener who picked beautiful flowers from her well-tended garden; the happy-go-lucky schmuck who sang opera in the shower. Until they know that I am looking at them --- that I really see THEM --- in their scattered mind I am just one more person with an annoying voice that has come to disturb their sleep.

From these patients I have learned that 'fear' and 'hope' are two sides of the same coin. I have learned that the difference between a stroke victim and a stroke survivor is the ability to overcome fear and embrace hope.

And as Mitch Albom said: I am in love with hope, y'all.

Here's the thing that blows me away:  At any given encounter,  I...you...WE have the God-given power to fan the flame of hope within each other.

It's true.

I've seen it.

I've lived it.

And guess what folks...it's not just an option, it's a responsibility.  One that should not be taken lightly. 

When I meet a stroke patient for the first time, I am pumped to know that I get to serve as a conduit from God to bring hope to a shattered life.

Why should it be any less so for every person I interact with on a daily basis? Haven't we all been broken by life at some point? Brought to our knees with fear upon occasion? Aren't we all carrying burdens that are much too heavy to bear alone?

If we know this to be true, how can we not accept the responsibility of promoting a spirit of hope to our brothers and sisters rather than fostering the disease of fear?  A disease we are allowing to slowly and insidiously paralyze our lives.  Our world.

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Okay, I'll admit it. I may be one of those people who live with my head in the clouds.

But just because I believe in rainbows and unicorns, doesn't mean my feet aren't grounded in reality. Reality is knowing that unicorns are in truth - fat rhinos. No way could a skinny little 'storybook' unicorn could fart a full-blown glorious rainbow.

And I would never send a unicorn to do a rhino's job.  Sheesh.

I choose hope.  But it is hope grounded in reality. The reality of knowing that some of my patients will likely never walk or talk again. The reality of suffering.

I would be a cruel (and crappy) physical therapist to offer false hope to my patients. For their own safety, I must teach them the reality of their limitations. For the love of God, I must share in their suffering. In doing so, I help them to release their fear.  And I must say, the birth of courage under such devastating circumstances is a life-changing transformation to witness, indeed. 

My prayer for today is that I will become more aware and responsible in my interactions with others.  That I will never sow seeds of fear and weakness. I pray for a faith strong enough to conquer fear, a soul that overflows with hope and an unfailing belief in rainbow-farting rhinos.

For ever and ever.  Amen.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. 

~ Romans 15:13 ~

Pay No Attention to That Man Behind the Curtain...

Dear Facebook,

Where did we go wrong?

When I first met you, you were absolutely charming and delightful. I checked in with you almost every day, giddy with anticipation of finding new messages, new friend requests...a new way to take  mindless breaks from the stresses of daily life.

You and I have had so much fun over the past few years. From side-splitting laughter with old and new friends to moments of  heartfelt poignancy. I have made memories with you and shared my family with you through hundreds of silly little anecdotes and countless embarrassing photographs.

But frankly, Facebook...you have changed.

Not only are you not as nice as you used to be...let's face it, you're not near as much fun. It seems to me that somewhere along the way you went from being a Social Network to a Political Network.

And in doing so, you have allowed your users to become much too comfortable hiding behind the protective shield of  their monitors, feeling righteously empowered to pontificate in judgemental indignation while hurling angry bombs of hatred at randomly selected  targets...much too often in the name of Christianity.

Facebook, you have provided an endless supply of obnoxious graphics and toxic videos for narrow-minded knuckleheads to post in your news feed. (Though in your defense, those are likely the same folks whose entire belief system fits on the bumper sticker of their car.)

I will give you this --- you have certainly given the Bible a break. Instead of  bashing Real Sinners over the head with the Good Book, many Christians now use you as their favorite battering tool. And in doing so, a climate of hate has been fueled, thereby minimizing any opportunity for sincere adults to engage in civil discourse with respect and grace.

You know I could call your bluff, don't you?  Just like Dorothy & Toto, I could pull back the curtain to reveal the 'keyboard warriors' who spew such negativity and judgement from the safety of their seclusion. 

But I won't.

I won't do it, because in my heart of hearts...I believe most of the perpetrators are basically good people who have gotten caught up in a bad practice. A near-sighted practice of intolerantly highlighting 'eye splinters' in others, while ignoring the plank in their own.  

What I am going to do, Dear Facebook, is take a break. 

That's right.  I'm leaving you for awhile. And while we're apart, I'm going to figure out exactly how Jesus wants me to counter all the negativity and prevalent hate that fills your news feed and saddens my soul. 

Peace and Love,

Robin

Driving Miss Crazy While Turning 100,000

I'm not a nerd or a big fan of numerology, but I am a sucker for symmetry.  And milestones.

You can imagine my excitement when I realized that the odometer on my car was just a few hundred miles away from turning to 100,000. Hugely exciting for me, as I've never been able to hold on to a car long enough to witness such a momentous marking of mileage.

My biggest worry was that I would be too busy having road rage or putting on my lip gloss or eating a taco to catch the notable event as it happened. Worse, that I would be alone in the car with no one around to share the memory.

I find it more than fitting that the Big Moment happened on a road trip with my Mom and my husband...two of my favorite people. Oh yeah, and that OnStar GPS chick. Of course that bimbo had to tag along.

We headed out early Thursday morning, optimistically dreading the long trip from Amarillo to Houston, though none of us dreading it with less optimism than the Dickman. (And really, who could blame him? What man in his right mind would look forward to being locked in a car for nine hours with three chattering chicks...a Twittering Trifecta of Insanity?)

A lesser man would have at least brought along ear plugs. But not the Dickman. Armed with only a fistful of 5-Hour Energy Drinks, one lead foot and a determined smile...he bravely set off on the journey.

As the odometer ticked away the miles, my sainted Mama blessed us with her nuggets full o' wisdom...the highlights of which I recorded.

Here is just a smattering of Mama's Ramblings from the Road:

MILE 99741: “Don't you just love Tom Selleck, Robin? I loooooove Tom Selleck. I have always loved him. I mean, I love to just look at him. I don't really want to do anything with him.  Except maybe feel him a little. Don't tell me you don't want to feel Tom Selleck, Robin. Surely there's somebody you wish you could feel...”

MILE 99811: “I've done a few things I'm sure God didn't approve of. Not as many as Dick, but a few.  It's easier not to sin when you get older.  Let's face it – it's just easier to be a Christian when you get old.”

MILE 99896: “Hey Dick? Aren't you proud of me for doing my Spiegels so that you don't have to stop as often for me to tinkle? Robin told me to do those exercises 10 times a day and hold for like...3 seconds.  But I hold 'em at least 64 seconds. Hey Dick? How many times does 3 go into 64?”

MILE #99923: “Hey Dick? You shoulda seen the hand dryer in that bathroom. It sounded like a B-14 taking off. Is that the right number, B-14?  I can't feel my hands.”

MILE #99952: “I would not want to live on waterfront property - even if they were giving it away. I'm scared to get in the water anymore. What if my head went under and my false teeth floated out? I guess I would just stay underwater until I stopped breathing.”

MILE#99993: “Hey Dick...remember when you were 15 and dating Robin and her brother asked you how your hammer was hanging? Did that really embarrass you?”

And then...

And then It Happened.

The clouds parted and the angels trumpeted and the odometer rolled over to 100,000!!!  Even Mama hushed for a moment of silence. It was a brief moment, but Dickie and his bleeding ears truly appreciated the effort.

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Other than hitting 100,000 miles, Mom's funny banter was the most entertaining part of the trip. Right up 'til we passed the city limits of Houston-Freaking-Texas.

IMPORTANT FACT: The Dickman cannot multitask.

That little factoid, coupled with the reality of Houston's highway infrastructure being just a few concrete blocks short of a demolition zone, mixed in with Mama's droning, my back-seat driving and that obnoxious OnStar beeyotch...and you have nothing less than a recipe for disaster.

Envision with me, if you will...Houston, Texas during rush hour. My Mama is talking LOUDLY with my brother on the phone, I'm screaming directions at Dickie because that blasted OnStar chick WILL NOT shut up, while he is staring in utter panic at the octopus of freeways and off ramps looming ahead. But because Dickie is a man and can only do ONE THING AT A TIME...he exits off the main freeway onto a highway of 90-mile-an-hour-bumper-to-bumper traffic.

OnStar robot bimbo says: “You have left the planned route. Do you need directions to get back on route? I'm listening.”

With eyes popping and veins bulging, Dickie squawked, “Yes!”.

“Speak slower, please.  Do you need new directions? I'm listening.” 

“NO!!” says Mom loudly to my brother on the phone.

“Okay.  Your route will be cancelled.” said lil Miss OnStar.

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Everything that happened afterward is pretty much a blur. Suffice it to say that I don't know who was more lost...OnStar or us. All I know is that it took 9 hours to drive to Houston and 2 hours to find our hotel.

On the trip back home, Mom promised to be quiet.  She seemed to have no trouble adjusting to breathing through her new  muzzle.  And we both quickly learned to appreciate the convenient absorbency of adult undergarments.

As for Dickie, he loaded up with whatever comes after 5-hour energy drinks, bought a shiny new laminated map of Texas, and fired that OnStar chick.

Anyhoo...here's to the next 100,000 miles.  And to remembering:  it's not the destination, it's the journey.

“You got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there.”

~ Yogi Berra ~ 

LUMPY MIRACLES

M4 has slid into place with hardly a whimper.

I will never get over how one minute they're just a wriggling mass kicking at their Mommy's ribcage and then, PLOP! Here they are…a living, breathing, sweet-smelling lump of love that you could never imagine living without.

My highest goal in life right now is to make him grin.  At anything...the ceiling, the light...hopefully, at me.

 

I struggle for words to tell him all he needs to know about this amazing life he has inherited. Even though he clearly shows signs of being the SMARTEST BABY EVER, he's not talking yet.  So for now, we communicate telepathically. Our conversations go something like this:

MiMi: Hey there, Baby Marcus...welcome to our big, round, wet, overcrowded ball.

M4: Hey, MiMi. Whaddya call this place?

MiMi: We call it 'home', and it takes a little getting used to. There is much to learn about surviving on this strange planet, but don't worry. We'll teach you everything you need to know.

M4: Gee thanks, MiMi. But all I really want to know is this: where did that pretty lady with the milk jugs go?

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Speaking of boobs...

Smack in the midst of grandbabies dropping from the sky, I managed to convince myself that I had breast cancer.

Seriously.

Just before our 35th anniversary trip to Dallas, I felt a strange lump. I tried to blow it off and enjoy the trip, but while cheering on the Texas Rangers, I felt a sharp *snap*  under my breast.  Right there in the Rangers Ballpark, amongst tens of thousands of fans, the underwire in my bra broke apart...ON THE SAME SIDE AS THE LUMP!!! It completely weirded me out. I took it as a sign, tossed out the rest of my Diet DP and resumed cheering with my left arm only.

When we got back home, I promptly called my doc who set me up for a diagnostic mammogram. In the meantime, I imagined all the ways my life would be changed when the doctor said those three words I have always expected to hear, "You Have Cancer". 

I didn't tell anyone about The Cancer. I didn't even buy a new bra to replace my broken one. Why bother?

I was amazingly brave and spectacularly stoic...until I wasn't.

The night before my mammogram, everything came rushing out and spewed onto the Dickman in one big messy pile of emo-vomit.

It had been a bad day of dealing with a rude patient, running out of Fritos before running out of bean dip, fires in Colorado...you get the picture. Poor, unwitting Dickman came through the door and asked something completely inane like, “Did you use my razor to shave your armpits again?”

And I exploded.

“You are so selfish and inconsiderate and I PROBABLY HAVE BREAST CANCER!!”

[Poor guy. Nothing in life prepared him for Menopausal Robin. Nothing in life prepared ME for Menopausal Robin.]

The Dickman was scared sh*tless. Or at least he acted as though he was. (I strongly suspect that when I wasn't around, he was trolling the internet for my replacement. Probably for a woman in perfect hormonal balance who owned her own razor.)

The next day, he called me every 30 minutes. As I pulled up to the clinic, I picked up my ringing phone and answered with, “Will you please leave me alone?” He said, “Never.”

After all the poking and prodding and sadistic squeezing of my poor aching breast, the results were in:

I did not have cancer. I had a fibrocystic flare-up likely due to hormones and/or too much Diet DP.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much I REALLY did not want to have breast cancer. As I walked out through the waiting room, I smiled reassuringly into the concerned eyes of kind strangers, realizing as never before the spirit of sisterhood that exists in such a place.

I made it all the way to my car before I started crying. And then...I couldn't stop.

I cried for all the people I've loved and lost to cancer, for my friend Karne's Mom who fought so bravely, for my young colleague Shayla who just completed her last round of radiation, for the ladies (and men) in that waiting room who on that very day, were not so lucky as I.

I knew I had to suck it up and call my Dickman.  I knew if he heard me crying he would think the worst. I pulled myself together, and he answered on the first ring.

“Seriously. Will you just leave me alone?” I said.

“Never.” He replied.

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There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.

 Albert Einstein

More Than 50 Shades of Gray

When I make it to church on Sunday mornings, my G-girl is usually the first to jump aboard my lap. Not only is she faster than her baby brothers, she's also more possessive. Which means if they happen to get to me first, she is absolutely not above pushing them off of my lap.

I'm crazy about this tiny force of nature. She has a unique way of tugging on my heartstrings while simultaneously putting me in my place, unlike any other who has come before. Even as she leans in for Butterfly Kisses, she's poking at my fat roll with playful giggles.

Then, because she is made of equal parts sugar and spice, she will sit back and look deep into my eyes, assuring herself that my feelings have not been hurt, that I am laughing with her. Of course I am laughing. I know her heart completely. So much of she is me.

Confident that she has not yet gone too far, she then inevitably goes too far. She reaches up and swipes her fingers across my cheek. Hard. Hard enough to steal the youthful, glowing makeup right off my face.

Still giggling, she brushes her fingers across her own cheeks and unfailingly asks, “Am I shiny?”

<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>

For some reason, the fact that the shiny comes off my face so easily is much more unsettling than having fat rolls large enough to accommodate the fingers of a precocious 6-year old.

How did I get to this strange place...old enough to have lost my 'shiny' but too young to be truly wise?

With a 30-something brain inhabiting a 55-year old body...how can middle-age be anything but confusing and unsettling?

My friends are not only becoming grandparents, they are taking blood pressure meds and having surgeries to replace worn out body parts. When we spend time together, our conversations unfailingly erode to bowel movements and leaky bladders.

Sheesh.

Gone is the boundless optimism of my 20's, the abundant opportunity of my 30's, the endless confidence of my 40's. I'm not sure where it all went, but it has somehow been replaced with gray hair, an extra 35 pounds and myopic eyesight.

Even as a society, we celebrate beginnings and immortalize endings. But the middle? Meh.

Exhibit A: The Oreo

(Although sweet and tasty, let's be honest.  The middle is the messiest and most fattening part of the cookie.)

 <<<<<<<< >>>>>>>

Middle age means remembering to suck in my chin when taking pictures. 

Midde age means I am just One Weak Kegel away from wearing Depends.

Middle age means my body has a mind of it's own and my mind doesn't mind at all.

And yet...

My friends and I have not spent the past fifty plus years consuming oxygen for nothing.  We. Are. Boomers.

We came into this world with a BANG! With a SPLASH! With a BOOM!!

Give us a few days with some ibuprofen and an ice pack and by golly, we'll spend the rest of our lives going out exactly the same way we came in. Except, well...slower.  Maybe not so much of a boom. And much more careful...less banging. 

But still... 

 SPLASH.

IT ALL COMES DOWN TO GRACE

I sure have enjoyed seeing pictures of the fresh-faced 2012 graduates in my mail and on Facebook over the past few weeks. From kindergarten to college, there is something so special about a beaming smile shining beneath mortar board and tassel.  Family, friends, and spouses peeking over their shoulders. Everyone bursting with pride and accomplishment.

And rightly so. Graduation is one of the Rites of Life. Passage from one stage to the next. Victory worth celebrating.

So why is it when graduation rolls around each year, my palms get all sweaty and my stomach gets queasy???

It's a conditioned response that goes back to the years when I was responsible for orchestrating the slide show for our church's High School Senior Banquet.

Creating a slide show today is a virtual walk in the park, what with all the digital tools at our disposal. But in the 80's and early 90's...? Not so much.

Old school slide shows consisted of turning photographs into 35 mm slides which were placed one by one in a Kodak carousel and projected onto a large screen, hopefully in some semblance of synchronicity with the the sappy pre-recorded music blasting from a jam box cassette. The entire production was unbelievably time consuming and full of potential glitches.

All because of those pesky little 35 mm cardboard slides.

I would spend hours collecting the photos, getting the slides developed, putting them in order and selecting just the right music to tug at the fragile hearts of parents who would be watching their sons and daughters bloom to life on a projector screen.

Yet, no matter how much love and hard work I put into those slide shows, there remained the ever-present threat of a rogue slide sticking in the carousel and stopping the show. Slideshow Interruptus became my greatest fear.

I went through so many trial runs that my eyes looked as though they were bleeding. I made sure beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no upside down slides, or worse...an empty slot in the carousel which would create a burst of light bright enough to burn the retina right off your eyeball.

Regardless of my preparation, I unfailingly developed a case of the 'trots' on banquet night. While the seniors and their families enjoyed the lovely meal, I would check and re-check the equipment between mad dashes to the restroom.

And then, the Big Moment would arrive. The lights would dim and the room would hush in anticipatory silence as I nervously pushed the 'play' button on the jam box. As the syrupy sounds of child-rearing songs filled the air, I would cross my fingers, toss up a prayer and slowly squeeze the remote of the projector.

I had 'em from the first slide. Few things get to a Mama like seeing the face of her Pride and Joy immortalized on a 15-foot screen. Sentimental slices of life captured in Kodachrome. An idealized past shining from a snaggle-toothed photograph.

Egged on by the “ooooohs and awwwws”, I would continue to methodically click the remote from slide to slide in perfect unison with the music. The strains of “Friends Are Friends Forever...” played to the background accompaniment of parental sniffles. My confidence built as graduate after graduate grew up before our eyes.

And then...

And Then.....

AND THEN, THE NEXT FREAKING SLIDE GOT STUCK IN THE CAROUSEL!  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Just like that, the love spell was broken. The audience would giggle nervously.

Like a pissed-off ninja, I would quickly grab my trusty butter knife and frantically dig the renegade slide from the carousel. Gouged and bent, the insolent slide would be chucked to the floor as I frantically whispered another prayer and shakily resumed the slide-show. At which point, the audience would usually applaud politely, having more faith than me in my ability to get the show back on track.

Grace shining through.

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

As my thoughts wandered back to those perilous days of High School Senior Banquets, from the perspective of distance I couldn't help but view the entire production as a metaphor for life.

How clearly those slides represent the times we would like to 'freeze-frame' for a moment. Stop and examine. Give the appreciation it deserves.

Appreciate it, then go onto the Next Phase.

Go on to the Next Phase.

Go on.

GO!!

Hmmmm...it seems we have somehow gotten STUCK. Crap. Completely inconvenient and totally annoying. And a HUGE waste of time until we finally come to the realization that we are not going to get UNSTUCK without some help. No way. No how.

OOWWWWIEEE! OUCH! Why were we NOT informed that getting unstuck could be painful? Could even leave a scar?

Permanent reminders of tough times in the carousel of life.

The applause goes to those who don't stay stuck. Big, big applause to those who keep on going – scars and all. Slightly damaged, but oh so brave.

Metaphor, indeed.

And here's the kicker:  Throughout this arduous, unpredictable process, some of us are just silly enough to keep on believing that our story will end in Happily Ever After.

Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but eventually...happily.  Ever after.

Because even though we ride like fools through the carousel of life with our sweaty palms and our trusty butter knives...even though we want to believe that we are producing this show, that WE are in control...

When the carousel stops...

                And the lights come on...

                                    We suddenly remember...

                                                       It all comes down to...
                                                                    

                                                                                  GRACE.

A Legacy of Love

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. A day set aside to honor all mothers, be they living in this world or beyond, be they young or old or carrying an itty bitty zygote.  A day to celebrate women and their capacity for love.

How ironic is it then, that our deepest, truest lessons of love are learned in retrospect?

When I was 11 years old, my Aunt Betty Bob gifted me with a little golden razor. She took me into her bathroom, taught me how to lather up my legs with soap and gently glide the razor along the skin of my embarrassingly hairy legs. Left to my own devices, I cut the crap out of my legs with that razor. But I will never forget how grown-up and feminine my Aunt Bob made me feel.

We were the best of buddies and loved to go shopping together. She was always on top of the latest trends and fashion. She was that person who always made me feel infinitely special.

When Dickie asked me to marry him, my Aunt Bob was the first call I made after telling my parents. She whooped and hollered her congratulations across the phone. A few days later I received a beautiful and outrageously expensive crystal cake pedestal from her in the mail. She said she wanted to give me a totally impractical gift, one that would remind me of her each time I used it. It was my favorite wedding gift of all. In 35 years of marriage, I've never even glanced at that cake pedestal without thinking of her.

Still, I didn't realized how much my Aunt Bob loved me until I became an aunt, as well.

I remember peeking around the corner of the living room, spying on Mama as she visited and sipped coffee with her friends. I would wait until she was totally absorbed by the conversation, then I would stealthily make my way to her chair and sit at her feet. I knew that if I sat very still and was as quiet as a mouse, before too long Mom would put her hand on my head and begin playing with my hair, distractedly running her fingers through the length of it. I coveted the touch of my Mom's hands in my hair.

Though I always felt her approval, she seldom gave me compliments. One afternoon, I came busting through the screen door after a busy day at school. I couldn't wait to show her my new note from the cutest boy in 3^rd grade, telling me I was a 'pretty gril '(his spelling, not mine).

“Do you think I'm pretty, Mama?”

“You're cute enough,” She said. “Pretty Is As Pretty Does.”

I understood that it was more important to her that I be pretty on the inside rather than the outside. Therefore, it became more important to me as well.

The day Dickie and I found out we were pregnant, we didn't know whether to be scared or ecstatic. On the drive home from the doctor's office, we decided to wait awhile before sharing the news, just so we could absorb our little secret in private. As we walked into the house, the phone was ringing off the hook. I answered “Hello?” in my best trying-not-to-sound pregnant voice.  Mom's loud voice blurted out, “Are you pregnant? I just have this feeling that you might be pregnant?”

Clairvoyance aside, I never realized how much my Mama really loved me until I had children of my own.

As Mom tells it, the bond between my Grandmother Flodie and I was immediate and true. In fact, Flodie was the one who suggested I be named Robin. It was the name of a beloved character in a book she happened to be reading at the time.  Thus, Robin In Da Hood was born.

She let me make funny shaped biscuits out of her leftover pie dough. She made tiny little dresses for my dolls and taught me the basics of sewing. She was the best listener I have ever known, and had a way of making you feel as though you were the most interesting person on the planet.

In her last few years, she developed senile dementia and was often confused when taken from her familiar environment. On her last earthly birthday, we loaded her in the car to take her out for dinner. As we drove away from her group home, Flodie reached for my hand and nervously asked, “Robin, do we know where I am?”

“Yes, we know exactly where you are Flodie. You're here with us. You are safe.”

“Oh, goodie.” She replied. “I wouldn't want us to get me lost.”

I always knew I inhabited a special place in Flodie's heart. But I never knew how much she loved me until I had Grandchildren of my own.

I have only one Mama. And she's an awfully good one. But the essence of  who I am has been greatly influenced by three beautiful strong, and amazing women. A trinity of estrogen that shaped my soul.

I have always been gratefully aware of how blessed I was to have them in my corner. And as life has progressed, I have become even more in awe of the rarefied air that surrounded their presence...the gifts of strength and kindness and humor and love that they bestowed unto me.

Thankfully, I am not the only beneficiary of their largesse. I am not the only woman whose life has been shaped by this extraordinary League of Ladies.

Her name is Camille. She is my second cousin and Betty Bob's beloved Granddaughter.

Out of Flodie's nine Great-Grandchildren, she is the only girl. But she is enough.

The epitome of a girlie-girl, Camille was a cheerleader for the  infamous 'Friday Night Lights' Odessa Permian Panthers...a Mojo Princess who competed in beauty pageants and modeled for Teen Magazine, when she wasn't dressed in designer cammo and taking out an 8-point buck. 

And then, she went off to Baylor University and fell in love with a cowboy.

There was nothing in Camille's pre-marital resume that would have ever caused me to believe her life would turn out like this:

(Yes, I know...they are all ridiculously gorgeous.  I swear they have not been photoshopped.)

After having two beautiful (and very girlie) daughters, Camille and John went on to adopt a son from Guatemala, a son from the state foster system, and a daughter who had grown up in a Ukrainian orphanage. For all practical purposes, their lives were complete – or at least filled to the brim.  But God had other plans....

...and they named him Will Jackson.

On this Mother's Day, I especially want to honor my sweet cousin Camille...the one woman who shares with me the glorious distinction and dynamic DNA of the Fabulous Flodie and her daughters.

Camille and I both know exactly how blessed we have been to stand upon the shoulders of these incredible women who went before us.

My heart sings and my whole face smiles when I imagine how proud they must be of the legacy that lives on in Camille...the adoption ministry she helped establish...the amazing six-pack of children she has collected and nurtured into a family...the beautiful Godly woman she is today.

Happy Mother's Day to my Camilla Vanilla.  If you don't already know know how much you are loved, someday you surely will.