IN THE IMMORTAL WORDS OF TENNESSEE ERNIE FORD...

Before my Dad passed, in those final hours before he slipped into a coma, he was happy and smiling and talking in a nonsensical manner about being at 'home' on the farm with his Mama. I didn't understand half of what he was saying, but I got the gist... his mind had traveled back to a place in time where he felt completely safe and protected.

My Mom experienced something similar during her recent hospitalization. It took several days before she remembered she no longer lived in Borger with my Daddy, and that her mother and sister had also passed.

“When did Paul die?" "Tell me about his last days.” 

“So, Mama isn't with us now?” 

“Are you sure my sister passed? It sure feels like she's here...”

It was a little bit heartbreaking. Part of me was jealous they were so alive in her heart and mind; the other part of me grieved each time we had to re-bury them.

It bothered my sweet brothers even more. I think it's because I understand crazy better than they do. Heck, I not only understand it, I plop down beside it and give it a hug.

I once had a hospital patient who was schizophrenic. He became paranoid of everybody coming in and out of his room and was growing increasingly agitated and verbally abusive. He was convinced that his oxygen bottle contained mind-altering drugs. When it came time for me to take him to therapy, he stopped at the door, ripped off his oxygen tubing, threw himself on the floor and refused to move. While the nurses scrambled to notify his doctors, I just shrugged my shoulders and told him that I didn't blame him for not wanting to exercise. “In fact”, I said to him, “I feel like taking a break, myself.” I plopped down beside him, leaned against the wall, closed my eyes and started humming. He scooted up and sat beside me. There we sat, in companionable peace, until the mean ol' doctor came and injected him with a buttload of sedatives.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Let's face it, we're all just one oxygen bottle away from a meltdown.

I knew I was due for one. I could feel it coming on, between the sleep deprivation and the hormonal imbalances and the massive loads of caffeine and chocolate oatmeal cookies.

I felt it getting closer when I kicked the pile of dirty laundry as if it had real feelings and told it to get it's sh*t together.

Setting fire to a cinnamon roll in the microwave was almost the last straw, but not quite.

The Very.Last.Straw came after my son sent me this video and I hit 'play'...

Hearing the deep bass voice of  Tennessee Ernie Ford singing one of my Daddy's favorite songs sent me straight into a fit of ugly crying. That's when I knew we were really in trouble.

[And when I say 'we', I mean... Dickie.]

Poor Dickman.

Between hiding cheese balls from my Mom and worrying about the bowel habits of his Mom and degenerating joints and income tax deadlines and hot flashes and airplanes disappearing into freaking thin air, Dickie could see the writing on the wall.

He tried hard to rescue me, he really did.

“How can I help you? I can be you... just tell me what to do. If there were two of you, where would the other you be?

In bed, Dickie. If there were two of me, the other one would be in bed. Sound asleep.

Bless his heart.

And bless the rest of us foolish souls who try to take care of every single thing all by ourselves. Those of us who are so busy trying to keep our plates a'spinning that we forget it's impossible to juggle balls at the same dang time. Balls were beginning to drop all around me.

Yesterday, I took Mom to her beauty appointment and placed her into the capable hands of our dear friend, Martha. I was looking forward to an uninterrupted hour of serious errand running.  But true to form, nothing went according to plan. I found myself arguing with a medical clerk over Mom's cardiology records and shortly thereafer, shooting the bird at a pharmacy tech.

[Don't start lecturing me about flipping off the poor little pharm tech.  I know it's immature AND tacky. But I sat in line for TEN WHOLE MINUTES, y'all. Besides, my middle finger has  a mind of its own. In fact, there's a clinical term for my condition: Trigger Finger. Google it.]

So there I was, all pissed off with thirty minutes left before picking up Mom.  Clearly, someone was in need of  a timeout.

I did what any red-blooded middle-aged woman on the verge of a breakdown would do. I drove through Taco Villa  and ordered a meat (m-e-a-t) burrito and one crispy taco. Then I drove to Mom's apartment to eat my feelings.

I let myself into the too quiet apartment and slid down on the floor. I propped up against her pretty flowered couch, and began crunching away on my taco while counting all the ways I deserved to feel sorry for myself.

Then, I looked up and saw this face smiling back at me...

My Pretty Daddy.

I stared at his picture until my eyes filled with tears.  I wanted him here. I wanted him to come back and make everything okay.

But only for one brief, self-indulgent moment.

Because I could never want my Dad to be anywhere more than I want him to be in Heaven.

Besides, if I closed my eyes, it didn't take much to imagine him plopping down right beside me on the floor.

Sitting beside me in sweet companionable peace.

And I swear I  could hear his deep bass voice softly singing, "You will find a little talk with Jesus makes it right..."

ASHES FOR BEAUTY

Today is Ash Wednesday.  And even though I'm not a Catholic, I have a confession to make.

I'm not sleeping with my husband.

I know what you're thinking.  No, I did not give up sex for Lent.

My Mom has moved in with us and I need to be near her at night. So she won't fall again. So I can bring her medication if she is hurting. So she knows I'll be right there if she calls.

It's not forever. It's just for now, until she settles in. Or until I do.

But for now, I seem to find myself sleeping all over the place... in the bedroom next to her, on the couch, in the recliner.

The other night, the Dickman woke up to the sounds of an approaching ambulance. Anytime he hears a siren, he sends up a quick prayer. He prays for the responders, for God's presence, for needs beyond knowing. But he soon decided the sound wasn't exactly that of an ambulance. He got out of bed and followed the strange noise to it's source... which happened to be me, asleep on the couch. Dainty, classy lil ol' me... snoring like a full-blown ambulance siren. He shook his head and went back to bed. But before he fell asleep, he prayed for God's presence... for needs beyond knowing.

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A funny thing happens in the middle part of our life.. age becomes the Great Equalizer. Whether in big or small ways, each and every one of us becomes aware of our parent's mortality.  If we are lucky enough to still have a parent or two, we suddenly find ourselves traveling down a strange, new path and bumping into our cohorts along the way, as we all become caregivers to those who once nurtured us.

Native Indians who greatly revere their elderly refer to it as the “Blessing Path”.  And it is.

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On  my  way to the store,   I  popped  into Mom's bedroom  to pick  up her grocery list.   I kissed her 'bye', promised to be right back, and crammed the list in my purse.

I  sped  to the store,  hurriedly  grabbed a grocery cart  (the one with a wonky wheel, of course)  and took a quick look at Mom's list. 

It stopped me in my tracks...

The sight of  her sweet, familiar handwriting. The fancy, flowing, schoolgirl cursive. That's all it took for my eyes to fill with tears, for sadness creep in around the edges.

Until my eyes went to the bottom the list and read: “thin panty liners – no wings 'n strings”.

My Mama hates wings. She has told me many times how much she despises a panty liner with wings. She believes with every fiber of her being that they were invented by “a little bitty man with control issues.”

So there I was, in the middle of the feminine hygiene products aisle, wiping away tears while thanking God for my silly Mama... for walking with me along the Blessing Path.

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Today is Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent.

I wasn't raised in a religion that practiced the Lenten season. In fact, I once wiped ashes off the forehead of a friend. I am That Person.

In spite of my ignorance, I know enough to appreciate the spirit of Lent... of dedicating 40 days to becoming a better person; of dying to self;  of  sacrificing worldly  distractions which may come between us and God.

Most importantly, of acknowledging death and celebrating resurrection.

It is a beautiful and worthy tradition.

God knows, there is a multitude of distractions I could choose to give up for lent; numerous ways I could strive to become a better person. I gave serious thought to giving up cussing. But then I remembered two important things...

1. I am menopausal.
2. I have Road Rage.

No way would I be able to honor such a penance.

I also thought about giving up chocolate but that's just wrong. Chocolate always makes me feel closer to God.

Realizing my Lenten options were limited, I decided not to give up anything. Literally.

This year for Lent, I'm.Just.Not.Giving.Up.

There are times in our lives when not giving up may be the most courageous act of faith we can offer. 

Because life is hard. And it can be devastatingly sad. Trials and suffering hit everyone. They crack us all wide open. But it is in those broken places where we learn to really see one another.

It is our shared pain and heartbreaking losses that unite us. 

It is in the space between death and resurrection where we find hope and transformation.  Where ashes of mortality are traded for the beauty of resurrection.

Wrestling Mama and Moose Morowski

My Mama is sassy, feisty, smart, wise, intuitive, snarky, inappropriate, fiercely independent, deeply spiritual and possibly the funniest person I know.

Her medical history looks like a train wreck. She has enough severe health issues to justify that trip to Heaven that she talks about so often. Yet, in spite of herself, she is still here.

And as long as she is still here, I want her to be healthy and strong. I want her to listen to me and do what I encourage her to do.  The rest of my elderly patients mind me.  But not Mom.

Basically, my Mom lives like an unsupervised third grader.  She wishes I would just be quiet and let her eat potato chips and popsicles at 1:00 a.m.

Yep.  It's all fun and games... until I get a phone call from LifeLine at 3:00 a.m., telling me my Mom has fallen.

And can't get up.

***

We sweetly but forcefully checked her into inpatient rehab for twenty days, for her to regain her strength.

She did not want to go.

She is not happy to be there.

Yet, in spite of herself, she is getting stronger.

Her constant mantra is:  "If I knew I was gonna live this long, I would've taken better care of myself.”

She lovingly blames me – and God – for not allowing her to die. She believes my prayers to keep her with me have canceled out her prayers to leave this life before her independence leaves her.

I told her I only pray for “God's Will”.

But that's not entirely the truth.

I've actually caught myself editing prayers for my Mama. You know, real quick-like before God could catch me. One night I prayed, “Jesus, please, take away her pain...” and little alarms started going off in my head. I thought to myself, "Uh oh... what if He takes away her pain by taking her to Heaven?!?!"

I immediately revised my prayer to say, “Jesus, please give those good doctors the ability to ease Mom's pain. And thank you for letting me keep her.”

I know I'm not fooling Jesus. 

Heck, I'm not even fooling myself.

Much as I wish it to be so, I understand my Mama will not be here with me, forever. And I can't even write that sentence without tearing up.

***

"I need you to know your limitations, Mom.” I tell her earnestly as she holds court from the hospital bed, picking at her breakfast tray and sipping hot tea.

“You know what I need?” she says right back to me. “I need  my hot tea to stay hot and my cold tea to stay cold. Is that too much to ask? Okay, maybe it is... when you think about all the people out there who need body parts and stuff.”

“Ha. Ha. Funny Mom.  At least promise me you'll wear your oxygen all the time, okay?”

She flashed a wicked smile and said, “I'm just getting back at you for the time you held your breath until you passed out and peed all over yourself.”

“Really, Mom...?  Really?  I was only two years old.”

“You were mad at me for taking away your pacifier.”

“Well, you should have let me keep it. You obviously caused me to develop an oral fixation which I learned to satisfy with copious amounts of food and chocolate. Daddy always let me have my pacifier.”

“That's the truth. Your Daddy would've given you LDS if you wanted it.”

“You mean LSD?   My Daddy would've given me hallucinogenic drugs...?”

And so it goes...

***

Dickie was at the hospital Friday, doing his pre-op stuff for his upcoming knee scope.  The knee scope he must have to repair the meniscus that he tore after he broke his toe while he was still in a sling from his shoulder surgery following the procedures to repair his detached retinas (yes, BOTH retinas).

He had the nerve to send me a text, asking if I would agree to help him with his physical therapy. Here's a little snapshot of our conversation:

I just want him to be healthy and strong. I want him to listen to me and do what I advise him to do.  The rest of my patients mind me.  But not the Dickman.

Every time I see him limping through the door with a brace or a missing body part, I get mad all over again.

I was venting to him about this very issue last night, when he busted out laughing, turned to me and said:

“Did I ever tell you about the time I arm-wrestled Moose Morowski?"

***

It was the fall of 1974. The Mighty Fighting Borger Bulldogs had soundly whooped up on the Amarillo High School Sandies. Dickie and his football buds were feeling invincible, as only 17 and 18 year old boys (and my 78 year old Mama) can feel.

They walked into the Pizza Hut, ready to rumble. Dickie's friend Lanny was already there, smoking a cigarette out of his nostril. (Apparently, Lanny had been there long enough to single-handedly finish off a pitcher of beer.)

The boys barely had time to sit down and place their order when three of the burliest, meanest looking men they had ever seen burst through the doors...

DICK MURDOCH

MOOSE MOROWSKI

RAPID RICKY ROMERO

Local stars of Big Time Wrestling who just happened to be in Borger for a death match at the Aluminum Dome.

Drunken Lanny wasted no time in going over to introduce himself.

Dickie, keeping a watchful eye on his goofy friend, looked up to find Lanny pointing at him while talking to the biggest and ugliest of all the wrestlers. The wrestler turned to Dickie with a glare. The Dickman, in all his 175 pound glory, tipped a hand to the wrestler ala Robert Redford.

Lanny came dancing back to the table, cigarette hanging from his nose, and said: “Hey! Moose thinks he can beat you at arm wrestling!!!”

Dickie looked increduously at his drunken friend. “I know he can.”

“No, really! You gotta wrestle the Moose!”

Suddenly, all of Dickie's so-called friends and teammates picked up the Call to Arms. (See what I did there?)

They climbed atop their chairs and tables and began chanting, “Go, Buck Joe! Go, Buck Joe!”

The next thing Dickie knew, he was sitting across the table from MOOSE MOROWSKI.  In the oversized flesh.

What else could he do?

The Dickman rolled up his sleeves, looked Moose right in his lazy eye, and prepared to battle.

SLAM!!!! It was over before it started. It took a moment for Dickie to realize his right shoulder was screaming with pain.

Not one to back down, Dickie smiled at Moose and said, “Uh.... I forgot to tell you that I am left-handed. Let's try that again, Big Boy.”

Moose smiled a toothless, mirthless smile and put his left elbow on the table.

SLAM!!! Dickie's left shoulder begin throbbing to match his right.

Moose gave Dickie a sympathetic look and said, “Sorry, man. I never know about you little guys. Some are wiry enough to give me a good fight and some are like you... just stupid.”

***

I would never call them stupid.  

But clearly, I'm surrounded by people who refuse to accept their limitations...

SIT WHERE I CAN SEE YOU...

I was a cheerleader way back in the olden days when being a cheerleader meant you shook your paper pom poms more than any other body part. I wasn't particularly qualified for the job, except for my superior vocal chords (which saved the Borger Independent School system a significant amount of money on megaphones). I had absolutely no gymnastic skills beyond landing a cartwheel. I tried. Truth is, I was born with a design flaw that prohibits me from ever being - how you say it - aerodynamically gifted. I mean, really... have you seen my butt? I jump like a ten-month old toddler. My total ground clearance is maybe three inches, max.

But then... along came the mini-trampoline. Just one bounce on that sucker and I was flying through the air like a Bulldog Ninja! Practically overnight I became a spread eagle-ing / toe-touching / pike and herkie jumping fool of a rah-rah.

Shortly after I achieved airborne mastery, my Aunt Betty Bob came from Odessa to watch me cheer. “Be sure to sit where I can see you!” I asked her, excitedly.

Unfortunately, my Aunt got to the game too late to get a front row seat in the bleachers. She ended up behind a bunch of tall, adolescent basketball players with pimples on their necks and was only able to catch intermittent glimpses of me and my red and white saddle oxfords.

Until...

We dragged out the Magic Mini-Tramp.

Suddenly my Aunt Betty Bob was was ooooohing and ahhhhhhing in utter amazement at my flying gymnastic abilities.

From her obstructed vantage point, she couldn't see the trampoline. All she saw was me flying through the air like a freaking Wallenda.

Man, was she impressed! So much so that I never felt the need to tell her the truth about my amazing power of bounce.

His senior year of high school, my boyfriend Dickie was concerned about a buddy of his who would not be able to graduate with his class unless he passed a major exam. When test day came, Dickie asked his friend, Joe, to sit close to the classroom door. “Sit where I can see you.” were his instructions. All throughout the two hour test, Dickie would periodically walk by Joe's classroom and stand in the hall just long enough for Joe to notice. Whenever Joe looked up, Dickie would give him a big ol' smile and an encouraging fist pump.

Joe passed his test and proudly took his place with the Class of '74.

Last week, we got a call from Dickie's cousin, LaDonna, telling us that her Mom had been put on a ventilator for a few days to give her lungs a rest from the acute trauma of pneumonia. We hurried over to the hospital to sit with Aunt Mattie until LaDonna and her husband could make the five hour drive to Borger.

As we sat by her bed, matching our breathing to the ventilator and praying healing prayers with each breath, Dickie got a call from one of his close friends whose Dad had just died in Hospice care. He needed Dickie to be with him at that first onslaught of grief. And he wanted Dickie to handle the funeral.

“What do I do?” Dickie asked. “I need to be two places at once!”

“You go to the one who needs you most. Go be with your friend. I will stay with Aunt Mattie. I'll sit right here where she can see me, just in case she opens her eyes.

A few days later I was rolling the lint roller over my handsome Dick in his pretty black suit. (I am an extremely thorough lint roller. Just ask him.)

“I'm gonna have to leave the funeral a bit early, so I'll find a seat in the back.” I told him as I rolled all traces of lint away.

Okay. But... please make sure you sit where I can see you. Seeing your face always helps me get through it.”

And I did. I sat in the back of the chapel and never broke eye contact with my Dickman. Anytime he looked my way, I made sure to smile or nod. I willed him strength and asked God to give him all the words he needed to comfort a grieving son.

We hoped and prayed that Aunt Mattie would recover, that her fragile, broken heart would find a supernatural strength and survive the downward physical spiral. But it was not to be.

LaDonna called her family to the hospital, knowing it was time to relieve sweet Mattie from all the tubes and lines and needles that had been running in and out of her for a week. Her battered little body had grown tired of fighting.

We gathered together in the small hospital room and circled around the bed of that pocket-sized warrior of a woman. Listening to the mechanical sounds and beeping alarms, I felt she surely must already be on her way to that Better Place.

We held hands and we prayed and told stories and sang and cried as Aunt Mattie breathed her final earthly breaths. And when it was done, there was a collective spirit of peace, knowing she was in the arms of a beautiful, blond shining angel of a granddaughter who had been waiting to greet her.

(Undoubtedly, Uncle Harold was pulling in a big 'ol catfish and would catch up with her soon.)

These are hard days for my generation. Slowly but surely... and oh so sadly, we are losing that precious layer of loved ones who stood in the gap between us and heaven. I'd like to think they will always be around, guiding us, praying over us, wondering why we aren't wearing a coat when it's so cold outside.

I know for sure I will see all those beloved faces again, someday.

Until then... I'm going to do the best I can to live my life as heroically and fearlessly as did our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles who have gone before us.

Most of all, I'm just gonna sit down here... sit where they can see me, and try to do them proud as they sit on the front row of those shiny golden bleachers, encouraging me with fist pumps and smiles from heaven.

Bite Me, 2013. Thank You, 2014.

2013. It came in like a wrecking ball, y'all.

 

Most years I stay up until midnight to welcome in the New Year with a wet kiss from the Dickman. Last night?  I stayed up 'til midnight just to celebrate the death of the Old Year.

My “word” for 2013 was PEACE. And I must say --- amid all the chaos of broken bones and detached retinas and lacerations and surgeries and dementia and emotional shrapnel --- Jesus gave me peace.  Well, at least those times I listened to Him, he did.

The problem is, even though I'm getting much better at listening for that quiet, still voice... there are far too many times that I choose to hear the noisy gongs and clanging cymbals. So much so that it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for you to perhaps, catch me driving down Coulter whilst screaming my head off and flipping the bird at fellow motorists.  (If that ever happens, please don't blame Baby Jesus.  Those are the moments that I obviously forgot to let Him take the wheeeeee-eel.)

Clearly, Jesus and I have some more work to do on that peace thing.  But I'm moving on, looking forward to a new dawn, a new day with a buttload of hope for 2014. Just the number fills me with hope.  I like even numbers, particularly the number four.  I was born on the 24^th day of the 4^th month. I have four fingers on each hand. (I also have opposable thumbs, but they don't count because I can't text with them.)  I am fond of my fingers. 

 

In honor of 2014, I have chosen the perfect word: GRATITUDE.

 

And why the heck not?  

 

I am the result of generations of love. I am the daughter of a King.  I am blessed beyond anything I ever imagined or deserved and I should absolutely refuse for my life  to be encumbered in any way by a lack of gratitude on my part.

Because whatever it is, good or bad... His plans for me exceed it all.

 

My worst days?  God's got a better plan. 

My very best stupendously outstanding days?  His plans exceed it all.

 

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Please don't get the idea that I've not been a practicing appreciator, truly I have.   But lately I have been trying to take it to a whole 'nuther level.  I am amazed at the new perspective I've gained... stunned to find such power in gratitude.  It glorifies Him while it humbles me.  And I don't mind admitting folks,  I could use a little humbling.  

 

Living my life from a place of gratitude has already given me a different perspective.  I realize that I need to thank Him for everything...  for taking the steering wheel during busy traffic so that I can keep my hand signals to myself;  for patience with a husband who is a lousy patient; for shutting my mouth so as not to become part of the clanging and gonging and duck calling going on all around me.

 

Crazy thing about gratitude... if I am busy appreciating and glorifying, then I don't have time to be picking nits off somebody else.  

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

 

Has my life become trouble-free and serene?  Do I lounge in repose like the lady on the Calgon commercial?  Heck to the No. 

 

Being grateful doesn't make everything great; it simply helps me to appreciate what is.  Even better... gratitude strengthens my faith in what will be.

At the end of each day, I lay my head on a soft pillow of thankfulness. I close my eyes, I open my heart and these are the words that I pray:

“Sweet Jesus of mine,

thank you for this beautiful life you have given me. 

 Forgive me if I don't appreciate it enough...”

And then I go to sleep smiling, while He sings over me... telling me that everything is okay.  And that it's only going to get better.

 

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

 

Happy New Year to my friends and family. 

 

Wishes for new hope,

peace that passes understanding,

abundant love and blissful joy... 

 

 

 ...from a heart that is grateful for you.

 

MY CIRCLE OF TURKEYS

The Dickman and I have spent a shameful amount of hours arguing over whose family is the most dysfunctional.

Just about the time I feel someone with my familial DNA has reached new levels of cra-cra, he manages to provide proof that, indeed, the Haney side of our union wins the Full Blown Bozo Award. It is impossible to pick a consistent winner.  Both sides are deserving of the honor at various phases of the moon.

Except for Thanksgiving.  When it comes to celebrating Thanksgiving, the Haneys always win.

On any given year, you can bet your pumpkin pie that the turkey on our table will be surrounded by a cast of characters that are, well... just a few giblets shy of the gravy.

This Thanksgiving was certainly no exception.

For the past 20 years or so, Dickie's cousin Faron has been the Most Honored Guest at our table of thanks.  Faron is special to us in more ways than I could ever explain. If Forrest Gump and Rain Man had a son, he would almost be as fabulous as Faron. He is a uniquely precious man -- only a few years younger than Dickie -- born with mild cognitive disabilities and autism. 

Blessedly, Faron lives in a small town full of wonderful folks who have become his family and guardians since the passing of his parents. Although he does an admirable job of caring for himself, it is those champions who maintain a protective and watchful eye on Faron's naivete and innocence so that he is able to live alone.

According to my calculations, Faron spends about a third of the year planning for Thanksgiving.  It's not exaggerating to say the invasion of Iraq required less planning than Faron's annual turkey trek to Amarillo. Multiple phone calls are exchanged between various involved parties and watches are synchronized to the nanosecond, as Faron is absolutely literal in his communication.  (Which, in spite of the precise planning, has led to a few misunderstandings through the years.)

The very first year Faron drove to our home, Dickie gave him instructions to drive to the Love's station on I-40 just inside the city limits. About an hour before their designated meeting time, Dickie received a call from Faron proudly announcing, “I AM HERE ! I AM CALLING YOU FROM THE PAYPHONE AT LOVE'S !!!”. Dickie hopped in his truck and drove to Love's... only to discover that Faron had indeed stopped at the first Love's he had come to, it just happened to be in another town. Forty miles away.

Faron is a Giver. He always comes to see me with a truckload of gifts, unique and practical gifts... in bulk.  One year he gave me 40 rolls of toilet paper.  The next year... a dozen giant-sized bottles of Palmolive dish soap. This year... ? I am the proud recipient of eight rolls of aluminum foil. "Why foil?" you ask.  Because Faron remembered that I ran out of foil last year while wrapping his leftovers. 

Our Leading Lady for the last Thursday in November is, of course, the Divine Ms. Dora B, Matriarch, Mashed Potato Queen.

This has been a difficult year for Dickie's Mama. While she struggles to remember the names of her grandsons, learning new information has become almost impossible. Last week, she told me that she would not be able to help with Thanksgiving.  She had thought about it and prayed about it, but just didn't think her arthritic hands would be able to peel a pot full of potatoes anymore. She hoped I understood and would not be upset. I assured her that I loved her more than her famous mashed potatoes and we would somehow find a way to carry on.

Rounding out the Cast of Characters this year, complete with assorted quirks and social improprieties, and in no particular order:

THE ONE-ARMED DICKMAN | significant other; recovering from shoulder surgery.
 

ROBIN IN DA HOOD | myself; lisping through a brand new pair of front teeth / crowns.
 

LUCAS THE FERTILE | firstborn; in full Duck Dynasty Mowvember mode.
 

MAMA CASS | dil; gestating while still lactating.
 

M-1, M-2, M-3, M-4 | my four adorable grand-nuggets; chock full of kinetic energy and an endless supply of snot.
 

JACOB THE INTROVERTED | last-but-not-least progeny; intolerance for large gatherings outweighed by love of family and free food.

[Missing were Dickie's brothers and their wives, who always kick things up a notch.  But you get the idea... One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest meets the Griswolds joined by the Duggers. Just enough dysfunction to make ol' Norman Rockwell put down the paintbrush.]

Chaos ensued at the buttcrack of dawn on Thanksgiving morn. I had barely stumbled out of bed and into the Keurig when I was greeted by a much too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Faron. He embraced me in one of his loving-but-awkwardly-long hugs. I happen to be a big fan of hugs and am hardly ever the one who stops hugging first. But seriously, nobody can out hug Faron.  I have learned to simply hold on, count slowly to 30, give him a sweet pat, then gently pry myself loose.

I had almost counted to 30 when Dora joined us in the kitchen. I deftly removed myself and quickly inserted Dora into Faron's arms before he even knew what was happening. When he realized he was hugging his Aunt instead of me, he just laughed and squeezed harder. Thankfully, Faron is an equal-opportunity  hugger.

Just in the nick of time, the cooking cavalry arrived in the form of Cassie & Mandie Lee.  But not before I had learned everything I never wanted to know about the past 24 hours of  my mother-in-law's bowel motility.  (Which frankly had me second-guessing the massive amount of boiled eggs and onions going into the dressing...)

Simultaneous with the premature popping of the turkey timer, Lucas and his three little boys burst through the front door in a cavalcade of tempestuous testosterone. M3 immediately ripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and spontaneously morphed into a snotty-nosed Spider Monkey. M2 began rapping and beatboxing for his sister who was executing perfect cartwheels in her sparkly tutu. M4 came toddling up to me with a beautifious dimpled smile. I scooped him into my arms just as he sneezed straight into my mouth.  Yep, smack dab onto my shiny new front teeth.  I set him down on the floor and watched as he picked a glob of hardened Cheez Whiz off my pants leg... and ate it.  As I was drying off my new crowns, I spied Jacob trying to sneak in the door with a variety of sporting equipment for his nephews and niece. He was tackled to the floor before his butt even cleared the threshold.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, our spectacularly disorganized culinary efforts reached a memory-making moment when I pretended to forget proper potato mashing technique and begged Dora B for help.  Here is Sweet Cassie acting as her lovely (and oh-so-patient) assistant... 

But even that wasn't the very best part.

Because the Very Best Part of any Haney Thanksgiving is the family prayer. It's simply amazing how, in the midst of the madness, we end up together in an unruly circle of old and young...  grabbing for hands while sharing giggles and growling tummies.

And just for a moment I am swamped by the divine blessedness of it all, this circle of hands joined together by love and memories.  By heartache and faith.  By loss and laughter.

The prayer always begins with Dickie and ends with Faron. This year, our little ones joined in as well.  M3 asked Jesus to keep him out of trouble... M2 was thankful for the sweet tea and the mashed potatoes and pecan pie and the salt shaker and forks... M1 thanked the Lord for her whole entire family.

As I listened to their sweet voices, I couldn't resist sneaking a peek at these faces I loved. M4 caught me peeking and waved to me from his Daddy's arms.  I made a face at him and he chuckled. His Daddy tried to shoot me a stern look, remembered I was his Mama and smiled.  

Already my heart was filled to brimming.  Then Faron began to pray...

I wish I could find words special enough to express the awesomeness of Faron's prayers. His face turns red, his voice deepens into what I imagine Moses sounded like coming down from the mountain, and his eyes become moist with emotion.

He always begins by thanking God for our military, the warriors that protect our country. And ends by honoring Cousin Bill, whom he misses every day.  He always makes me cry.

In truth, it's not so much what Faron says; it is the heartfelt emotion he puts into each and every word. His prayers have the innocence of my G-babes, but are more humbly sincere than any I've ever heard.  I have a feeling God waits all Thanksgiving morning in anticipation of our Faron's prayer.

And it is his prayer that reminds me – in the scattered busyness of the holiday – that it is not the turkey in the oven that matters.  It's these turkeys in my circle for who I am truly thankful.

Giblets be danged.

HANEY BOYS, COUSIN FARON AND DORA B.

MASHED POTATO QUEEN AND HER COURT

We All Belong To Each Other

 

My three year-old G-boy is fascinated by the fact that all of his favorite people seem to be connected to each other.

“My Daddy is your son,” he tells me on a regular basis, waiting with a smile for me to claim his Dad as my own.

“He sure is. And your G-Dad is my Daddy.”

He used to fall for that one, much to the chagrin of the Dickman.  Now he just laughs and says, “Silly MiMi! G-Dad belongs to you. And Poppy belongs to Nana. And Mama belongs to Daddy. And I belong to everybody!” 

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I was much older than my grandson when I realized our connectedness is not only with those who share my name or Daddy's stubby fingers or Flodie's pug nose.  It took me awhile to understand that the connection extends to every single person we meet.

It's simple deductive reasoning:  If I belong to God and you belong to God... then we all belong to each other.  Right?

And it's all fun and games until you realize that 'everybody' includes the street-walking bum carrying all his worldly possessions on his back.  Even him.  He belongs to you and me.

But wait, it gets worse!  Those yahoos up in Washington who call themselves our leaders?  Sigh.  Hard as it is to accept, even they belong to us.  Just think of them as the creepy uncle you have to deal with every Thanksgiving.  The one that picks his teeth at the table and scratches his crotch way too much.

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The Dickman and I were  driving west on I-40 when we noticed a small army of vehicles with lights blinking just ahead of us. As we drove closer, it became obvious that a horrific accident had just occurred. A mangled, twisted ball of metal lay between the two lanes of traffic, unrecognizable as a car. It was unimaginable that anyone might have survived such a catastrophic wreck. I pulled my attention back to the road and Dickie started talking – saying anything to try and distract me.

The tears just started flowing. I couldn't hold them back. It was a visceral reaction, knowing that someone had died, realizing that a soul was in transition.  It didn't matter if  I knew them or not.  I was softened by sadness for a life that had ended in such a violent way... grieved for those who would truly be affected by this tragedy.

Later that evening, the deceased was identified on the news.  He was a stranger to me, yet I carry his name in my heart.  Because you see, for a short moment in time he belonged to me.

We all belong to each other.

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The wife of my new patient greeted me at the door, eyes wide with concern. “Oh! I'm so glad you are here. My daughter is on her way over. Something is wrong with him... he's not making sense. He's hurting so bad.” She led me through the tidy home and introduced me to the elderly man slumped in his recliner, obviously in distress.

“Hey buddy... I hear you're having a bad day.”

He raised his head with difficulty and tried to focus on my face. Glaucoma had left him totally blind in one eye and with only minimal vision in the other.

“Yes,” he rasped, “A bad day. Am I gonna die?”

Looking at him, I was afraid he just might.  I glanced up at his wife and saw the same concern mirrored in her faded blue eyes. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and mustered a bright smile.

“No, sir!  At least not today. Okay...?”

He gave me a long, discerning look, and the corner of his mouth turned up just the tiniest bit.

As I assessed his vitals, I threw up a quick, silent prayer...

“Hey Jesus, in case you didn't hear... I just told this sweet old man that he wasn't going to die today. I probably should've checked with you first, but I really, really hope you'll work with me here.  Please, please don't take him today.”

After consulting with his nurse and doctor, EMS was called. The paramedics loaded him onto a gurney as his wife and daughter ran around the house, preparing for an impromptu trip to the hospital. I stood with them as  our sweet man was loaded into the ambulance, knowing their anxiety and helplessness, their hopes and prayers were riding in that ambulance with their beloved. I gave them both a squeeze and promised to keep them in my prayers.

As I drove away, I once again found myself fighting back tears. Not so much for my very sick patient, but mostly for his bride of six decades, for his worried daughter. I hurt with the ones he belonged to.  Because we all belong to each other. 

My prayer was brief.

“Sweet Jesus... you know. Before I speak, you already know what needs to happen here. I pray for healing while trusting  your will. These people need you, Jesus... please blanket them with your comforting presence, give them the peace that only you can give.”

My prayers were for them, yet His comfort reached me, too.  My soul was filled with peace... that blessed peace that only comes from belonging to Him.

 

Because we all belong to Somebody...