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.

Every Purpose Under Heaven...

Summer is almost over, y'all.

And as sweet as it has been, I must say... I long for a season without flies. Did you hear that, you pesky flies? Your days are numbered.

Texas summers ain't for sissies. They are hot. They are sticky. They are sweaty. And they bring herds of flies and swarms of mosquitoes as big as your fist because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

I'm ready for fall. For crisp mornings and breezy evenings and golden leaves and just... ahhhhhh, fall. The only thing wrong with fall in Texas is the epidemic of football-itis that afflicts almost every male in the state. Texas football without its rabid fans is like, I dunno... something without something. 

Thankfully, just about the time my Irritable Ball Syndrome begins to rage out of control, along comes winter.

Non-Texans are always surprised to discover just how harsh a Texas Panhandle winter can be, with below freezing temps and blizzards that can turn streets into chaos. Chaotic, mainly because Texans do not believe gigantor drifts of snow should deter them from getting in their vehicles and driving to Allsup's for a can of snuff. Or to Sonic for a Vanilla Diet DP. Whatever. 

Texans are Badass. Until we're not...

SNOWPOCALYPSE - 2013

Just about the time we start to have thoughts of sharpening our axes and going all Lizzie Borden each other... along comes spring, drifting in sweet and subtle and full of hope. Except when it's not, because spring is pretty much the bipolar season of Texas, with the constant threat of tornadoes and dust storms capable of drying out every single orifice on a body. Not to mention hailstorms of biblical proportions, because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

Suffice it to say, seasons come and seasons go.  But in our big ol' corner of the world, the changes are uniquely distinct and transformative.

It takes a special kind of person to endure the diverse seasons of Texas. We're extra strong and super tough. We learn how to make snow ice cream after blizzards; we never stop believing rain will come after the drought; and we can negotiate insurance reimbursements for hail damage like a boss.

Much in the same way we adjust our calendars and rearrange our closets to accommodate the changes in our seasons, it is also the seasons in our lives that change our hearts.

I can say with all honesty, there have been seasons in my life that I enjoyed more than others. The carefree season of my childhood, the angst-filled season of high school years, the heady season of newlywed bliss, the exhaustively joyous season of young motherhood followed by the roller coaster season of managing teenagers. And then... the Dastardly Season of Menopause. A season worthy of cursing indeed, except for the fact that delicious G-babes happen to pop up about the same time as hot flashes and chin hair. 

Without fail, every season of my life has been filled with blessings and challenges, sunshine and storms.  

But this season may just be the toughest of them all...

This season of caring for our frail, elderly Moms. Precious little ladies who deserve all the respect and dignity we can give them; parents who never wanted to be a burden to their children, who fervently wish they could roll back the years and return to the strong, vital, capable women of their youth.

Every day of this season is different.

There are honey-filled days of laughter and love followed by days of incredible pain and stress. It's uncharted territory, and we don't always get it right. Some days we are the knuckleheads who leave home for a quart of milk, only to find ourselves stuck in the snow. Some days, we get caught in the storm... pummeled by the hail and rain.

Even though we're Texas tough, we could never get through this season all alone.

And we've never been alone for a second.

My brothers and their wives are Solid Gold. Together we are a mighty team of ambassadors for our Sweet Mama.

And those Haney Boys...

Just when the Dickman needed him most, his brother put his life on hold and moved back home to help with Mama Dora. 'Cause that's what family does.

There is never a day that we feel like giving up. There is never a day that we doubt we will get through this. Because even on our very worst days, our track record for getting each other through is exactly 100 percent.

Still... it's hardest on the fellers. Boys are hardwired to fix things. They want to charge in like white knights on their fast horses and conquer the enemy. Whether it's mowing a lawn or changing a light bulb or unclogging the sink, boys never stop trying to be their Mom's Hero. It is particularly painful for them to watch their Mamas grow old and weak, yet not be able to 'fix' them.  Frustrating to know all they can do is help carry them through.

These Cooper and Haney boys are mighty precious.

Mama's Boys, every one.

But today, I want to give special thanks for my brother-in-law.  I want him to know how grateful we are for the unselfish sacrifices he has made, for the peace of mind he has given my husband, for the patient love he shows his Mom. Jackie Dean's heart has always been three sizes too big because, you know... everything is bigger in Texas.

You can't live in Texas and not be changed by the seasons. You can't go through the seasons of your life and not be changed, as well.

The only constant through it all is love. The kind of love that loads all his worldly possessions into a U-Haul and moves back home to be his Mama's hero...

For a season.

(I love you, Jaco Villa.)

ALL KINDS OF MAMAS...

I am an ambivalent fan of Mother's Day.

Any  day  that  honors Mamas is more than justified.    But Mother's  Day is one of those  Hallmark  holidays  that often misses the mark.   I've yet to find a  card  that says everything needed to be said about this day;  never found the right words  to honor our Mothers while acknowledging  the pain of our sisters (or brothers)  who find Mother's Day to be painful or oppressive.  

Whether you think of your Mom as The Egg Donor or your Best Friend, one thing is for  sure:     Motherhood is not an exact science.   Mamas come  in  all shapes and degrees of neurotic-ness...

1)  SINGLE MOMS:  The hardest working Mama in show business. I don't know how you do it, how you manage to stay upright from the backbreaking load of responsibility. Three words to you: You Are Enough. All your babies ever really need to know is that you love them and will always be there for them. Even when you've locked yourself in the bathroom just to freaking pee in solitude.

2)  NEW MOMS: Smelling like spit-up, these Moms are pretty sure they are doing everything wrong and perceive every comment to be a judgment of their inadequate parenting skills. I would gently say to these young mothers: believe in yourself.  Embrace your God-given intuition and never doubt that you are the only one who could be the Very Best Mother for your child.  Trust the unbreakable bond that you have with your baby. And if the Voices of Experience are getting on your last nerve, rise above. Don't allow your insecurity to limit the love available to your son or daughter.  Children cannot be overloved.

3)  CHILDLESS MOMS: Those who would give anything to be a Mom, who feel forsaken by God. My sweet sisters, your infertility is not a curse... your miscarriages are not “God's will”.  Please, my broken-hearted friends, please know this: He will never waste your pain. He will give you what you need. He will use you to fill the void in other lives, to bridge the gap.  Your arms will be filled with those who need you most.

4)  BROKEN MOMS: You precious souls who come from a cycle of brokenness; who were raised by troubled Mothers who instilled your soul with worthlessness and insecurity. To the children of these Moms, I would say four words: It Isn't About You. Your Mother's lack of parenting skills would translate to any child placed in their arms. Your highest purpose in life is to break the cycle. I am amazed by your strength and perseverance. Broken Moms raise amazingly empathic and self-reliant children.

5)  GRIEVING MOMS: I can't imagine what it is like to lose a child – whether in utero or one that has been walking around this planet for years. Losing a child defies the laws of nature. We are here for you, to hold you, to listen to your stories, to speak the name of your child when your heart simply needs to know we haven't forgotten. We honor your grief.

6)  AGING MOMS: Ahhhh, my sweet Mama. It's hard to see her body failing, painful to watch her struggle. May I always treat her with the respect and dignity she deserves. May my well of patience never run dry. May I cherish every day of our lives together. Give us strength as we walk our aging Mamas home. And for those whose Moms have found their way to heaven, hugs for your aching heart.

7) MARTYR MOMS: The Moms who never sleep, who never eat, who never shower because they are too busy seeing to the needs of their children. Who post their monthly menus on Facebook and color coordinate their children into high school.  Stop the insanity! I promise you will not go to hell for failing to iron your baby's crib sheets.  Nor will CPS come and get you for hiding your favorite cookies from the kids.

8) STEP MOMS: Blessed souls who often end up with half the responsibility and none of the recognition. Seriously, is there anything harder to blend than a family? Hats off to you. Sending buckets of patience and a fresh tongue, as yours is surely chewed to shreds.

9) FOSTER MOMS / ADOPTIVE MOMS: These Moms truly amaze me. To be chosen by God to raise a child who grew beneath anothers' heart, to take them into your life and make them yours. There is a special place in heaven for these Mamas.

10) GREAT MOMS: The ones who never tried to be your best friend, but busted your butt when you needed it. The ones who encouraged you to find your own way. The Mama whose love was unconditional, but not without consequences. These are the Moms who never stop hugging first.  And who make a mean pot of spaghetti.

11) ABANDONED MOMS: I ran away from home once, when I was seven. My Mom had angered me mad beyond reason, so I made sure she watched as I packed my red plaid lunchbox full of food and headed out the door. I walked to a shade tree at the end of the block, sat down, and ate the entire content of my lunchbox in one sitting.  Suddenly foodless, my future looked grim.  I quickly decided that Mom had been punished enough and it was time to return home. Silly story, I know. Because I have friends whose sons or daughters  made life choices that took them too far away from home. I pray an extra measure of God's peace upon these Mamas. There but for the grace of God, go I.

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I could go on and on, couldn't I? There are too many kinds of Mamas to mention.  
Guess which Mom did not make the list?

THE PERFECT MOM

No mention of that chick, because she simply does not exist.  Every type of Mom, at one time or another, has managed to screw up the most important job we'll ever have. Thank you for the grace, Baby Jesus.

Wherever you may be along the continuum of Motherhood... may we all learn to celebrate our journey, support each other, believe in each other, lift / hold / prop one another up, never judge, always love. May we be full of compassion, stop trying to one-up each other, and strive to be somebody's shero.

Because it does take a village, y'all. Whether you are a Mom-to-be, New Mom, Surrogate Mom, Mr. Mom, Grieving Mom, Aging Mom --- whoever you are, wherever you are --- you are the village.

We Are The Village.

We weep with those who weep, we rejoice with those who rejoice.

On this Mother's Day, I hope you find a reason to rejoice...

It's Still Last Night...

When we were barely teenagers, my friend Karne and I would write each other sweetly poignant notes that always began with: “It's still last night..."

We would pour out our girlish hearts on 3-holed ruled paper, celebrating requited puppy love with our pimply-faced boyfriends and/or agonizing over unrequited crushes unaware.  They were  lengthy epistles full of the inherent angst common to teenage girls everywhere.

The connection between us was destined and deep.

We lived the privileged lives of nurturing homes, the rarefied sanctity of supportive and intact families.

Though our hearts were joined, our paths were varied. She was a reporter for The Bulldog Growl and a budding Thespian. I was a big-mouthed cheerleader who sang quietly off-key in the choir.

We graduated and went our separate ways. I plighted my troth with the Dickman and she headed off to college with a backpack full of dreams. Although communication dribbled to sporadic at best, our conversations always began exactly where they had ended.  Never missing a beat.  A quirky gift of language common to friends of the heart.

Karne came back home to get married, and I was her bridesmaid, as she had been mine. 

She celebrated the birth of my two sons,  while having trouble conceiving, herself.  God finally blessed her with a son who grew beneath her heart and one who grew inside of it.

Her precious mother died too young. My father too, then hers. We carried each other through the losses. She has commiserated with the dramas of my life and I have helped her laugh through hers.

This weekend, the Dickman and I were honored to join her in celebrating the wedding of her oldest son. It was a stunning event, set in the beautiful north Texas countryside.

We wore our matching boots...

She wore The Horsehead...

And I cheered as she danced with her newly wedded son.

When I returned to the hotel, my heart was too full for sleep. So, I did what came naturally. I sat down and wrote my Karne a letter...

Dear Karne,

It's still last night...

I can't begin to tell you how happy I am for you, for where you are in your life Right Now. You've never seemed happier, never smiled brighter, never been more beautiful than you were tonight.

I know your Mom and Dad were at the wedding. I felt their presence all around us and I know you did, as well.  An unspoken understanding, none the less expressed.

You and I, we've done a lot of living since the halcyon days of our youth. If those two silly girls knew what lay ahead... well, their skinny knees would've been knockin'.

If we knew then what we know now, we would have never left the safety of our Mama's kitchen tables nor abandoned the healing powers of Green Chicken Noodle Soup.

Remember when we thought we had all the answers? Thank God we were too naïve to realize just how difficult the questions would become; too innocent to imagine that growing up could be so painful and unpredictable, so beautiful and shattering. No one could have convinced us of all the ways life would try to break us, then somehow assured us the love around us and between us would unfailingly put us back together, again. And again.  Every.Single.Time.

I can't imagine my world without you in it.

The Gift of It All hit me last night as I looked through the lens, ready to capture you and your Timmy in all your post-wedding dancing bliss. With my finger poised to snap the shutter of my little pink camera, you turned and smiled right at me...

And my eyes filled with tears at the glorious happiness on your beautiful face, the love sparkling from your eyes.

Friend of my soul, dancing with the love of her life. Celebrating the hope of the future, while surrounded by sweet spirits of the past. 

Keep those red boots dancin', my friend.  

Love You Infinitely,

Wob

Hot Moses and Madea - A Bedtime Story

Once Upon A Time...

Well, actually, it was only last night. 

There I was, right in the middle of a really good dream. I was playing baseball for the Texas Rangers. I had just scored a double on errors, which absolutely infuriated Alex Rodriquez. As I was brushing the dust off my knickers, he ran aggressively towards me, steroid-filled veins popping from his forehead.  Red-faced with anger, spittle flying from his mouth, he began screaming at me, calling me a "base-stealing bitch"! Instead of getting all pissy, I calmly wrapped my arms around him, hugged him close and told him how sorry I was for his unhappiness. 

I'll never know how that dream ended; never know if I scored with either Alex OR home plate, because my dream was rudely interrupted by the air-sucking 140-decibel sound of snores emanating from the other side of the bed.

I furiously thrashed around to confront my bunk buddy, full of intention to interrupt HIS dream with a well-placed spousely shove.

But the look of total relaxation on his sweet, tired face stopped me right in my tracks.

My Dickman. 

He'll be 59 years old this year. He has an AARP card in his wallet. His rotator cuff has been repaired, his cataracts have been removed and his left knee joint needs replacing. Every line on his face tells a story.

He never looked more beautiful to me.

As I continued to stare at his dear familiar face, his flowing silver hair, his perfectly trimmed beard, it suddenly occurred to me that the older he got, the more the Dickman looked like...

Moses. 

No, not THAT Moses...

But THIS Moses:

HOT Moses.

When did this happen? 

I mean, I'm getting older and hotter, too. But my hotness comes from night sweats, which make my wiry gray hair all kinky and my eye bags all saggy and my matronly chesticles all sweaty.

Get the picture? 

Somehow, while the Dickman is morphing into Charlton Heston, I'm looking more and more like....

Freaking Madea.  

Well played, menopause.  Well played.

As I lay there soaking up sweat and appreciating the beauty of my snoring Moses, I began talking to him in my head.

[I do this a lot, but usually when I am mad.]

The one-sided conversation went something like this:

Hey there, Moses.

Your Snore-Guard isn't working right now.

But that's okay.

It gives me a chance to tell you all the things I've been too busy to say.

What you did today was...  just, wow.

Who else leaves a business meeting in Dallas and drives 350 miles to comfort a grieving friend?

Hot Moses, that's who.

Instead of coming home, you went where you were needed most.  

Just long enough to hug him, to share memories of eating cookies in his Mama's kitchen, to help him smile through the grief. 

But that's not all.

The way you comfort your own Mom... your patience and your kindness as you listen to her worries and try to calm her fears.

And the times I've caught you standing quietly at my Mama's bedroom door, just watching her breathe, just making sure...

I've never loved you more.

Seeing you hold your brand new grandson, searching for your Dad in every feature of his tiny perfect face.

It's not easy being Moses.

Parting seas and dealing with burning bushes is exhausting work.

You keep right on snoring, sweet man.  

You've earned them, every one.

Then I softly patted his big, strong shoulder, quietly rolled over, put my earplugs in and went back to sleep.

The End.   

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.

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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.