The Journey with Mom

Ups & Downs, Ins & Outs – Riding the Coaster

January 23, 2013 By Diana

Remember the old movie, “Parenthood?”
A recurrent theme in that story of growing up
was the comparison of life to a roller coaster —
and our need to follow the ups and downs,
the ins and outs,
to tolerate occasional queasiness and to
look for joy and beauty along the way.

I’m feeling those dips and swoops a lot lately,
often more than a little bit queasy from it all.
And I’m trying hard to look for the joy,
the small beauties that show up, if I have the eyes to see.

On my evening walk last Friday,
I almost missed this glory.
The fading sunlight was hitting our neighbor’s blossoming tree at
exactly the right angle to make us gasp with delight.
Such a lovely, serendipitous moment of beauty as the weekend began.

And these three sentinels glistened against the sky as I made my rounds,

The next morning, I drove south to meet these three sentinels —
my mom on the left (91), her ‘baby’ sister in the middle (on her 89th birthday),
their brother on the right (90).

These three have been the heart of our family for over a decade now,
the last remaining members of the older generation.
Their mother died in 1997 at age 101, her sister eight years later at 102.
I doubt very much that these three will live that long;
all are showing signs of wear and tear, the ravages of age.
I lunched with my cousins while our parents shouted at one another
in a private dining room at my uncle’s assisted living residence.
They’re wearing ‘hearing aids’ constructed out of water bottles
and offered as a fun gift by my cousin’s kids.

It is hard to watch this process — my mom is the only one with dementia,
but the other two are dealing with much more serious physical issues than Mom is,
so who knows how long they’ll be with us?

When I got back home, 4/5ths of our middle daughter’s family
was here, ready to relax and enjoy the holiday weekend.
It’s been a while since we’ve spent extended time with these dear ones,
and we were so grateful for their presence,
for their happy and sometimes boisterous reminder of youth
and life and promise
as we deal with our aging moms.

We opted to skip church on Sunday (gasp!) and went out to breakfast instead.
Then we drove to the butterfly preserve north of our home.

It was a gorgeous day, mid 60’s and sunny.
The trail meanders through eucalyptus groves and out onto
the bluffs just north of the UCSB campus — gloriously beautiful.

The deep hanging clusters of monarch butterflies were not to be found this day,
perhaps because of the unseasonably warm weather.

What butterflies there were flitted all through the grove,
enjoying the sunlight.
They are such stunning creatures, these monarchs.
Brilliant orange and black,
making the long migration between Mexico and Canada every single year,
stopping all along the California coast to rest and re-group.

We followed the trail all the way out to the bluffs,
stripping jackets as we walked and gawking at the endless view
of water, sand, islands.

It is a good walk, with enough ups and downs to make it interesting
and even a tiny bit challenging in the full sun.
Kind of like life, I guess.

Turning away from the water yields a mountain view,
beautiful in its own right.
This stretch of coast is one of the last and longest undeveloped
expanses in our state and we love it.

We are blessed in our children and in our grandchildren,
and they are blessed in each other.
Even though we’ve ridden some pretty steep and scary curves together,
I’d say the ride has definitely been worth it.

It’s good to be reminded of that sweet and powerful truth
when the queasiness sets in, don’t you think?

Once Lyla helps me straighten out some formatting grinches, I’ll join this with Michelle, Jen, Laura and Ann:

Filed Under: family, Family/Travel, God's gifts, Grandparenting, memoir, parenting, personal journey, Photo Essay, Santa Barbara, The Grandkids, The Journey with Mom, The Sea, Uncategorized

Of Rainclouds and Wildfires

November 11, 2012 By Diana

It rained on the way south this week.

Nothing dramatic,

but a welcome sign that the season is finally shifting

into true Fall.

I remember that rain is a good, good thing–

when it comes at the right time,

and in the right amount.

Just a few short days ago, this was our view

for about 75 anxious minutes.

That day was hot–over 90 degrees,

and this fire was close enough to see flames

and to evacuate dozens of homes at the top of our hill.

But a bright-red-bird brought gallons of sea water

up onto the dry hillside,

and a deep-bellied tanker dropped red dust

all down the fire line,

and this time, we were spared the fury of a wildfire.

However, there are all kinds of wildfires in this life.

And we’re in the middle of one just now.

My mother is enduring a kind of fire

for which there is no antidote, short of death.

No red-bird-miracle-water-drops,

no magic dust.

And of all the wildfires our family has survived

in the past half dozen years, this one is,

in some ways, the worst one yet,

at least for me.

Because, you see, my mother knows she is ablaze,

that she is being slowly but surely ravaged,

that all that has been lush and green is now turning to ash.

She knows it.

And that is the hardest part of all.

We will have to make some difficult decisions

in the next few weeks.

And she will be terrified

and she will feel betrayed

and she will wonder why.

So today, I am praying for wisdom.

And grace.

And I am searching for ways to be grateful

and mean it,

for ways to link my lament to praise,

for the strength and will

to relinquish my own fears and grief.

Many weeks ago I submitted an essay to Rachel Held Evans’

Women of Valor series.

I wrote one about my mother,

and how hard it is to see her struggling at this end

of her long, good life.

It will be published as the last in the series on December 8th.

On that day, I will come back here and give you a link

to Rachel’s website,

and I hope you’ll follow it over to read my heart.

I will not write further about her now,

except to say this much:

I love my mother very much,

I am more grateful for her than I can possibly

put into words.

Our relationship is long and complicated,

filled with so much good–

and a few things that have taken therapy to sort out!

But if I were given the privilege of choosing my mother–

I would choose her, in a heartbeat.

In.A.Heartbeat.

Although this particular reflection does not fit any of these themes, I will join this one with Jennifer Lee, Emily Wierenga, Duane Scott, Cheryl Smith and Ann Voskamp.

Filed Under: death, family, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, The Journey with Mom

Our Bending-Low Jesus

August 20, 2012 By Diana

“Our Bending-Low Jesus”

I used this phrase at a friend’s blog today

and somehow it bloomed up in my mind

and came out my mouth

during my evening walk tonight.

I so easily forget how powerful our story is,

how remarkable.

Maybe it’s the reflection I’ve been doing

on the Cosmic Christ

the past few months,

courtesy of my Catholic brothers and sisters.

Maybe it’s the contrast of that image –

the one I can hardly grasp,

the one that speaks of grandeur,

and Beyond-my-ken,

and Ground-of-Being hugeness –

the contrast of all that

with the picture we have of Jesus

in the pages of the gospel.

Jesus, who bows down in the dirt

and writes grace with his fingertips.

Jesus, who spits on that dirt

and packs it into blind eyes.

Jesus, who gets hungry,

and impatient with the ravages of sin,

and wonders if his friends will ever get it.

Jesus.

Who bends low for us.

My mother is with us for a few days.

And as I walk in the evenings,

I beg forgiveness for the many ways

I miss the mark when I am with her.

Impatience simmers,

sharpness surfaces,

tension rises until the air is heavy with it,

stagnant and fetid.

I am exhausted in ways I can’t even describe –

weary with worry, I suppose.

I give her the thrice-a-day medicines,

I make sure she eats and drinks,

I do her small amount of laundry.

Yet so often,

my spirit is twisted,

almost angry about what’s happening to her.

And I do not want to be angry.

She likes to walk out to our side yard,

to the spot where

we buried my brother’s ashes two years ago.

I watch from a polite distance,

as the grass is bumpy and she is unsteady.

She bends low, holding her knees,

speaking with words I cannot hear,

touching the metal angel I have placed there,

to mark the spot.

That simple movement is one of the

most achingly sad things I have ever watched.

Mothers should not have to bury their children.

Yet so many do.

So many do.

Mine did.

Really, Lord?

So much loss!

Her husband,

her grandson-in-law,

her vision,

her son,

and now . . .

her mind, too?

How long, O Lord?

How long?

How much, O Lord?

How much?

There are no answers to these cries,

none that suffice.

Except for this one:

Our bending-low Jesus.

And so I spread all the ugliness out there on the driveway

as I walk in circles in the deepening dusk.

I rue the words just behind my teeth,

the ones that don’t come out,

but want to.

I offer them up,

I beg for grace and then,

I see him.

Bending down in the dirt,

he writes my name,

with the words

forgiven,

forgotten.

And I am bent low.

Pictures:

1. The Risen Christ, on the wall of the chapel

at the Monastery of the Risen Christ,

San Luis Obispo, CA

2. The angel which marks my brother’s burial site.

3. A station of the cross in the chapel at the Mission Renewal Center,

Santa Barbara CA

Offering this at Michelle’s place, Jen’s Sisterhood and Ann’s gratitude link-up.

I may not count like she does, but I am deeply grateful nonetheless.

Filed Under: family, memoir, personal journey, Sunday Reflections, The Journey with Mom, worship

That Delicate Balance, Part One

June 6, 2012 By Diana

The wind was gentle out on the patio,

where we waited for our lunch trays.

So she set the small container of salsa verde

on top of the napkin to keep it from blowing away.

Lunch arrived, she picked up the napkin

and the salsa went tumbling,

as if in slow motion,

spilling its brilliant green thickness

over the concrete,

splashing up into the pocket of my purse,

dousing my cell phone with cilantro scented slime.

She couldn’t see it.

She can’t see very much at all.

And she didn’t remember that she’d put it there.

She doesn’t remember very much, either.

I made three or four trips back inside

to the napkin dispenser, sopping up the mess,

silent, praying for grace.

“Is this what life is now?”

I prayed inside my tumbled spirit,

as green and splattered as the sauce before me.

Is this what it comes down to?

Cleaning up one mess after another,

praying for patience,

grace,

kindness.

And those good things feeling just out of reach,

beyond my grasp,

beyond me.

Because, of course, they are.

My shadow self wrestles hard within me,

struggling to teach me

how to live more fully into these moments.

And what I’m learning as I wrestle is this:

the shadow is part of me,

a friend, not an enemy.

A place for learning and stretching,

for telling the truth

and not liking it very much.

For acknowledging that this is hard.

This is really hard.

It’s hard for her.

It’s hard for me.

It is hard.

And I am impatient.

I do wish that she didn’t have to go through this,

and that I didn’t have to go through it, either.

I do not think completely selfless thoughts, you see.

I wish sometimes it were over.

Yes, I even wish that.

But here is the Truth that is slowly

sinking in and healing the holes in me.

Here is the wonder of redemption:

God loves all of who I am,

ugly thoughts, self-pity, impatience,

frustration – all of it.

God loves me before those parts are redeemed,

while they are in process,

and through the refining fire of life circumstances

that are difficult, painful and not very pretty.

That’s a hard concept for me to grasp,

one that I’ve pushed back against

time and time again.

Pushing back in my usual way –

with lots of private name-calling,

condemnation,

guilt.

But today, as I look back at the last three days

with my mom – three days filled with reminders

of how much is lost, how frail she is,

how brave and terrified she is –

when I look back,

I see mercy in the moments.

I see glimpses of glory.

I see fleeting images of the fullness, the richness of life –

the wonder and the sweetness

and

the sorrow and the harshness.

It’s all a part of the mix, you see,

and somehow, we’re asked to live in the balance,

to stay in the center,

to focus on the One who holds it all.

The One who weeps with us when we weep,

who laughs with us when we rejoice,

who reminds us by the very life

He lived among us

that all of it is grace.

All of it.

And so,

the mess is cleared.

The fish tacos are delicious.

And my mom smiles at me across the table.

She is beautiful.

And so am I.

By the grace of God,

because of Jesus,

by the winsome will of the Holy Spirit –

so am I.

“You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly… God demonstrates his own love for us in this:

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Romans 5:6 & 8, TNIV

Joining with several friends tonight after a rough and tumble, mixed emotion kind of journey the last few days. I will write Part 2 and post it with the same friends a bit later,

if their links are still open:

Michelle at Graceful

Jennifer F. and the Sisterhood and Finding Heaven

Jennifer Lee and the GodBumps folks at Getting Down with Jesus

Emily at Imperfect Prose