Mama Sense and Intention

I have been this thing called mother for over twenty-nine years.

Nine days before Christmas, my husband Mark and I packed up weekend necessities along with a few of our fanciest clothes. The destination was Washington DC to meet up with our son and his wife as well as celebrate the marriage of my closest childhood friend’s son. We left our two middle school daughters in the competent care of their grandmom and granddad. 

As I transferred essential items from my oversized “everything a woman and mom might need handbag” into a more practical travel purse, I paused as I touched the insurance cards. A small tingle, akin to spidey sense, whispered to put those cards on top of the weekend instructions awaiting my parents on the kitchen island.

The 275-mile trip from our home to the nation’s capitol is always a bit of smooth sailing along interstate highways mixed with stop and go traffic. This day was no exception. Though my husband most often enjoys driving, he needed to work on the way, so I was the designated driver for a good portion of the trip. We arrived at our destination in about five and a half hours.

We connected with our boy and he showed us around Georgetown University. We had a lovely afternoon as we wandered up and down the quaint streets of Georgetown. I enjoyed sipping chai tea latte in a warm and friendly coffee shop. We headed out to pick up our daughter-in-law from work and anticipated a nice long leisurely dinner together. My cell phone rang, and my mom’s name popped up on the screen.

My stomach lurched. My mama sense went into medium alert mode. My mom very rarely calls when she is in charge of her grandchildren. It seems to be a principle that when we are away, she can handle things at home. She has done so for twenty-nine years… “Trish, we think H has broken her arm. We are heading to the emergency room. We will need to get insurance information.” I took a deep breath and responded, “Mom, I left the girls insurance cards on the kitchen island.”

I filled my husband in, and we quickly decided that after eating dinner, we would head back toward home. Part of having good mama sense includes knowing when dad sense is needed. Despite mild protests to wait and see from my mom, we knew we should head back toward home. We found a restaurant and sat down to eat. There were many phone calls as I relayed medical history and answered all the emergency room questions required to treat our girl. My mom stayed right by her side through it all. The elbow injury required the cutting away of a beloved Under Armour sweatshirt. “Do you know how much that sweatshirt cost?” said my spunky girl who kept her sense of humor throughout a stressful and painful situation.

Comforting words were spoken that it appeared to be a fairly simple fracture of the elbow that would require a cast once swelling reduced. We set out for home. Mark was not entering this weekend well rested, so we decided he would start out and then I would take over when needed. There was an impending forecast for freezing rain, but it seemed that we might be able to beat the system. We agreed that we would stop if the roads got dicey, or if we were too tired to drive safely.

We headed south on I-95, and Mark hit a wall about an hour into our travel. He knew he couldn’t safely drive. The mama bear within roared, and I declared, “Here is what we are going to do. We will stop and get gas, and I will grab some caffeine and snacks. You try to sleep, and I promise I will stop if I get too tired.” I had my first coca cola in ten years, grabbed some trail mix and chocolate, and loaded up several OnBeing podcasts. Krista Tippett and friends kept me company as we rolled down the highway. I was on a mission, and thankfully the caffeine kicked in.

My mom called a few times along the way. She had to access her own mom sense as she communicated with us. Since we were committed to stopping for the night if necessary, they didn’t want to sway that decision. But there was news from the ER doctors that pointed to the fact that this was more complex than a simple break. At one point, as we were about an hour away, she called to say that there were some complications that might lead to a return trip to the ER. I said, “Mom, we are going to drive right by the hospital, so we can meet you there if necessary.” She said she would follow the doctor’s suggestions, use her nursing skills, and do a few things to see if troublesome symptoms could be relieved.

About ten miles from home just as we crossed the county line, freezing rain began to fall from the sky. As we looked toward the other side of the divided highway, we saw vehicles slipping and sliding all over the bridges. I immediately slowed to a crawl. Rolling through red lights and doing all I could to avoid sliding, we crept toward home. I told Mark, “Call my mom and tell her not to move.” Visions of my parents heading out in this crazy weather danced through my head.

I don’t think I have ever been so relieved to arrive at a destination. I checked in with my girl, hugged my mom as I received all of the instructions and concerns of the previous nine hours,  and sent my mom off to bed. I then had the privilege of caring for my girl during a difficult night. She got to tell me her story of seventh grade boys chasing girls and girls chasing boys in pursuit of a snatched cell phone that led to her fall. I held her and repositioned the painful arm over and over throughout the night. Finally, sleep descended for a few hours upon each of us.

The next morning my father spoke words of encouragement. “You and Mark sure do have good instincts about your kids.” I think that was his way of saying, “Thank God you got back when you did!” I have pondered his comment, and the truth is that the road to good instincts is complicated.

This week I find myself pulling from the kitchen cabinet a mug that was gifted to me almost thirty years ago by a dear friend. A bit chipped and scratched up, it displays the words, “new mommy.” My friend and I have grown our mama sense alongside each other over many years. I believe that a portion of good instincts was granted to me at the birth of our first child. But at the same time, my mom sense requires cultivation and attention as it continues to develop through hard work and over many years.

As I navigated the five days since this crazy Friday evening, my mama sense has directed me to be intentional in one particular matter. Self-care. Sleep, healthy food, exercise, and relaxation rituals have risen to the top of my priorities even though this is typically one of the busiest weeks of the year. Many holiday traditions have given way to phone calls, research, forms filled out, surgeon consultations, and second opinions. In the midst of such tasks, I have also done my best to be mindful of the emotional needs of the two children that reside in our home. All of this only happens as I take good care of myself. For me, a self-care focus did not arrive at the birth of my first child. It made itself known after failure and much hard work..

For my daughter, this is not her first surgery rodeo. In many ways, this led to increased anxiety since she knows the drill. We have had many moments of talking, reassuring, and reflecting of feelings big and small. I am invited to be intentional in relationship in the midst of a myriad of details and decisions. This is possible only because I prioritize self-care in the midst of craziness and chaos.

Early this morning, surgery day, sleep eluded me. I got up, turned on the gas fire, curled up in a blanket, and began writing. I then headed to an early morning yoga class. Setting an intention is a critical act when on the yoga mat. Today’s intention was to be a mom who is present to her children. It was coupled with a prayer for peace of mind and healing for my daughter. Then I came home to accompany my girl and my husband to the hospital.

In days ahead as Christmas comes and goes and my girl begins a long recovery, both mama sense and intention are in order. I will do all in my power to make space to care for myself so that I can offer the same to those who are counting on me. I have learned the hard way that this is the only way I want to move through all of the ups and downs of life.

PS We are happy that brother and sister-in-law reinforcements arrive tomorrow morning. We will all be very happy to see them. Blessings to you and your family during this holiday season.

 

When I am 86

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Not too terribly long ago, my parents moved into a retirement community just over twenty miles from my home. A few days ago I made the forty-minute drive to accompany them to a parent and adult child gathering. This get together came to be as two daughters navigated health issues and transitions alongside their aging moms. They became friends and support for each other, and they wanted to extend this possibility to others who may one day be in the same situation. Though my own parents are on the younger side of the crowd, watching my mom care for my now almost ninety-eight year old grandmother is instructive. So many of my peers find themselves in challenging care-taking roles with their parents.

At the reception, I met a number of interesting and engaging people from both generations. But one particular conversation resonated with me and has captured my imagination.

 

Daughter: “We recently moved my parents from a small house into a one bedroom apartment after Mom had some serious health issues. See my dad over there. He is eighty-six years old. He has trouble walking. We ended up being the ones to go through all of their stuff in an unexpectedly hurry-up period of time. My husband is a teacher and had some time off. He tackled my dad’s closet. One day while I was at work, he called me and said, ‘why in the world does your dad still have scuba gear, ice skates, and cowboy boots?!’ I said, welllll actually, I think it is snorkeling gear.”

Me: “Well, did your dad want to keep any of those things? (I fully expected her to respond with either ‘no’ or cowboy boots.)

Daughter: “Yes, the ice skates.”

Me: I chuckled and then said, “You have given me something to think on and ponder.”

 

I shared this story with a friend who commented, “denial.” Maybe so. But I have also wondered if the ice skates represent something else. Maybe they hold the memory of a special moment or signify a hard fought battle to learn something new or contain echoes of a long ago childhood or championship or . . .

As someone living in my mid-fifties, I realize that in the matter of “living life as a senior adult,” I am up next. What will be my ice skates? Maybe the shelves and shelves of well-loved books or certain shoes that help me feel tall and beautiful. It is hard to know right now, but if I live long enough, the day will certainly arrive. Thrift stores are full of once prized crystal and china that for some represent days gone by of beautiful holidays and parties. While these are not my particular “thing,” I am quite sure that my version of ice skates will make itself known.

 

 

Letting go of material things is symbolic. As we age, our lives focus into smaller spaces, often both literally and figuratively. Downsizing requires the culling of things that once played practical or sentimental roles along the story paths of our lives. Reduced energy and mobility invite us to prioritize our time and choices in an ever more focused way. When I am eighty-six, I wonder which things that I can hold in my hands will matter most.

 

+++ What are your ice skate moments with your aging parents or yourself. I would love to hear your story.

Darkness and Light

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5

I went reluctantly. The day before, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, was a sad day. It almost always feels that way to me. I cherish the time with family - the relaxed rituals of food and football and game playing. There is much laughter and connection and memory made during our Thanksgiving days. I always feel a Sunday melancholy. I know well the hustle and bustle that so often are a part of the weeks to follow.

Monday morning offered three plus hours in a contemplative space. It is a monthly invitation to spend quiet, reflective, holy time with fellow sisters. Despite my sometimes reluctance to dedicate a morning to the pursuit of silence and contemplation, I almost always leave satisfied. Monday was no exception.

After thirty minutes of silence experienced within community, these words were spoken: “In the darkness, we may be pushed to make changes in our lives that we would never have considered otherwise. We may be forced to look at hidden wounds and inner issues that we had always been able to shove aside. We may be led to appreciate life and our gifts at a much deeper level. Most always, the womb of darkness is a catalyst for creativity and for a deeper relationship with God. Always it is a time for trust in the transformative process and for faith that something worthwhile is to be gained by our waiting in the dark.”*

I wholeheartedly agree and have lived the truth of these words. Yet there is also something within that fiercely fights against the idea of ever returning to such darkness. I prefer to live in the light.

On Sunday, my post-Thanksgiving doldrums were not just the regular sadness I feel when parts of my family separate out and away to their various places. That particular day also cast shadows of a years ago dark time within myself and my family. Things happened on Sunday that beckoned my memory back to a time and place that I desire never to repeat. Despite the healing and grace that I received as a result of that season of darkness, it is most difficult to imagine a return to that place. 

Within Monday’s contemplative space, an invitation was issued. Choose a bulb, the oversized seed of a promised flower, and push it deep down into a crèche filled with black, rich soil.  After spending time in the darkness where unseen forces are at work, a green stalk will one day push up through the dirt and enter the light. In time, flowers will offer beauty to all who behold them.

 

I accepted the invitation. I pushed my bulb deep into the loamy soil. My hands got dirty. Most often that is necessary before darkness turns to light.

During this advent season, we wait in darkness. Secret, mysterious forces are at work. The light is coming. 

* written by Marilyn Bender, former co-pastor of Raleigh Mennonite Church


The day I cried at yoga

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Very early this morning, after a mere two hours of sleep, my anxiety woke me. After watching the end to an awful and divisive presidential election, rest mostly eluded me. I have made no secret of my own particular leanings this year. I felt devastated as the reality of an ending that almost no one predicted rolled out over hours. How the hell am I going to explain this to my daughters? They have heard with their own ears the way that this president-elect speaks about women and immigrants and people with disabilities and… “Will my Muslim friend now be deported?” “Is he really going to build a wall?” “Mom, I am afraid.”

So I headed to a place where I most often find peace. The yoga room. My teacher walked in with intention. She almost sounded like a drill sergeant as she grasped for words of response to the early morning news. I imagine that she leaned the same way that I did – most yoga instructors probably did. She reminded us of the sacred community in our midst on several occasions. We focused on heart opening exercises. At one point, she had us balance multiple times on each foot. There was so much wobbling all around.

Toward the end of class, she said, “I invite you to join in the river of the room.” We all lined up right in the middle as she instructed us to put our hands on the shoulder of our neighbor. Then we balanced once again. “How does this feel differently when we lean on and support each other?” It was like night and day. I was at ease and knew that my neighbor would not let me fall down. Cleansing tears were released to flow down my face. I have never before cried during yoga.

My greatest concern with this president-elect is how he has normalized the speaking out loud of things racist and misogynistic and hate-filled. Yesterday, I listened to the story of a Vietnamese adoptee who passed by one of his political rallies on her college campus, and his supporters felt the freedom to yell at her “go back where you came from.” She was shaken to the core. She looks very much like my daughters.

The sludge of human prejudice that we all battle inside has been emboldened to shoot out loud from mouths more freely and without pushback from those who know better. We are closing our ears and our hearts to those we deem “other.” I want to be able to tolerate the voices of the “others” in my life, but when that which is being spoken is filled with contempt and hatred, I draw a line. I will not be silent.

I will continue to return to the river that my yoga instructor invited me to this morning. When my daughters looked at me this morning with fear and confusion, I hugged them and said, “We will love and support each other, we will love our neighbors, we will love God, and we will move forward.” When a man with skin tones different than my own arrived to work at my home this morning, he said, “you were up late last night, weren’t you?” We hugged each other. For this day and this moment as well as any challenging ones ahead, I will do my best to stand in the river.