Grace at the Lake

I didn't want to go.

In fact, if I could have reverted to my small child self...I might have had a tantrum and just refused to move.

Another week-end.

Another soccer tournament.

I am over it.

I should know better.

I got into the car on a Friday night and began a three hour trek into the mountains.

My 12 year old grabbed the cell phone and made a comment about how I needed a better phone.

What?

She complained about the car we were in.

She didn't like my music.

I didn't like her vibe.

As I sat in traffic, I fumed.

I couldn't take one more millisecond of the ingratitude.

I lost it.

Like a surveyor, I reminded her of the topographical lines of her life...the deepest blessings coming first...

Did you notice that you're healthy?

That I'm healthy?

That we have a car to drive?

That we have gas in the car?

We have the amazing ability to spend a week-end playing soccer?

You have a mom who is willing to devote a week-end to soccer?

That we are together when so many moms and daughters don't get that chance?

As I assailed her with her blessings...

the boomerang effect took place.

Hey, Beth, are you listening to yourself?

Stop your complaining and start noticing.

As we meandered at dusk through the mountains, the reset button was pushed.

We stopped for dinner and we both took a deep breath...

we inhaled the scent of the pines...

it was going to be okay.

We had a soccer game at a high school where giant pines surround the field.

I tripped over a giant root and noticed extra large pine cones...

the sky was a shade of blue that made me consider paint colors:

Cobalt

Cerulean

Cornflower

True Blue

Azure

After some weeks of fires and smoke near me, the color of the sky was a long lost friend.

We had a break and some time until the next game.

Some moms had rented a cabin together so they invited the team to hang out there.

We walked into a welcome where the team cheered when Caroline came in.

She had been injured in the game - a serious bonk to the head - and her team, in that moment,  let her know that she mattered.

I could see her body relax...comfortably finding a spot at the big table to paint a few paper flowers.

Parents were tracing flowers, cutting flowers, making paint and paintbrushes available to anyone -

it was an anthill of effort.

The flowers were for our coach, who had lost his mother during the week.

The hand-painted flowers would be a perpetual bouquet for Coach Mike...

a way for 12 year old girls to say:

We see you going through this hard thing...we are so sorry...we are sending love and friendship.

I was so humbled watching these mothers (and fathers) showing their daughters how to love someone through something hard.

I picked up a tracer and a pencil and swallowed hard.

These parents were strangers to me...

but they were mothering my daughter...

right in front of my eyes.

Their love was better than any ice pack.

She was given the gift of thinking of someone else...

the gift of doing good with paper and paint.

Together, we were reminded that it is so often the simplest acts of kindness that last.

After another soccer game, we had the grim consideration of dinner for 40.

How would that work?

What restaurant would serve us?

Instead, another group of moms opened up their cabin...and told us all to bring a little something.

Something turned into quite the banquet.

Moms know how to feed their people.

The girls devoured bowls of pasta, while the adults ate tasty tidbits and watched with wonder more flowers being painted...the designs getting more intricate and beautiful with each effort.

The cabin was at the edge of Lake Tahoe and so the team wandered down to the lake...the girls swam and the sun did its downward dance...gilding the sky...reminding us that this ordinary holiness...this beauty of light...tattoos our world every day for the briefest of moments.

Against the backdrop of waves and feet buried in sand and a chill in the air and a purplish dusk, a group of moms talked about family and the challenges that go with helping our girls grow up...we talked writing and teaching blanketing over the real messages of care and love.

One mom echoed what we all were feeling:

how grateful she was that her daughter was surrounded by these moms (and dads)

...she called it a clan...

a tribe...

an echo from the times when grandmothers and aunties and cousins and others watched over the little ones and made sure it was all as it should be.

In that last little breath of light before the dark, my heart was full.

She was exactly right.

This team has traversed the territory of strangers on the sidelines and moved to a higher plane:

 a community that cares.

It was seemingly effortless...but it wasn't.

It took one mom to consider the coach and find a way for 12 year olds to deal with grief.

It took another mom to open her cabin.

It took moms and dads to buy food and take the time to make food and create 

a space that welcomed everyone.

It took coaches who had loosened their control on the team for something organic to grow.

It took problem solvers to figure out seating and clean up and all sorts of other glitches.

It took effort.

There, at Lake Tahoe in the middle of a soccer tournament, grace was in abundance.

I didn't have a cabin to offer...

I brought very little food...

I didn't bring art supplies or any ideas.

I pretty much was on the sidelines just watching the miracle unfold.

I guess I'll be the recorder.

When's the next tournament?

Rainbow Ribbon

Let me be clear...I have an irrational love of ribbons in little girls' hair.

And JoAnn Fabrics feeds my addiction nicely.

We have basketball ribbon and valentine ribbon and Santa Claus ribbon...you get the idea.

Wrapping Caroline's ponytail with a ribbon and sending her off into the world makes me feel like she has a love letter attached...my special version of the kiss-in-the-palm mom love from that adorable book, The Kissing Hand.

And when you're in 3rd grade you're nearing the end of the ribbon-in-the-hair era...although I do have to say that sometimes if you're lucky there can be a bit of a resurgence in junior high or even high school for a brief moment.

Anyway, I fixed her hair into our usual tiny braid and then ponytail combo and placed my 

Rainbow Ribbon...my heart was happy.

I kissed her good-bye at school and whispered my 2015 words of wisdom to her, "Remember Caroline, "no matter how small", remember it, find a way to do it. Make it a great day. I love you."

No matter how small.

Based on this quote...and the truth of it.

So I sent her off.
To her little school...with her cousins and friends...saying The Pledge of Allegiance...
working on multiplication (we're struggling with our 4's)...
reading and thinking and learning and navigating our world.

Only to receive an email at noon that let me know her school was locked down.
Everyone was safe I assured.

Why?

Agonizing minutes later it was revealed via social media that a bomb threat had been made to another local elementary school that was very very close to Caroline's school.

A bomb threat?
To an elementary school?

Those 4 times tables are really bugging you??

What on earth?

Now I am a teacher and I did live through lockdowns at my old school...but we worked near a prison where prisoners escaped and where helicopters searched and well, it (kind of) made sense.
And that was WAY before social media and seeing things unfold in real time.

Our parents often didn't know a lockdown occurred at all.

In 2015, I was part of a group text almost immediately.
Scared parents were sharing information.
Reassuring each other.
It was beautiful.
And awful.

I just wanted my Rainbow Ribboned Girlie next to me.
So did everyone else.

I received this email from Caroline's teacher...the whole class did...in the middle of the lockdown...

"I just wanted to let you all know that we are doing very well and are safe in our classroom. The students are aware that something is wrong in the community and that they are in the safest place, besides their own homes, they can be. This morning, we conducted science experiments which included ice cream, marshmallows, fruit loops, chocolate, graham crackers and much more so, along with their lunches, we have plenty to eat! We will continue to reassure them and keep the afternoon fun."

***** 

I know I've said it before but
TEACHERS ARE HEROES

This teacher might have been feeling just a little bit of concern for her own two children...
but we didn't know it.

I got tears in my eyes.

To be so brave.
So kind.
So loving.
So focused.
In the middle of confusion and uncertainty...
honestly, there is no other word other than hero.

The other elementary school was evacuated in less than 30 minutes time.
Lunch was provided by local high school students
and teachers and anybody else who could pitch in.
Those teachers tried to keep a sense of calm and security and safety outside...
in a park...with a bomb squad checking out their school.
MORE HEROES. MORE AND MORE.

So if you haven't stopped and thanked a teacher lately...you might want to do just that...
or a principal, or a school secretary, or a janitor, or a lunch lady, or in our case, the lunch guy.

YOU, my friends, are the real deal.
Made of the right stuff.
Living examples of what we hope our kids might be when they grow up.

Thank you.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your cool heads, your big hearts and your courage.

"No matter how small" turned into "no matter how BIG" on Thursday.

The Leap

When Patrick was born I was convinced that my world had just grown smaller.
Shrunken to such a small spot that I was certain I would never make another friend.

I cried about that loss.

Sorry for myself and my baby that wouldn't have any friends.

Only one word can claim that moment: irony.

Hey 1999 Beth, I'd like to fill you in on a little secret: you got it all backwards.

The truth is that the connections that have happened because of Patrick are literally in the hundreds.

The friendships we've made are constant and so utterly unlikely that only in the weirdest, most cosmically perfect way does any of it make sense.

It takes a leap of faith...and certainty in the net.

*****

Years ago I heard about an amazing organization called Camp PALS.

Jenni Newbury Ross started the camp at age 15 with a friend.
Her idea: stop having situations where typical people come to "serve" the poor and disadvantaged people with Down Syndrome.
Blow apart the myth that people with Down Syndrome need your pity.
Come as a person willing to make a new friend.
Find fun things to do together, as a group, as teams and in partners so that you get to really know the person and hopefully, in all the fun, the disability falls away and you have the joy of just knowing someone new.

That was eleven years ago.

Today, Camp PALS has six camps offered throughout the summer all across the United States.
Campers come from all over and counselors do too.
Counselors and campers are paired up one to one and share a dorm room on a university campus.
Together they spend a week, having a blast.
Karaoke  is usually a nightly event.  Singing and dancing happen spontaneously.
Fun is a given.

So, in January I signed Patrick up for Camp PALS Chicago and asked my friend who lives in
New Jersey if she would want to have her daughter go too.

Last week, we met in Chicago and traveled to adorable Elmhurst College, and received this welcome.

Their theme: "This is your place."

We had no idea how it would go...it was a leap of faith,
a best guess, a wish and a whole lot of crossed fingers. 

Turns out it was like so many things on this amazing journey of loving someone with Down Syndrome.
It was way better than we ever could have imagined.
Magical.

What are the five things that everyone at Camp PALS values?
They are welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun.

Pretty great trademark qualities.
Everybody I met had them in spades.

I wanted to hang out there, but I wasn't invited.
And knowing my mom-place, I said good-bye as cheerfully as possible and made my way back to the city of Chicago for a seven day wait.

It goes without saying that Patrick had a blast.

Chandler and Patrick, friends forever.

But more than having fun, Patrick found out what it felt like to be part of a group that is welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun...wait, he's those things too.
Maybe, Jenni took a look at her brother, Jason, (who has Down Syndrome) when she was looking for important qualities in the people she wanted to represent Camp PALS.
As a sibling, she knew the secret: if the outside world could really know Jason as a friend,
the world would be a better place.

Here's a Camp PALS classic:  one of the days of camp was Camp Day at a  AAA baseball game.  Tons of other camp groups were there besides Camp PALS.  Suddenly, there was a downpour.  Everyone had to take cover.  The other camps were counting off, trying to line up and be orderly.  The Camp PALS group just started dancing in a circle and singing...giving everyone in the group a chance to shine...encouraging them by naming them in the song.  Some kids from other camps came up to the dancing circle and asked what camp this was and when could they sign up. :)

Together we're better.

*****

I want to thank Camp PALS for the extraordinary opportunity of an inclusive camp
filled with amazing people.
Thank you for the long hours of hard work behind the scenes to make everything run so smoothly.
Thank you for the incredible photos, the inspiring videos, the texts during the week to let us know it was all going great.

Thank you for your gracious hospitality.

Thank you for making it really "their place" and for giving a whole bunch of people the chance to come together in friendship and fun....a chance for independence and inspiration...a chance to dream of what the future could be like.

Most importantly, thank you for following your gut and working to make our world more inclusive -- more welcoming, accepting, passionate, genuine and fun...qualities I'm gonna focus on for a while thanks to you.

Thank you for being our net.
You're amazing.

My Hero

"Heroes don't look like they used to, they look like you."

--Nothing More by Alternate Routes

One of my heroes is Sue Buckley.

You probably have never heard of her.

She's an older woman, slight in stature, well-spoken and honest.

Gut level, clear and sometimes brazen.

She's also British.  

So whatever she has to say, no matter how hard to swallow, feels like it has a spoonful of sugar to help it go down.

Her intelligence, her drive and her careful research

 have reformed education for people with disabilities across the UK.

Yes, folks, that entire country places their students with disabilities in regular ordinary classrooms first.

Support is given.  Intention and careful planning go into it. 

Students succeed.

If I had to distill Sue's message into a soundbite it would be this:

People with disabilities deserve an ordinary life.

Life with their family.  

Life with a significant other when they grow up.  

Life with a good education so that you can have the means to have an ordinary job.

A full, ordinary life.

That's all she wants --

and yet, it's revolutionary in so many places.

This week-end I had the privilege of hearing Sue speak

and advocate

and share her vision.

She was stern.

Indicting all parents who let their child with special needs have poor behavior.

She was funny.

Sharing stories and attempts at searching for this ordinary life for her own daughter.

She was incredibly articulate.

Reminding all of us of how important it is to strive for inclusion and why it matters.

She was bold.

Creating educational models that can be replicated easily and aren't costly, basing it all in research.

****

There, among the crowds of people yesterday, were new parents.  They were holding their tiny babies with Down Syndrome and being washed in acceptance.

It must have felt like a baptism for them.

There were educators who have dedicated their entire lives to the vision of full inclusion...renewing their vows, so to speak, redoubling their efforts, reaffirming just how important this work is.

There were parents who hold close Sue's vision too.

Clinging to her every word.

Spontaneously clapping.

Crying silent tears in agreement and urgency.

There is no time to waste.

And then there was my crew...

mothers of children with Down Syndrome who know in their souls and hearts that the efforts to fully include children with disabilities in Catholic schools is a sacred mission divinely guided.

We were from mostly California...

Napa, Davis, Manhattan Beach, Sacramento, Roseville, Costa Mesa.

But we had friends from Arizona.

And a mom from St. Louis, Missouri who out of desperation formed a Facebook group a year ago that has grown and ricocheted across all sorts of places and created a tidal wave of energy with it.

It was a shout into the void.

And people answered.

She jumped on a plane to be with her tribe and it was right.

Exactly right.

Thrilling.

For both nights that we ate out as a group,

a child with Down Syndrome that was unknown to us came up to our group...

two different kids

hugging us,

reminding us, 

encouraging us in our mission.

My friend, Michelle, called it a "God-cident".

It was like a sprinkle of fairy dust.

Or the slightest whisper of love.

Or the sparkling rocks that guide your way on a dark path.

Any way you describe it, those children felt heaven-sent.

As I watched Sue, 

I thought of these mothers who have no formal program, 

who have nobody funding it, 

no real guidance -- except each other --

who only have the very same desire that Sue has...

a chance for an ordinary life for their child with Down Syndrome, 

learning alongside of his/her siblings, 

making Communion and Reconciliation and Confirmation in their faith community,

singing in the Christmas pageant, 

playing kickball and basketball

just like anybody else.

On my way down Jamboree Road in Newport Beach, a song came on the radio.

I was all alone when I heard these words:

To be humble, to be kind.

It is the giving of the peace in your mind.

To a stranger, To a friend

To give in such a way that it has no end.

We are Love.

We are One.

We are how we treat each other when the day is done.

We are Peace.

We are War.

We are how we treat each other and Nothing More.

Another whisper...another arrow pointing the way.

How we treat each other and nothing more.

Let us remember the heroes,

unsung, 

humble and kind,

who show us how to treat each other

and nothing more.

For us, those heroes have names:

Patrick, Chris, Gretchen, Thomas, CJ, Raymond, John Michael and Adam.

Mia, Savannah, KC and Roberta.

They want an ordinary life.

They are full of ordinary grace.

It is our job to make it happen.

Let's do it.

Our revolution is under way.

Join us.

Keep Me In Your Heart For Awhile

"One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship 

is to understand and to be understood."  

-- Lucius Anneaus Seneca

When you have a baby born with a disability, you enter a different world.  

I like to think of it as a parallel universe.

The outside world audibly gasps.  

There is the smog of pity that envelopes you and makes it difficult to breathe.

There are the many, many people who carefully, tenderly, kindly give you the "I'm so sorry," look or even utter those poisonous words out loud.

I want to scream, "Sorry for what?" 

Sorry for this perfect snuggly bundle?

This is the object of your sorrys???

I'd look down and it did not compute.

I was on the inside now.

Looking out at the world with this new view, it was as if I discovered the horizon line.

Everything made sense.

The things that the outside world cared about -- speed and intellect and perfection -- 

suddenly fell away like shingles off of an old roof.  

None of that mattered now.

What was essential, like Antoine de Saint-Exupery's famous quote, was invisible to the eye.

On the inside, I could only see with my heart.

Once your world is like this, you try to search for others.

Like some lost tribe that is scattered, they are hard to find.

In my town, not a single other child was born with Down Syndrome the year Patrick was born.

I could find no one locally.

So, in 1999, with the internet as an infant, I logged on and tried to find my tribe.

They were there.

I went to the National Association for Down Syndrome. 

There I found a discussion board and a way to meet other families with children with Down Syndrome. I could post a question and people would answer right away.

It was therapeutic and comforting and life-changing.  I no longer felt alone.

Within a few months, I found another board called ParentsPlace.  It doesn't exist any more -- some big company bought it out and changed the format -- but at the time it was my tribe.

I connected with families that had children close to Patrick's age.  Some lived in California but others lived across the United States, in Canada and even in Israel.  It was awesome!

As the years kept on, we would talk about meeting each other "in real life".  We called it an IRL.  

We dreamed of it, fantasized about it, idealized it and then reality forced our hand.

One of our own was sick, real sick.

Annette who had Ryan and lived in Canada had cancer.  Her diagnosis was grim.

Our friend Jan who lived in Indiana was willing to host anyone who could get to Indianapolis.  We would come out for the Buddy Walk in October and hope that Annette and family could make it too.

The year was 2007.

I had been communicating with these moms online since 2000, sending Christmas cards, cheering at the victories of their kids, praying through the difficulties but never had I met them in person.

I took Patrick out of school, convinced John to take time off of work to watch Caroline and deal with the bigger kids, and we went on an adventure to the middle of America.

I was nervous but so so excited.

I couldn't believe that I was going to meet Tara Marie and Emma Sage from New Jersey and Stephanie and Katie from New Jersey and Rhonda from Omaha and Nicole and Tarenne from Kentucky and Jan and Jeff and Nash from Noblesville, Indiana (and so many more!) 

IN PERSON.

It was a dream come true.

And a leap of faith.

I mean...who just jumps on a plane and plans to stay in a friend's house when you've never even talked to them on the phone??

Someone who has found their tribe.

For me, it made perfect sense...but for the outside world, not so much.

I will never forget getting out of my rental car with Patrick to meet Jan for the first time.

Her laugh and her, "You're so much taller in real life!" Meeting her sweet husband, Jeff, and their son Nash and then meeting so many others was so so beautiful.  I still get chills thinking about it.

And then there was the bittersweet reason, meeting Annette.

Nothing could hide the brutality that there was an urgency to our finally meeting.

There was no soft place to land.

I met Annette and her husband Tom and her son Ryan and their other son and no longer could use the distance as my shield.

Right here.  Right now.  This was happening.

For those of us on the inside, we know about the odds and life's little twists and turns.  We know that the hand can get crappy and you might not have any cards to play...but this was just plain cruel.

Life didn't make sense...but we somehow had to stop thinking about the future and live, really live, in the moment, in these few days we had together.

And live we did! 

Annette and I enjoying the day!

Annette was strong and happy and seizing the day.

How could we help it?

All of us had a comfort and a kismet that needed no words.

If our kids acted up or did something unusual, we all got it.  

It was a level of acceptance and friendship that was something I had never experienced before.

Partway through the walk Patrick refused to keep walking.  

Just quit.  

Any other place I would be mortified, cajoling, bribing,and otherwise working like crazy to get him to keep walking.  Here, another mom, offered me her stroller.  Patrick plopped in and Brig (one of the oldest kids with Down Syndrome in our group) pushed him.  Just like that, problem solved.

Thank you, Brig!

After the walk, we went back to Jan's.
We celebrated our children "with a little bit extra" -- the reason for our friendship -- and our hearts.
We talked into the night.  We played with the kids.
We gossiped and watched love bloom between Brig and Hannah (they are still going strong today!) and mostly felt the comfort of friendship, the cloak of acceptance, the fleece blanket of love.

It was a remarkable week-end.
One I will always cherish.
All thanks to Jan and the others who decided to make it real.

Just a few weeks later, we got word that Annette had passed away.

It felt so sudden and shocking.
We were breathless and bereft.
How??

Jan and Shannon offered to attend the funeral on our behalf.   They would speak for us.
Together they would show our love in person.
The outside world might not get it, but Tom would.

Six years later, my soul sister Tara Marie reminded me of that awful, beautiful time.
She toasted us tonight --
echoing the words of Warren Zevon's song, Keep Me In Your Heart For Awhile.

Annette, there is no doubt, you are in our hearts.
Always. And for more than awhile...forever.
We miss you.
We honor you.
We love you.

Most of all, I cherish the hours I got to spend with you...fleeting and fragile...
a reminder for how to live every day.
Minute by minute.
Smiling and full of life.

Like Oxygen

"Smile, breathe and go slowly." -- Thich Nhat Hanh

My sister, Mary Claire, and my mom, Linda -- December 2012

For the past few days I've been reading about other people's mothers.  They've distilled their mom's wisdom into some bits and pieces.  They were able to list particular traits or sayings that their mother's had that were carefully passed on to them.

I tried to think of personality traits of my mom's.  I tried to see if I could chunk out the wisdom. 

I decided that it was impossible.

The presence of my mother is like oxygen.

I simply know it is there.  I take it for granted.  I never consider what it must be like to have no oxygen. I try to take deep breaths and acknowledge the ever present, life-affirming place that oxygen plays in my world but that's as far as I get.

I don't want to consider gasping or begging for oxygen.

So...for today, again, I'm not going to.

Call me childish.  Call me foolish.  

I accept it.

I need my oxygen.

I will however share here a few things that oxygen has given me.

1) The giggle: if you have enough oxygen, you have enough air in those lungs to giggle.  My mom is the best giggler I know.  You actually CANNOT get her going or she will not stop.  It gets awkward and embarrassing...especially in mass.  We have been the recipients of many evil eyes, trust me.

2) The snack: if you have oxygen, then you will need a snack.  Guaranteed.  If you are out of sorts, you are probably hungry.  If you are going on a trip, however short, you MUST have snacks.  If you are on a road trip and don't bring a cooler full of treats well then you have shirked your God-given duty.

3) The ability to choose the right pen -- it's always about the right pen.  If you have enough oxygen, then you have the ability to consider your pen options.  Color coordinate your written word with your stationery, please.  It's the least you can do.  It really does make an impression.

4) The love note: with oxygen, you can definitely find the time to write a little note on a napkin.  It doesn't have to be fancy.  A little "Isle of View" (say it fast) and you're good to go.

5) The ability to enjoy my freedom: Get out there and do something with that oxygen.  Go see something.  Go visit someone. Cheer for your team.  Make the most of it and get going.

6) The chance to be nice:  if you can breathe, well then, you can be nice.  Simple as that.

7) Constancy: yep...I've never known life without oxygen.  Never struggled for it.  Never knew that you could fight for it and never know it.  

My world is full of my mom's amazing presence.  

She is always there, thinking of me, hoping for me, rooting for me. 

Today, I am grateful for my deep-filled lungs of oxygen...otherwise known as my mother's love.

Ready...breathe.

Inhale gratitude, exhale judgment.

I Love Mom

"Most of all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes and dozens and hundreds.  Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers, and sisters, aunts and cousins, but only one mother in the whole world." 
                                           -- Kate Douglas Wiggin


So, yesterday I had my last work party for Caroline's preschool and it was bittersweet and wonderful as I scrubbed the fridge and cleaned off the rice table and in my heart tried to say good-bye and thank you to such a wonderful spot.  I came home and Caroline eagerly handed me a gift: an envelope decorated with hearts all around it ("a heart bracelet" according to her) and carefully folded inside was this note.  "I love mom. From Caroline" was all the text it carried...five words...and yet it profoundly changed my day.  


                                       I love mom.


I stopped and nuzzled those cherub cheeks.  I paused and looked into those curious eyes and I thanked the universe for such a gift. In that moment, I wanted to be worthy and ready and energized by that love. I wanted to erase all of the mistakes I've ever made in this job that is filled with contradictions.  As a mom you must be tough and gentle. Forgiving and Forgiven. Clever yet simple. You must guard their privacy and yet be responsible enough to know exactly what they are up to. You must be ever ready and present and yet able to live on the sidelines letting them go.  You must be the leader and the visionary until the moment your child embraces their own vision and needs you to follow.  You are the biggest cheerleader and the president of the fan club but judge and jury too.  It all comes down to that middle word: love.


And so, all day long even as the outside kept drizzling and the goo in my shower grossed me out and the house seemed messy and relentlessly unorganized, I flashed by to my bracelet hearts and those three words: I love mom. 

You know, there was a hand I grabbed as the tears started down my cheeks at Jack's Baccalaureate Mass and it wasn't John's...it was my mom's.  Somehow in that moment with no words, I knew I could hold her hand and get through.  I could watch Jack and feel the heartache that my world was changing and be comforted by her hand.  And with her unchanging presence and constant love, I was soothed.  It might not be a precipice I was standing on, hey, maybe it's a plateau.  Holding her hand, I was able to let in the thought: this is all right.  It is all good.  It is what you hope for and dream about and imagine...it's just that we don't know what the rest of the story looks like.  Stop.  Notice.  Feel.  It's going to be all right.


And so yesterday, as I enjoyed my Saturday with a heart bracelet glow, I wondered about how many times I have stopped and said: "I love mom."  Oh, I know.  I know.  I'm good about the Hallmark moments: the birthdays, the Christmases or Mother's Day moments.  But, when was the last heart bracelet I gave my mom?  When did she get from me a spontaneous, undeserved, uncalled for "I love mom"?  


Even with lymphoma (my mom's), retirement (dad's), two knee replacements (mom's) and assorted other Big Things, when did I just pause enough to let her know?  I'm embarrassed to say, not recently enough for my liking.  


So mom: here is an unsolicited heart bracelet just for you.  Here is my unabashed three word sentence:


                                          I love mom.


Thank you for your constancy, your care, your presence at the big moments and your presence in the little ones.  Thank you for your love in all of the many ways you show it: postcards on trips, 16 presents for a 16th birthday, copies of favorite photos, turkey sandwiches or the best chicken salad on a quick visit down for lunch, phone calls, letters, emails and yes, even the endless "pearls".  I am so grateful you are nearby and present and get it.  I love mom and I'm blessed as can be to get to tell you now when it really matters.