A Love Letter

"Cooking is love made visible." 

              -- Anonymous

John loves food and the whole food cycle.  He loves where it comes from, he loves blending flavors and dreaming up tasty combinations, he loves preparing and planning and pleasing the palate. He writes his love letters with ingredients and recipes.  John "plates" a dinner with the same love, talent and raw emotion as a Shakespearean sonnet or a Hank Aaron home-run.

Christmas Eve dinner is a culinary event at our house.  John has slowly trained his two (and often a third) sous-chefs and they cook with abandon.  They bring out creativity, enthusiasm and delicious medleys of taste that last in our household conversation for a year. Jack and Mary Kate have now moved into full fledged chef status themselves and often create signature taste sensations of their own: home-made pasta, strawberry country cake, or brie/tart apple/arugula and turkey sandwich to name a few of the ones happening now.

So, it was almost inevitable that John would create a special good-bye dinner for Jack before he headed off to college.  He asked for recommendations of favorites and worked feverishly to create something memorable -- some way to show Jack just how very loved he was.

He started out with a rack of lamb and created an incredible sauce to glaze the lamb.  Our house smells like heaven for the hour it is cooking and puts us all in a good mood.  Suddenly, we realize that Mary Kate has a late driving lesson on this Sunday and so we decide to delay dinner and snack for a bit.  The salad is imagined and realized with grapefruit, green beans, beets, fennel and the insane home-made croutons with some goat cheese spread that should be outlawed. I try not to notice the rice with tiny bits of fried pasta being prepared under my nose. Comfort food, Christmas Eve and Creativity are woven together to create a palate of magnificence.

But the hour is getting late, the natives are getting restless and things start unwinding quickly. The lamb is undercooked, by chunks of time, not moments of time.  The rice is crunchy -- an unheard of humiliation for a rice farming family. The salad is obliterated and the grapefruit looks like it has been stirred by the Jolly Green Giant. Patrick and Caroline are disinterested and annoying since they have long ago passed the point of hunger and snacked their way to complete satisfaction.

The moment isn't right.  We crunch our croutons and feel the love.  We meander our way and find some portions of the lamb that will work.  We scoop up some rice and ignore the crunch.  But I watch John cringe and shrug and wipe his face.  He wanted it perfect and it was so far from perfect that it was -- almost -- laughable.  His disappointment is palpable.

In that moment, a slide show begins: I taste the countless hamburgers and hotdogs, barbecued chicken and flank steaks that John has cooked his whole life.  I see him side by side with Jack chopping onions, celery and carrots in a french mirepoix. I can smell the tomatoes, garlic and onions bubbling to meld into the most delicious coulee on the planet.  I feel the comfort foods he has shared, developed and I see his love made visible over and over again.

I want to tell him that none of this matters. That it's just a dinner gone bust and that we'll get another chance.  I want to hug him and hold him and love him but I also know that that is the last thing he wants.

What he doesn't know is that by flopping big time for all to see...for swinging for the fences and striking out and holding it together and finding his balance and keeping a wistful smile on his face, he showed Jack something much more important.  He showed him how to be a gentle, kind man just loving his family.

Jack knows about food.  He knows about tantalizing gourmet moments.  Up until this meal, he might not have noticed that you can blow it apart, falter and still be graceful as well. Sunday's dinner, I guess, was supposed to be more than a taste treat.  It was a love letter with a PS.

PS  Jack, we will mess it up and it will still be OK.
PS  Jack, when you mess up, you can do it too: just take a deep breath and keep it together.  Find your balance again.
PS  Life isn't always about the sweet and satisfying moments. The bitter ones come too -- but with a smile and a crunchy crouton and your family, it can't be all bad.
PS  Jack, we love you.

The Milestone...6 Years Later

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it." -- Helen Keller

Six years ago, a miracle occurred in the Foraker household: Patrick ended all treatment for Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia on August 2, 2005.  That date was chosen by a computer.  Yes, our fate was sealed by a number crunching machine that decided that after three plus years of chemo, Patrick's body was ready to be done.  That would be the end mark to all chemo coursing through his body, all spinal taps to put chemo in his spinal fluid to attack the blood/brain barrier that so often carries a stealth cancer cell or two and creates brain cancer, all monthly doctor appointments and monthly (or weekly) blood draws.  It was the date for freedom and boy, did we wish for it, hope for it, pray for it.  It was the end of 1,172 days of treatment and anguish and fear.

Looking forward to that day, Jack and Mary Kate and of course John and I wanted to celebrate in a big way but we didn't know how.  We wanted to throw a gigantic party but got scared that we might be tempting fate and decided not to.  We wanted to sing and dance and live loud that day and we created all sorts of must-include songs on our imagined playlist.  The first: "Celebrate!" by Kool and the Gang.  If you don't know that song...here it is in all it's celebratory glory.  Enjoy!

Kool and the Gang Celebrate!

But again, we got fearful thinking it might be too good to be true.  At the time,  Jack and Mary Kate loved to draw with chalk and so we created a fundraiser/celebration called "Chillin' with Chalk".  We held it in our town's Central Park.  We had buckets of chalk, invited our friends and asked for donations for anyone at the Farmer's Market who would like to have some chalk and decorate the park too.  We ended up raising about $500 and gave that entirely to Patrick's health team and told them to host a Victory Dinner for everyone involved in Patrick's care on our dime.  We gave them explicit instructions to go to their favorite restaurant and live it up.  And, we also gave each one of them a Life is Good T-shirt, our required uniform for anyone participating in Chillin' with Chalk.  Life is Good  

Auntie Claire created a beautiful chalk drawing of Patrick, Jack and Mary Kate.  Erin drew a sunshine.  Grandma and Papa drew a life-sized purple Barney.  Friends and family came a great distance to get their hands messy and write their messages from their hearts on a cement path in a park.  Those who were far away drew in chalk at their homes and posted their pictures to us on the computer.  I remember coming home dirty and tired, opening my email and seeing picture after picture of celebration from long distance. It was a day full of love and hope and yes, joyful tears.

We celebrated but in a careful way.  We wanted to be mindful that at any time things can change and the winds of our good fortune might blow the other way.  We were tentative to believe that this whole thing could have a happy ending.  

Guess what?  Here we are SIX years later!!! I actually didn't wake up on August 2, 2011 and think first of the date and its meaning.  I listened to Patrick and Caroline playing.  I put my daily to-do list in order in my mind.  I lived my regular old boring life and boy was it wonderful.  

I can never thank enough the doctors and nurses who played such a huge role in our lives for three years.    I can never thank enough the fundraisers who year after year work tirelessly to battle this ferocious foe.

I can never thank enough the tenacious cancer researchers who believe the impossible is possible and prove it over and over again.

If you want to find grace, it's in your ordinary day.  The gift of a regular old, nothing special, kind of boring day.  I had 1,172 days that weren't very typical...I'll take boring any day of the week.

Celebrate Life this Saturday at  the Davis Relay4Life for the American Cancer Society -- we will be there...walking, remembering, and celebrating the gift of ordinary days. 

Relay4Life

The Accidental Salad

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive."                               -- Anais Nin


I met Katie five years ago.  I knew as soon as I met her that she would be a friend.  She was sunlight and smiles, radiance and light.  She was to be a babysitter so I didn't think I would be around her too much but I knew my children would be delighted any time they saw Katie.  (Turns out that we always found a way to talk and talk when I got home -- what a shocker!) She took care of Caroline for me as she finished her last year at UC Davis.  At the time, we were remodeling our house and I often would give her Mission Impossible babysitting jobs and she would rise to the challenge. I would find her dancing to music upstairs, sweating and laughing while Caroline jumped on an old mattress on the ground.  Caroline went on stroller rides and long walks all over town.  Together they picnicked, played, pranced and power-housed their way through a year.  Patrick was always a welcome partner in crime and one of my favorite Katie memories was pulling up and finding not just Patrick, Katie and Caroline doing cartwheels on the front lawn but a reticent newly minted teen-ager, Mary Kate, as well.  Seeing the crowd cartwheel across the lawn made me want to cartwheel too.  I found myself in sweet smelling grass laughing and realizing the power of living carefree.  Katie knows how to have fun and her infectious zest for life makes you want to have fun too.

Two sunflower beauties!

At Katie's graduation from college, I had the joy of meeting her parents.  All year long I carried the feeling of being rewarded the fruits of their hard work and the incredible gift of having their daughter in my daily life.  I was so grateful to meet them and thank them for sharing their dear daughter.  As she took off on new adventures, we waved good-bye and promised to write.  Oregon and grad school became her routine.  Soon it was wedding planning and the question of Caroline's interest in being a flower girl.

The quick answer: "Oh yes!"
                          
During the wedding, Patrick made a friend or I should say: met an agent. Steve, the DJ at the wedding and a great friend to both the bride and groom, facilitated a moment at the wedding where Patrick could sing to the newly married couple.  It became one of those classic wedding moments with the couple dancing in a circle of onlookers with little children dancing at their feet.  I ended up beginning a conversation with Steve that turned into a job offer. And just like that, Steve became Patrick's aide at school and a cherished part of our daily life.  Amazing! Best of all, Katie and Bryan were moving back to Davis and we could see them on a regular basis.

This entire year, I relished the good fortune of having such amazing people in my neighborhood.  Katie and I took up knitting together on Monday nights in the fall.  We laughed at the foibles of learning something new.  We traded dog stories since we each had mischievous puppies.  We read each other's blogs and made comments (yay!). We went on walks with our dogs, met for lunch and had the joy that comes with a friend moving back home.  It was a comfy, cozy friendship...it needed no hard work or extra energy.  We were happy just to see each other and hear the latest details of our lives.  Katie made cupcakes with Caroline after preschool; she played with Patrick; she encouraged us as we entered the fray of college applications and rejoiced with Jack at his graduation party.  Just a few weeks ago, she played flashlight tag on a hot July night with my kids and some friends...laughing and giggling the whole time.

And just like that, this year is over.  Katie got a job as a high school English teacher in her hometown a few hours away and she leaves August 1st.  Our daily/weekly friendly dose of Katie (and dear Bryan) will turn into a monthly or quarterly dose.  And, those of us with any life experience know that the dose will move to a yearly or whenever we can do it dose soon after that.  That radiance will be rarer and rarer for me but a joy and a light for her family and her new students.  Life makes its twists and turns and we must move on.

So, when Katie came over for lunch this past week it was bittersweet.  She brought a basket full of goodies to help me say good-bye to Jack (and the underlying acceptance of saying good-bye to her as well).  We were talking and visiting and Jack came in and made the most delicious looking salad out of thin air.  Katie and I were entranced with the colors and the beauty and the simplicity so we copied Jack: picked tomatoes out of the garden, used up the tiny mozzarella balls that were randomly in our fridge, found the oversized radish that Caroline chose at the grocery store because it was a great color, cut up the carrots with the green tops for our bunny and laid it on a bed of arugula.

It was accidental this salad and yet stunning, delicious and beautiful.  It had no menu or recipe or any planning.  It just came together in a natural, easy way. Just like my friendship with Katie.  I'm 20 years older than Katie.  I wasn't looking for a friend when we found each other.  It just happened in the easiest, nicest way.  This unlikely friendship became a gift to myself and I cherished it.

Now, I must say good-bye.

So...dear friend, thank you.  Thank you for the beauty of yourself: honest, radiant, curious, carefree and living life with a big open heart. My accidental salad will be forever with me.  My time with you loving my kids is logged into my heart's memory.  Laughing in the doorway, solving the world's problems at the kitchen table or watching Maggie and Buddy romp in the backyard will be the moments I miss.

I will miss you -- it's a simple as that.

I'm ending with a quote from Wicked, just for you, Katie:

"...You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart.
And now whatever way our stories end,
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend...
Who can say if I've been changed for the better
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good."

Heed My Words

"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone."  -- George Elliot

The Forakers are doing a drive.  A multi-hour, grueling, boring drive with four kids and two adults who are all sleep deprived, sick of fast food and frankly ready for their own toilets and their own beds and in that order.  The term "weary traveller" becomes dear to me and I try to envision the Good Samaritan, the settlers who traversed the Great Plains and every immigrant that has ever made his way to our beloved country and hold them close.  It's not that bad, I tell myself...we're on a vacation...those people were changing their very lives.  Still, I feel a kinship with them.

We stop in Bakersfield, California.  It's not a tourist destination in any sense of the word.  Actually, no offense to native Bakersfield-types, but it's a place to try to avoid.  It's hot, flat and pretty dull.  It has the dust of agriculture floating in the air.  It has the scent of a town that shoulda, coulda, woulda done something great but just never did.  It makes me say to my kids who've been confined in the car for hours already: "This is a fast stop.  Let's get it all done quick and we're back on the road."

Mary Kate needs something that McDonald's just isn't going to have so we wander next door to Harry's Market which is a gas station and a convenience store and peruse the shelves for feminine protection.  The hunt isn't going well.  We find something that will work and then decide to use candy as our cover.  We buy a candy bar for every family member, throw in some gum for good measure and we plop it all in front of an innocuous looking cashier.  Hoping to be casual, we both avoid eye contact and so I notice what the cashier was reading: a pink-tinged newspaper written in arabic.

"Is this your daughter?" the cashier asks.

Forced from my eye avoidance I look up to find a gentle, kind and hypnotic pair of eyes.  I try to categorize them in my mind in milliseconds...are they hazel?  They seem to be cafe au lait sprinkled with Tinkerbell green glitter and suddenly I want to stare at them longer...to linger.

"Yes, this is my daughter."

"She's taller than you."

I smile.  "Yes, she is. Quite a bit taller than me actually."

"She's going to keep growing." He looks at me, pointedly...suddenly a sooth-sayer, no longer a cashier.

"Most likely." I laugh.  "You should see her brother."

The cashier/fortune teller is not side-tracked.  "I have three daughters." he reveals and suddenly I can feel his parental delight.  Instantly, I know that they are grown and that he is immeasurably proud.

"Congratulations.  How old are they?" I ask curious about the eyes, the wisdom behind them, the stories they can tell.

"19, 21 and 24.  They are all in the medical field."

"Wonderful!  My daughter is hoping to be a nurse."  As usual, I over share, and Mary Kate is cringing.

And that was the secret code that unlocked the door...without regard to time or to customers waiting or to this place we are in, wisdom comes pouring out like a waterfall:

"I knew a lady who was 67 years old when her husband died.  He died on their way to Lake Arrowhead.  She asked herself, What am I going to do now?  And do you know what she did? She went to medical school.  First she went to college to finish her degree and then she went to medical school and became a doctor -- 67 years old.  She is a doctor right here, down the street.  She is in her 90's now and no one can take that away from her.  She is a doctor."

He turns his spell-binding gaze on Mary Kate and she didn't have a chance.  She had to look him straight in the eye.

"You can cut your arm off.  You can have a husband and then lose him and lose all of your money but if you have this (he points to his brain and taps it) you have everything. No one can take it away from you." "Education is what you need.  You don't need any boyfriends.  You don't need anything but this (and he taps again)."

I look at Mary Kate and smile.  She smiles too but it's the smile of being polite.  She is going with it but she isn't sure at all where it's headed.

"Education is everything."

My sixteen year old daughter who thinks she needs a boyfriend, fantasizes about fashion and romance and blows off all adults she lives with actually pauses.  She nods.  She lets it sink in.

We have to get going.  Midnight strikes and the slippers melt away.  We are back with the pumpkins and mice.  I ask this man his name..."Singh" he says and smiles.  I shake his hand.  I feel his kindness permeate my skin and this weary traveller is mesmerized for one last time in the river of those eyes.

"Thank you so much." I pause.  I want to tell him how much he has helped.  How influential a stranger's words can be.  How his name will go into the archives of Foraker Family roadtrips...but how? How do you thank someone for their little rest stop on a weary road? How do you thank someone for the grace they sprinkled with their kindness and care?

I walk out with a black plastic bag full of candy and goosebumps on my arms.  An angel named Singh entered unannounced.  We almost missed him.  As we walked out the door I looked at Mary Kate.  She knew it too. Singh calls to us both, pointing at us he commands: "Heed my words!"

Singh, you have no idea.

The Power of Going For It

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
              -- Anais Nin


I've been watching Caroline learn to swim this summer.  She has been fearless! She swims in a thirteen foot deep pool, alongside a whole host of kids and even some college swimmers.  She jumps in and with a breathtaking fearlessness she goes for it.  She leaves nothing back.  She swims without grace, without expertise, without beauty but she swims...as if willing the water to stop her.  She thrashes and splashes and somehow makes it out to her swim coach.  When she needs a breath she pops her head straight up, gulps that oxygen and then back to the thrashing she goes. The other day, she took a running start and dove into the pool!  Incredible to watch and can you imagine doing it? In her mind, she's a swimmer and that is the secret.  She doesn't know she can't.  She isn't pausing and thinking about it.  She's not noticing the depth.  She believes she can and so she can.


Watching this fearlessness each day of the summer has made me look a little closer at my own life.  When was the last time I was fearless?  When have I attacked something with such passion and zeal that I couldn't possibly stop halfway? When did I go for it and not look back?  I have been out of my comfort zone for sure but I have to admit that I haven't been thrashing and splashing in new waters for quite sometime.  


So...as I begin to look at my daily life without one of my favorite people in it, I'm going to be thinking of Caroline.  I'm going to have to splash and thrash and not notice the depth.  I'm going to have to go for it and embrace something new.  I'm going to have to expand my world and not shrink it.  I have a great example to follow...my little fish!  If she can swim, so can I.

A Secret Friendship

"Don't walk behind me; I may not lead.  Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow.  Just walk beside me and be my friend."  -- Albert Camus  

Patrick doesn't get invited to very many birthday parties.  Part of it is his age...kids his age are doing smaller and smaller things for their birthdays now and to be honest, he's not on a lot of short lists.  Part of it is that he's a guy and so the birthday thing tends to get less and less important a little earlier than for girls.  And part of it is that Patrick has very few real friends.  So, when I received an email invitation from a family of a boy from school that was a couple years younger than Patrick I didn't know what to do.  I weighed in my head the options: 1) blow it off -- too busy  2) take Patrick and feel uncomfortable...I'd know no one and I couldn't shake the idea that this whole thing might be a little too much of a "aren't we nice people" kind of thing 3) just go with it...talk to Patrick about it.  If he thinks it's a good thing, follow his lead.  My life with Patrick has been pretty much all about following his lead, so why stop now?  I went with option #3.

Saturday came around.  Caroline had a birthday party early in the day.  Patrick's was an afternoon pool party -- a dream come true for my swimmer with big ideas.  When I had asked Patrick about the little boy who had invited him to the party he had instantly known who he was.  He was enthusiastic and said, "I know him!  He's my recess buddy!" So, even though I couldn't pick the birthday boy out of a crew of kids, off we went to THE birthday party.  Patrick was excited.

The little guy is an only child.  His house is large and the backyard is filled with a swimming pool, play structure, guest house and small stream running along the back patio.  His parents are loving, kind and welcoming.  I'm cautious.  You never want your kid to be "the little project".  You don't want to hang out with people who only see your child as disabled, different, or less than.  I wasn't sure how this whole thing was going to play out.  I was out of my comfort zone...Patrick was not.

He entered the back yard with confidence, looking for his friend.  His friend was swimming in the pool: surrounded by giant sized beach balls,  a class full of kids in the pool and plenty of adults keeping a watchful eye. The friend yells to Patrick: "Hey Patrick!  I'm over here!  I'm so glad you're here!"  He hops out of the pool, strides to Patrick and welcomes him warmly.  It was clear that he had been waiting for him.  His attention turns to Patrick...can he get him a beach ball, can they swim together, can they put on goggles and go underwater.  Patrick, of course, plays with his friend.  Seamlessly.  Effortlessly.  Comfortably.

These two are friends.  It's for real.

How could I not know this child?  How could Patrick have a friend from school that I not know about?  When will I be able to give Patrick the same undeniable respect and freedom that I gave my older two at school?

It's clear that this whole moment was mine to wrestle with...Patrick and his friend are off, no looking back.  It's time for me to realize that just like every other typical kid, Patrick has his own school secrets that are just for him.  He has favorite recess games (no idea which ones they might be), favorite spots to hang out on the playground (no idea) and clearly a favorite recess friend...and that is his private, special hidden place all his own.  How arrogant of me to think I would know all of his friends...all of his secret details of his day.  How small minded.

It's time for the cake.  If you know nothing about Patrick, know this: the guy will celebrate LARGE with you when it's your day.  Patrick herds like a single-minded shepherd an entire class of youngsters out of the pool, away from the small fish at the pond and toward the cake.  It's time! Many people sing...many people cheer...only one says clearly: "Happy Birthday Niko!  I love you!"  Niko, king for the moment, receives the first piece of cake and broadly pronounces: "The second piece goes to Patrick!"  It is clear...these two are friends.  For the millionth time in two hours, I'm humbled...speechless and struck to the heart with a feeling of gratitude.

The party wraps up.  We need to head home and so Patrick walks over to say good-bye to his friend.  Niko hops out of the pool.  He tells me that in addition to saying good-bye to Patrick he needs to tell him something else.  He asks me if it's OK.  Of course!  Niko looks Patrick closely in the eye and tells Patrick thanks for coming to the party and that he has something else to tell him.  He gets real close and says, "I'm not coming back to school next year." I watch Patrick.  He seems unfazed, as usual.  I ask where he is going and he tells me that he's gotten into GATE (the gifted program at another school) and that he'll be going there.  I congratulate him and tell Patrick that he will still be in Davis, just at another school.  Patrick tells him that he will miss him.  He thanks him for the party.  He's ready to go.

I pause to say good-bye to Niko's mom and thank her.  Then I mention how wonderful it was to see our two boys be such good friends and that I am sure that Patrick will miss Niko at school.  She pauses with tears in her eyes.  She doesn't know how to go on, but she must share a story.  She tells me that one day after school Niko asks his mom about heroes.  He mentions that he doesn't think heroes like Superman or Spiderman are around any more.  His mom says:  "Heroes don't have to be like that.  They can be everyday people that make the world a better place or make us better people by being around us."  Niko speaks up.  "Well, mom, Patrick is my hero.  Patrick tries so hard to live in our world and no one ever takes the time to try to live in his.  He's a hero to me."  I look in that mom's eyes and can honestly tell her that her little boy just did.  My heart is full and sad.

Why do friends have to come and go so quickly?

Perhaps, it's to force us to pause and notice the many, many gifts lying unnoticed and unopened right in front of us.  Two little boys took the time to share their worlds.  They found comfort with each other, laughter, fun and adventure.  I'm grateful they had that chance and doubly grateful to have been allowed to peek through the window and see their friendship in full bloom.  I've spent the past few days reminiscing about my secret playground friends in school and where they could be now.  Friendship, life, time together...it's just too short.  It took two little boys to remind me again to cherish it all every minute -- a summer afternoon, a pool party, a birthday cake and yes, a secret friend.

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.