Doing Life Together

Miss You, Vivien . . . by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Posted on September 25, 2015 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

When I first met Vivien in 1984, I resisted getting to know her. She was five years younger than I, but already had three children, approximately the same ages as mine. The intensity of her personality threatened to suck away all my energy. I tried to cut a wide swath around her when our paths crossed at the Hamilton, New Jersey library where we brought our soon-to-be kindergarteners to attend Safety Town.

But Vivien would not be avoided.

I tolerated her attempts to engage me in conversation. I answered her questions with as few words as possible and did nothing more to hold up my end of the interchange.

Vivien: Your baby looks just like my baby, Diana.

Me: Uh huh.

Vivien: Did you ever notice how many baby girls are named Diana now?

Me: No.

Vivien: It must be because everybody loves Princess Diana.

Me: Whatever.

It was Vivien’s wish that we carpool the kids to school in the fall. I didn’t like that idea. I had envisioned myself walking Carly to school every day, with Erin in the stroller and Matt clutching the handle as I’d trained him to. I resented Vivien’s intrusion into my dreams.

Yet she kept calling me and offering to trade driving chores.

I put her off. Matt and Erin and I walked Carly to and from school for the first week. A neighbor tagged along with us.

But Vivien wore me down. I agreed to let her drive Carly the next week.

It was a disaster. Although I, responsible mother that I am, rose every morning at 6, Vivien slept until a few minutes before school started. Maddeningly, her alarm frequently failed to go off, and I ended up taking David and Carly to school myself—and getting them there late. Despite my protests that this arrangement was not working for me, Vivien promised it would get better, so I stuck it out. There were occasional relapses, but I had a bigger problem.

This school was not a good fit for Carly. My brilliant daughter entered kindergarten already reading the Little House books and doing simple multiplication and division. Her new teacher’s lessons introduced colors and numbers and the alphabet.

I asked for instruction at her level. The school had no provision for gifted education in kindergarten. The principal finally allowed Carly to go to first grade for reading time. This turned out not to be the best solution, because although she read well, she couldn’t write fast enough to keep pace with the other students.

I had to find a different school for Carly. There were no charter schools in those days, but nearby Princeton had several excellent private schools.

Unfortunately, investigating them was impossible, because my younger children got weepy every time I picked up the telephone.

I complained to Vivien, expecting her to sympathize with me.

Instead, she said, “Bring the kids to my house tomorrow afternoon. I’ll watch them while you go to my husband’s office in the basement and make all the calls you need to make.”

She blew me away with her kindness. I would never have asked her to babysit. I know what a handful three children are—and she had three of her own to take care of as well.

But I took her up on it. The next day I spent an hour in her basement talking on the phone with admissions officers at three private schools, asking questions and setting up appointments for testing and interviews. Then my children and I spent the rest of the afternoon visiting with Vivien and her children, beginning a truly wonderful best friendship that lasted for years, even after I moved across the country.

I am sorry to admit that, somehow, we eventually lost touch. I heard through the grapevine that Vivien’s marriage ended and she moved away from the address I knew. I regret her loss, but I will always love her for reaching out to me when I was totally unlovable.

Vivien was the kind of friend I want to be–one who offers to be the solution to the other’s problem. I miss you, Vivien.

Has anyone ever gone out of their way to help you? How did that affect your relationship? Share in the comments below.

Posted in Finding solutions, Friendship | Tagged children, Kindergarten | 3 Comments

She Did What She Could

Posted on September 18, 2015 by Linda Carlblom

I attended our Tuesday’s Children’s writers retreat in the tall pines of Pine, AZ earlier this month with my critique group that I do life (and this blog) with. One of our members, Judy, has a house there she opens up to us for writing, learning, eating, and laughing. Lots of laughing. And eating. And chocolate. Oh, and writing, which of course is our real reason for going. But we also have a spiritual element that makes our gathering extra special. We’re all Christians and we always hope our writing contains the fragrance of Christ.

Our first night together we changed into our pajamas and shared an informal communion service together. Judy read to us from Mark 14:1-26. We talked about the woman who anointed Jesus with expensive perfume and how the people gave her a hard time about it. Jesus responded by telling them to “Leave her alone. Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me…She did what she could…” (vs. 6-8 NIV).

I was so struck by that. First of all, I love how Jesus went to bat for this woman, defending her and her actions. And second, I love that “she did what she could.” It may not have seemed wise or politically correct, but she used what she had (perfume) for Jesus.

What do I have that I can use for Jesus? What do you have? Let’s do what we can with what we’ve been given, whether material possessions, time, talents, or skills. We all have something to offer the world, and that is our gift back to Jesus. I hope He can say of me, “She did what she could.”

Linda

Posted in Bible, Christian Living, Doing Life Together, Faith, Faithfulness, Gifts, Jesus, Ministry, Service, Uncategorized | Tagged communion, doing what you can, Jimmy Carter, Mark 14:1-26, retreat, serving, writing | 5 Comments

My Journal, September 14, 2001 . . . by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Posted on September 11, 2015 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Found on Facebook.

Inspired by the article 9/11–We Remember by Mary O’Connor, I am sharing the first entry in my personal journal after the attack, unedited. Please excuse the rambling and the incorrect information.

When I got out of the shower Tuesday morning (9/11) and turned on the TV, the World Trade Center was on fire. I called Greg at work, and he turned on the TV in his classroom. While we were watching, the second tower burst into flames, although the reason wasn’t readily ascertainable. I called Carly in Brooklyn. I was glad to know she was safe.

When I returned to the bedroom, Andy, who had been watching TV, told me a second airplane had hit the building. I couldn’t understand it. That building had been there for 33 years without any accidents. How could there be two in one day? They replayed the film footage of the second tower bursting into flames, and this time I saw the plane fly around the back of the building and then the explosion as the plane passed through. They they said the two planes had been hijacked. Finally, I understood–this was not an accident.

Then the news of the hit on the Pentagon–and the crash of a plane outside Pittsburgh. The news kept getting worse and worse.

I couldn’t stop watching TV. It looked like a disaster movie and had a feel of unreality. Then the first tower came crashing down. It looked like an implosion, like when a building is demolished. I got an email from Janell telling me not to go to work. I took Katie to school. By the time I came back, the second tower was gone. What a nightmare. My children were watching this happen on TV. Is it good for them to be seeing this? I tried to call Carly a few more times, but I couldn’t get through.

Carly emailed me that she was worried about Sara Jo, who is a flight attendant. She couldn’t phone out; would I please call her apartment and find out if she’s okay?

I called her apartment and spoke to her boyfriend. He said, “She’s fine. I just talked to her last night.” I had to fill him in on what was happening. Sara Jo was in Baltimore. He said he’d call her and get back to me later.

by Ben Sturner

I had to take the cats to the vet for an appointment. Around 8:00 AM the power went out. This is it, I thought. The bombs are dropping. I called the animal clinic to ask if they had power and if they were taking patients. They said yes on both counts.

The power came back on, Matt helped me round up the kittens, and I took them to the vet. It took half an hour to check them in, and then I went to my writers group.

We didn’t do any critiquing at group, just talking and praying. When I got home I was relieved that no new targets were hit. I believed the worst was over.

On Wed. Mayor Giuliani said there were 4,763 people missing in NY. How can that be? If 50,000 work in the WTC, did 90% escape in the 40 minutes between the crash and the collapse?

Or did many of them never get to work?

There are stories of people who were supposed to be on those planes but weren’t, or who were supposed to be in that building but never got there. I think God intervened.

Donna F’s cousin was supposed to start a new job at WTC Tuesday, but his buddies took him out to celebrate Monday night–and he overslept.

Donna hasn’t yet heard about 35 of her friends who work at WTC.

I heard about a flight attendant in Phoenix who often works on one of the flights that was hijacked–but she drew jury duty.

I thought it was odd that there were only 45-90 passengers on those flights. Those were big planes–737, 757, 767–there should have been at least a hundred passengers on each. There were 288 total on the four planes.

Flight 93 that crashed outside of Pgh–after it was hijacked, passengers called home on cell phones to say goodbye to their loved ones. They found out about the WTC and Pentagon. One man told his wife, “The male passengers took a vote–we’re going to jump the hijackers.” They knew they were going to die anyway, but they wanted to preserve the lives of people at the intended target. The plane crashed in a rural area.

Two of the men who fought the hijackers were scheduled to be on different flights. One postponed his flight from the night before. The other was at the airport early, and was given the option of taking an earlier flight because Flight 93 was so empty.

One person told me their relative was bumped from one of the flights. How can that be, if there were so many empty seats?

The airlines always overbook. I can’t remember being on a plane with more than 2 empty seats.

I heard the CEO of Cantor-Fitzgerald, an investment firm on floors 100-105. He got to work late because he took his son to the first day of kindergarten. When he got to WTC, it was already on fire. He tried to go in, but couldn’t because of the people coming out. So he asked people as they came out, “What floor were you on?” 55, 62, 70, 84. He knew if 1 person from the 100th floor escaped, there would be others who left through other doors.

The highest floor anyone escaped from was 91. None of the 700 Cantor-Fitzgerald employees who were in the building escaped.

On Thursday when the airports reopened, a group of Middle Easterners at each NY airport (JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark) were dressed as pilots with fake IDs and attempted to board planes. It took all day for me to understand what this means–that the attacks stopped because the flights stopped. With the planes flying again, the risk of another attack is back. My relief is gone. We can be killed at any time.

What a strange war this is. We are most likely to encounter the enemy at the airport.

Found on Facebook.

One person rescued was a cop who had been on the 86th floor. He’s in the hospital with broken legs. He said he “rode the building down” when it collapsed.

That’s another thing–how did that building crumble like that? They took samples of the cloud that hung in the air and analyzed it. It was mostly gypsum (drywall) but also contained pulverized steel, glass, marble, and concrete. The hardest materials in the building were reduced to powder. Yet one of the least durable materials–paper–was fluttering around undamaged. Shouldn’t it have burned up? Or was this also God’s intervention, so that there would be less weight on the people trapped under the rubble?

Posted in Doing Life Together, Faith, Fear | Tagged 9-1-1, despair, Doing Life Together, Journaling | 3 Comments

The Healing Field of 9-1-1. . . by Betty Mason Arthurs

Posted on September 4, 2015 by tuesdayschildren100

The victims of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 are honored each year in our city. The Healing Field tribute of nearly 3000 flags is at a park in downtown Tempe, Arizona. The flag poles are six feet tall and spread over two acres on a grassy field near our lake. It is a heart breaking experience to see America’s red, white and blue flags with gold stars waving in a gentle breeze, and once again feel the grief of that horrific day. The tribute will be from September 10-13.

Each flag has a tag with the name of the person killed. A pair of combat boots rests underneath the flag poles of the ones who were members of the military. There are stuffed animals tucked beneath the flags of the children lost.

Last year my husband and I, along with others, meandered through the flags and stopped to read some of the names. We wondered, were they a father, a mother, an executive, a pilot, a waitress or a firefighter? We knew each one had left behind family and friends who still mourn their deaths and remember them with a love that will never die.

I heard the giggles of a toddler, and watched as she whirled around in her pretty dress among the flags. Her parents were pushing a baby in a stroller. This young family was a symbol of new life: the Healing Field became, for me, a Loving Field. In spite of the
9-1-1 tragedy, all Americans are free to love and live…a love which overcomes grief and brings hope for the future that I felt in the joy of a little girl’s laughter.

People Magazine did a feature article on the babies born after 9-1-1 to the grief-stricken widows of the men who died in the Twin Towers and passenger jets. The photos showed adorable infants, enjoying their gift of life, cuddled in their mother’s arms. The journalists wrote about the preparations they made for the photo op, purchasing diapers, wipes, pacifiers, blankets, bottles and formula…all so everything could be perfect for this moment in time. In spite of the horrific deaths of their fathers, new life was born to carry on the legacy of America’s freedom.

I saw a young man, dressed in camouflage, stand at attention and salute. His silent military tribute moved me to tears. The sound of the flags whipping in the breeze reminded me of the voices of our service men and women echoing across the land, “I died so you could stay strong and live in freedom.”

My husband, John, and I embraced, and with my head tucked under his chin, we prayed. For us the Healing Field was also a Praying Field. We prayed for all Americans, especially for those whose loss on 9-1-1 no words can describe. We are both in our 70s and we have proven that God’s care is there when we’ve struggled through personal tragedies…His love never let go of us. For our family, it’s true what the scripture says in Psalms 34:18, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…” (NIV).

All across America people will gather in unity on September 11, 2015 to remember the victims, to heal, love and pray. My husband and I will be there once again at the Healing Field in Tempe to honor the victims and their families and friends.

I would love to hear from you and what you do to remember 9-1-1.

Posted in America, Grief, Healing Field | Tagged 9-1-1, AZ, patriotism, Tempe | 6 Comments

A True Thank You Note

Posted on September 1, 2015 by Carol Boley

I love my Southern roots. Everything about them. The food, the hospitality, the magnolia trees, the drawl. All of it. But most especially, the gracious way of living. I think back often to the way I saw it modeled by my grandmother. And one thing stands out.

The Southern thank you note. Southern thank you notes have spoiled me for all others.

We have just recently passed one of the most intensive gift-giving seasons of the year, ripe with weddings and graduations, and we are headed directly into another…the holiday season. Since May, we have given approximately one dozen gifts to acknowledge and celebrate some of life’s most joyous occasions. From that, we are now the proud possessors of two hand written thank you notes. And of that we are proud and…in a good way… slightly shocked. I’ve noticed that the hand-written thank you note has almost gone the way of the dinosaur.

An email or text or even an IM seems to suffice, no matter how generous the gift or old the recipient. After all, everybody knows how busy we are, right? Sure. And I’m grateful to receive those acknowledgements. But I’ve never gotten this kind of thank you “note” from someone reared in the South or with Southern roots.

Have you ever sent someone a gift and then had to ask them a month later if they received it, to make sure you didn’t need to follow up with FedEx or Amazon or your credit card company? I’ll just bet you have. I’ve had this happen several times, too, but never with someone reared in the South or with Southern roots.

Then there’s the “thank you note” that consists of the obligatory few lines scribbled on a card that could have been mass produced and mailed to anyone. I’ve received a few of these, but never from someone reared in the South or with Southern roots.

And yet there still remains the beautiful suitable-for-framing Southern thank you note, complete with mention of the gift, how it will be used, and the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love behind it.

Let me give you a real life example. Thank you note #1: “Thank you very much for the graduation gift. It will be most useful in my future college endeavors.” —Regina.” Notice the lack of greeting. If we have forgotten what we gave Regina, there is no help here. I’m not even sure Regina knows what we gave her. That said though, this is still a good start, however bare bones it may be. It has potential and with a little fleshing out could almost sound like it hailed from Dixie. Regina, as you may have guessed, is not a Southerner.

Compare that to this one. Thank you note #2: “Dear Jim and Carol. Thank you so much for the Target gift card. You are so kind to think of me and so generous to send me a gift. I used the gift card to buy some clothes and shoes for my new job. I’m so thankful for the kindness you have shown me. Thank you again. Love, Mary Virginia.” I’ll bet I don’t have to tell you where Mary Virginia lives.

I want you to know how grateful I am for every thank you card or message I have ever received, however it is delivered. Truly. The fact that someone would care enough to take the time, effort, and energy to respond to my gift is noted and appreciated. Their caring and thoughtfulness, expressed by saying thank you, encourages me and builds connection between us.

How delightful is the truly heartfelt thank you note. To help you write one, consider these simple tips: 1) Mention the gift. 2) Tell how you will use it. 3) Thank the gift giver. 4) Note the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love that prompted the giver to give you the gift. 5) Make the note more about the giver than about yourself…this is just good manners, something Southerners are known for.

I cherish my Southern roots. I realize I have been given a gift and I am grateful. Thank you seems so inadequate. Now throw in a pecan pie and you’ve really got something there…

Posted in Celebrations, Gifts, Holiday, Hospitality, Life, Thank you notes | Tagged good manners, hospitality, Thank you notes, the South | 5 Comments

Fear Not . . . by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Posted on August 28, 2015 by Andrea R Huelsenbeck

Wait a minute. I thought I parked right by this lamp post. Where’s my car? I walk a little farther. No, that’s not right. I look around. Could it have been a different lamp post? Wait. I was lined up with the entrance to Sears. It has to be here. My heart begins to pound. Could someone have stolen my car?

The thought that my mid-life-crisis-Mustang disappeared fills me with dread. My beautiful car! The pang of loss brings tears to my eyes. How will I get home? When will I get home? The time and inconvenience involved in dealing with police reports, with insurance adjustors. I double tap the remote lock button on my car key. A nearby chirp from behind an SUV alerts me to my Mustang’s location. Relief and joy fill my spirit, releasing the gut-wrenching fear.

I recently read a quote from Michael Jordan: “Fear is an illusion.”

I think Jordan was referring to the role fear plays in professional life, though he may have meant fear in general. My initial reaction to his words was denial. Fear is a reasonable response to adverse circumstances: a flood’s devastation; a terminal medical diagnosis; a loved one in danger. Fear is tangible.

Then I thought about it some more. If fear paralyzes you into inaction, then it truly is an obstacle. But if it spurs you to action, fear dissipates, like smoke or mist, something without substance–an illusion. If you confront the problem, you might encounter resistance and hardship, but the fear response is replaced by purpose.

The phrase “Do not be afraid” appears in the Bible 365 times. Isn’t that an interesting number? It’s as though God wanted to give us a daily reminder that if we trust Him, we have no need to fear. Biblical accounts of angel apparitions often include the spoken words, “Do not be afraid.” Curious—the first human response to seeing a messenger from God is fear, then replaced with joy.

Letting go of fear and trusting God sounds so simple, but I have such a hard time actually doing it. On an intellectual level, I know God will provide what I need. Yet I find myself worrying anyway. What is worry, if not fear of outcome? It is the opposite of trust. Lord, I believe. Please help my unbelief. Amen.

How do you deal with fear? Please share your thoughts in the comments.

Posted in Faith, Fear | Tagged Bible, Michael Jordan | 6 Comments

Hints for the New Widow(er). . . by Donna Clark Goodrich

Posted on August 25, 2015 by dgood648

Take Time to Grieve

Everyone grieves differently. While one person may seem to have boundless energy and begin immediately cleaning and sorting and getting rid of things, another may find it difficult to get out of bed and face a new day. The grief can also be delayed for days and weeks, even months, because of paperwork to be completed, sorting of spouses’ clothes, company, or work responsibilities.

Doug Manning, in his book, Don’t Take My Grief Away, quotes a newspaper survey that asked people how long it took to mourn the loss of a loved one. Answers varied from forty-eight hours to two weeks, while clinical tests showed it takes from eighteen months to two years. The only ones who knew were those who had themselves experienced grief. He assures us that “Grieving is as natural as crying when you are hurt, sleeping when you are tired, or sneezing when your nose itches. It is nature’s way of healing a broken heart.

“Don’t let anyone take your grief from you,” Manning says. “You deserve it, and you must have it. If you had broken a leg, no one would criticize you for using crutches until it was healed. If you had major surgery, no one would pressure you to run in a marathon the next week. Grief is a major wound. It does not heal overnight. You must have the time and the crutches until you heal.”

Release Your Guilt Over Your Sense of Freedom

You’ve been a caregiver for months or even years, and have been almost as housebound as the person you’re caring for. Suddenly, unless you have other members in the household, you can cook when you want and what you want, watch whatever TV program you want, and go where you want whenever you want. And you feel guilty!

You don’t have to! You’ve done everything you can for that person—most likely a spouse. Now they’re gone and it’s time for you to take care of yourself. Take a little vacation if money permits, sign up for a class at a local community college, begin having lunch with friends who have stood by you all this time.

Don’t Second Guess Decisions You Made

Yes, there probably will be times of regret: Why did I do this or that? I should have… If I had done this, he/she would still be alive. Remember these two things:

The decision has been made and can’t be undone, and
You made the decision with all the information you had available at the time.

After my mother died, I went through a time of depression. I tried to read the Bible and pray, but it seemed no one was listening. One day as I washed the dishes, tears ran down my cheeks. In desperation, I shook my fist at the heavens and yelled, “Is anyone up there? Is anybody listening?” Immediately, from the television set in the living room came these words: “The audio portion of this program is temporarily disrupted. Please stand by.”

The words couldn’t have come at a better time. God was still listening; He wasn’t giving up on me. I was to stand by and wait for the morning when, as His Word promises, joy would return: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).

The line to heaven may be temporarily disrupted due to your grief, but God is still listening. Just stand by!

What has helped you in your time of grief?

Posted in Grief, Life Transitions, loneliness on holidays, Love, Widowhood | Tagged grief, love, widowhood | 3 Comments

The Power of Hope…by Linda Carlblom

Posted on August 21, 2015 by Linda Carlblom

It lives on the edges of my mind, permeating everything I do. Without it, I’m sad, downcast, listless, feeling like my life doesn’t matter. But then hope walks in and changes everything.

Even David of the Bible recognized the power of hope. “Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad? I will put my hope in God! I will praise him again–my Savior and my God!” (Psalm 42:5 nlt).

You may not think you believe in all that God stuff. But if you have hope, you have God, because He is the Author of hope.

May the God of all hope fill you with all the joy and peace so that you may abound in all hope.

Romans 15:13

I’ve learned that when I’m feeling down, I need to return to God. I may not think I’m so far from Him, but sometimes I’m like a child who runs off to play and keeps returning to his mom for reassurance before running off again. I just need to remind myself that God is near. As long as He’s in the picture, my hope still flickers, even in the most dismal circumstances.

Often, God uses other things or people to instill hope. But He’s still the Author of it. He may point me to a book to read, or a friend may say just the right thing at the right time, or I might find a website that offers the help I need. With God in charge of my life I’m never without hope. I can relax in the assurance that He’s behind the scenes working things out for my best.

No matter how bad my situation is, God is already there, using it for my good–to strengthen my character or increase my sympathy for others. He’s orchestrating an outcome that will bless me and He will be with me all the way. Hope holds all the potential your heart dreams of. It keeps moving you forward, one step at a time. It can never be overrated because its power is limitless, just like its Author.

My life verse speaks to the hope that sustains me through every curve life throws:

Jeremiah 29:11 (NLT) Photo courtesy of Air1 Radio.

Did you get that? God plans to give us hope. We are never hopeless with God. His plans for us are always good and they always include a hopeful future. Rest in that today. Look for sprouts of hope in your life. Nurture them so they’ll grow into a great big hope that holds you steady in tough times.

What gives you hope? Can you remember an instance when hope got you through a difficult time?

Linda

Posted in Christian Living, Faith, Hope, Life, Motivation, Uncategorized | Tagged depression, discouragement, feeling down, Hope, Hope in God, Jeremiah 29:11, power of hope, Psalm 42:5, Romans 15:13, sadness | 9 Comments

I’m an Old Lady and It’s My Husband’s Fault by Betty Mason Arthurs

Posted on August 18, 2015 by Betty Mason Arthurs

I’m an Old Lady and It’s My Husband’s Fault…by Betty Mason Arthurs

I turned 70 years this month, but when did I turn old? Now I remember and how could I forget? My husband John pushed me over the edge and into an ancient abyss reserved for people like Moses and Mrs. Noah…really, really old folks.

I’ll try to make a short story even longer to fill up the required words for this posting.

A few months ago I was in the hospital for another surgery, this time on my right ear. After decades of hearing problems due to childhood bouts of measles and infections, a CT scan confirmed some weird tissue had taken over my inner ear and was migrating to my brain. Only I could come up with a freaky excuse for an expert ear surgeon to craft a new inner ear, save my hearing and my brain. The dreaded curse of old age is that I’m falling apart and I blame my DNA, the fumes from my cats’ litter box, and Kansas tornadoes of my childhood.

My husband John wheeled me into check-in at the fine hospital. Soon our daughter Julie and son Rob would arrive to support us. Meanwhile, the young nurse, Ali, got me all settled in the “space suit” which would comfort me and make me hot as blazes while pumping me up in a cushion of air. She asked the normal, tiresome questions and tapped the answers into the bedside computer. John helped to answer facts about my medical history, “Well, Mom, isn’t it true you were on antibiotics last week? And, Mom, a month ago the doctor ordered a chest x-ray?” Mom this and Mom that. He was just so irritatingly helpful.

John has called me “Mom” ever since Julie and Rob were born…maybe it’s because he was born in Pennsylvania and it’s a folksy way of connecting a child with her/his mommy, but who knows why.

When nurse Ali said to me, “I’m all done with the questions. Your son can stay here as long as he likes,” we knew John had innocently bamboozled her. Can we say it was this nurse’s most embarrassing moment?

I couldn’t stop laughing. It was just what I needed to break my stress and fear. John, ever so kind, explained, “I’m her husband, not her son. I’ve called her Mom since our kids were born.” And still I laughed.

Red-faced and flustered Ali apologized and flew out of the room.

In a few minutes our daughter Julie arrived. Another nurse, Jennifer, came in to start my IV and then tapped more info. into the computer. She turned and saw Rob wave as he walked into my room. “Oh, here’s the real son!”

Since John still has dark brown hair, maybe it’s time to color my white hair to a lovely purple or orange, get a rose tattoo, wear short-shorts, bring back my miniskirts from the 70s…anything to help me look younger than John. But I really like being called “mom” and being a grandma of eight, I like being called “Gammy,” so named by my first grandson who also told me, “You’re just so cute!” Soon we’ll have a great-granddaughter. They say, “truth hurts” but for me, it only hurts for a short time. I’ll be mom and grandma forever.

Rob and his wife, Heather, and their children gave me a birthday card with the caption: Where would we be without you, Mom? One of us wouldn’t exist and the other would be married to some loser.

We laughed and laughed over the card’s sentiment. It’s not bad living for seven decades when I’ve been so blessed by God in spite of all the problems life throws at me and our family and friends. And my ear surgery was successful because I just heard John call me, “Mom.”

The Bible offers comfort:
Even to your old age I am He, and even to hair white with age will I carry you. I have made, and I will bear; yes, I will carry and will save you. (Isaiah 46:4 AMP)