A Conversation with My Mom at Sea

The ship was between ports, the sun was shining and the seas were calm, and I was having a quiet, one-on-one conversation with my mom. She had been through a lot, lately, during my father's recent hospital stay. A simple question such as how are you doing? or what are you thinking? seems inadequate when addressing the unknown. As you can imagine, it is hard to pin down a specific feeling because they all overlap—fear, hope, anger, anxiety, relief, gratitude.

Earlier that morning, my mother was sitting on deck during her morning prayers and watching the sun dancing on the whitecaps.

“Those whitecaps are like graces,” she told me. “Sometimes you see them, sometimes they disappear without acknowledgement, but just like the whitecaps which are absorbed into the ocean, so are God’s graces. They are present whether we see them or not, given to us whether we acknowledge them or not.”

God’s grace, meant to lead us to a holier life, but also there to offer hope, encouragement, and a reminder that there is power in prayer and that He knows each and every one of us by name.

Shortly before our family cruise, I was having a moment, the kind which involves tears and feelings of abandonment. Does God hear our prayers? How can He hear my prayers when I am but one among many?  Does He see me? Can He reach out and touch me through the crowd, like the woman in the New Testament? I tried to pray my way out of that dark place, but the words would not come. Then, at that very moment my friend Thalia, who was traveling in Greece, texted me a photo of a sign that read: Maria’s Boutique Rooms.

God’s grace reminding me (in a very dramatic way) that he knows my name.

So, sitting there with my mom, talking about whitecaps and the timing of God’s grace, we counted our blessings. This cruise, sandwiched between a lengthy hospital stay and upcoming cancer treatments, was something we were not even sure would happen. There had been so many questions and no answers: Was my father strong enough to travel? What if something happened? Should we cancel? Postpone? But sometimes you have to live the question, so after eight days in a hospital we relished the eight days at sea. Eight days to recover, celebrate family, gather strength, find peace, cling to hope.

A week to feel God’s grace and know that He is, and always will be, there for us.

Even as we face unchartered waters.

Especially then.

Did "juneau" that ...

Did “juneau” that Juneau has only 80 days of sunshine a year? Well, we got one of them. We explored, panned for gold, and saw a Native American festival. Then, Timothy took a 45-minute seaplane flight over five glaciers. No photos of Nonno because he went deep sea fishing with my brother. Remember those 80 days of sunshine? Perfect fishing weather.

A Piña Colada at 10 am

Family dinners, trivia competitions, Skagway train ride on the White Pass Railway, glacier viewing, and today … deep sea fishing and gold mining. And how are Nonna and Nonno? Yesterday Nonno showed up to the trivia competition with his cane in one hand and a giant, frothy piña colada in the other (it was 10 am). And today, after 33 cruises, Nonna was on a team that finally won a trivia competition. She proudly wore her medal.

Carpe Diem

Nine days ago my father was coming out of his fourth medical/surgical procedure in eight days (two cardiac catheterizations, a biopsy, and a cauterization to control bleeding). It had been a grueling eight days. Still groggy from the anesthesia, he looked up at the nurses, technicians, and doctors standing around his bed and said, “I am going to eat, sleep, go home and take a shower, and then I am going on a cruise and get fat.”

Everyone in the room laughed.

But what the nurses, technicians, and doctors did not realize was that my father was not making a joke. He was making a declaration.

So this evening, our family is boarding a ship for a trip to Alaska, a trip we have been planning for half a year. My dad is still recovering from his hospital stay, and the biopsy results did not give us good news, but before he faces seven grueling weeks of radiation treatment … for now—TODAY—we are going on a cruise.

The 7-Minute Comedy Show

Yesterday evening I stopped at a Little Caesar's to order two pizzas. In front of me was a man who looked exactly like the Travelocity Gnome. He placed his order, I placed mine, and the employee said both of our pizzas would be ready in seven minutes.

It is important I mention those seven minutes so you can understand what happened next (and please also note we were the only customers). 

I sat down to wait for the pizza, and that is when it happened. Mr. Travelocity Gnome walked over, stood in front of me, and began to tell me one corny joke after another. Non-stop. For seven minutes.

Jokes like ...

-What do you call a cow with no legs? (Ground beef)

-What do you call a dog with no legs? (Nothing, 'cause he ain't coming)

-What did the tomato say to the other tomato during a race? (Ketchup)

-Why do cows wear bells? (Because their horns don't work)

No, he was NOT inebriated, he just liked telling jokes. He liked to make people laugh which, evidently, included himself because he laughed uproariously at each and every one of his own jokes. (This was how I discovered he was toothless.) (Mr. Travelocity Gnome with no teeth.) 

Sometimes seven minutes can seem like an eternity. 

But I was a good audience member because, really, what else could I do? I was good and truly trapped. For SEVEN minutes. 

When my pizza was ready I thanked Mr. Travelocity Gnome for the entertainment.

And he laughed.

Did he think it was a joke? Or was the joke on me? 

Ha!

Truth be Told

"...a lie told once is easy to expose, but a lie told a thousand times can look like the truth. 

And destroy the world."

~The Little Liar by Mitch Albom

A few weeks ago,  I downloaded Mitch Albom's book, The Little Liar (our Book Club selection for May). I read ONE chapter, closed my kindle, and went to the bookstore to purchase the actual book. 

Just from that one chapter I knew that it was going to be a profound book, one that would ultimately contain my handwritten notes in the margins of the pages. And that is exactly what happened: my book has been well-read with pages dogeared, passages underlined, and notes scribbled in the margins. 

The book is narrated by the voice of Truth, who tells the story about a boy who lied. It is a beautiful story about how a truth (or a lie) can shape the course of our lives. 

After Book Club ended last night, and thinking about our in-depth discussion, I picked up the book again and took more notes. This book makes you think, especially in light of what is going on in the headlines--political candidates manipulating voters, students protesting, and rising tides of anti-Semitism. What is the truth when someone's truth is different from your truth? Does believing in something make it true?  How do we recognize truth? 

The Greek word for "truth" is aletheia (divine revelation); that is, something which cannot be hidden. And yet, as humans we hide, twist, ignore, or manipulate the truth. We withhold the truth, or tell partial truths, or spin the truth. Or we are silent about the truth. 

There is so much to explore morally, ethically, socially, personally, and globally in this book, but Truth holds your hand and gently, oh so gently, accompanies you down these pathways of revelation and introspection. 

"I believe I was hurled to earth to smash into billions of pieces, each of which finds its way into a human heart," says Truth. "And there I thrive. Or die."

Mother, May I?

In the childhood game Mother, May I? a child asks permission to move forward by using the all-important question: Mother May I … take two giant steps? Five baby steps? One baby step and one giant step? Sometimes, the “mother” answers yes, and sometimes no. If the child forgets to ask the question the correct way, he/she has to go back to the beginning and start all over again.

I was thinking about the game on this Mother’s Day morning. With adult children, the Mother, May I? from childhood has turned into Mother, I may. Then fill in the blank: I may go to Japan this summer, get engaged, move to a new apartment, buy a new car. The flip-flopped words now inform, rather than ask.

And there are no more baby steps.

Just big GIANT steps that mark new beginnings and exciting milestones.

As a mother, this period of our sons forging ahead into Life has resulted in me wondering about my role as a mother because the job description has changed. All the “mom” things I used to do—the nurturing, feeding, teaching, chauffeuring, and Santa Clausing—are done differently, or not at all. Once, not too long ago, the boys would come to me with all their needs while Joe wondered why they did not just go to him. “Just wait,” I reassured. “There will come a day when circumstances will flip-flop.”

Well, that day has been here for a while. With our two eldest sons adulting in the Real World and our youngest a junior in college, it is Joe they go to with questions and discussions about taxes, car maintenance, insurance policies, and finances. They exchange texts about sports, and all three carpooled with Joe when they had summer internships. This is all wonderful—I love having adult sons!—but I also feel as if I do not have a lot to offer other than support, encouragement, and advice (both solicited and unsolicited), as well as homecooked meals and clean sheets and fluffy pillows for when they come home—all things which do not seem as impactful as they did in the past.

But here is where it gets confusing: I like this period in my life; however, the world has shifted just a little bit, which has resulted in an awareness of how my role has changed and will continue to change. Talk about giant steps! But with introspection, personal growth, and an abundance of heavenly grace I will find purpose while surrendering to God’s magnificent and holy plan.

So today, on Mother's Day, blessings abound and I am grateful. I know that no matter how many giant steps my sons take, no matter how far and wide they may wander, no matter what God calls me to be in this new season of life, it is as it should be.

Mother May I?

Yes, of course you may. With all my love.