Remember me Though I have to say goodbye Remember me Don’t let it make you cry For even if I’m far away I hold you in my heart I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart
Remember me Though I have to travel far Remember me Each time you hear a sad guitar Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be Until you’re in my arms again Remember me
REMEMBER ME (LULLABY)
Let’s be honest—thanks to popular culture, there is curiosity around El Día de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. This Mexican holiday is celebrated on November 1 and 2 to honor and remember deceased loved ones. It is a joy-filled remembrance of life that involves building altars (ofrendas) with offerings, visiting and/or decorating graves, and sharing memories with family. The holiday blends ancient Mesoamerican and Spanish traditions into a celebration that welcomes the spirits of the dead for a brief reunion.
In recent years, this observance has taken on new meaning for me as more loved ones have passed from this life. It may sound selfish, but the idea of dedicating time to remember the most important people in our lives feels far more significant than some of the material-centered holidays we often celebrate. And while Día de los Muertos can be a grand, communal celebration, it can also be quietly observed in solitude.
Lately on social media, many creators have shared their stories, videos, and photos of their ofrendas. Some are elaborate and ornate, while others are simple and serene. Both are equally meaningful. At the same time, I’ve noticed conversations about who is “allowed” to participate, with some insisting on cultural credentials to take part in this day of remembrance. Yet, the overwhelming sentiment remains: we’ve all experienced loss, and the desire to honor those who shaped us is something universal.
A few days ago, I began putting out my Halloween decorations. As a 50-year-old empty nester, I don’t need to do this—and some might argue I shouldn’t—but Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I have such fond memories of it from childhood and of celebrating it with my own kids. What started as a plan to display a few old photos of my kids in their costumes quickly turned into a full-blown decorating session. On the built-in shelves, I decorated every corner, including two spaces where I already have photos of my mom and mother-in-law, and my sweet dog, Madeline.
These memorials stay out year-round. In realizing that, I saw that I had already created my own version of an ofrenda—a quieter one, perhaps, but deeply meaningful. It’s something I see every day. A space that holds memories 24/7. A space I could never imagine packing away. Every time I look at it, I thank God for blessing me with such beautiful souls in my life, even if only for a season.
In the Bible, altars were sacred spaces for worship, sacrifice, and offering—first built by Noah, Abraham, and others. They were places of remembrance, of unity, of meeting with God. Thinking about that reminds me of one of my favorite passages, Joshua 4:6–7, where God tells His people to stack stones by the Jordan River as a lasting reminder of what He did for them:
“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them…”
Both the altar and the memorial stones tell the same story: that remembering matters. That marking what—and who—has shaped us is a sacred act.
I’m not going to tell you to build an altar in your home or decorate an ofrenda. But I will encourage you to make space for remembrance—a moment, a corner, a conversation, or even a prayer—to honor those who came before you and hold space in your heart. Whether through tradition, faith, or personal reflection, remembrance roots us in gratitude.
“For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic saying
Don’t ask me what I want for dinner — I have no idea. Ask me instead what I don’t want for dinner, and I probably won’t shut up.
One of the most beautiful parts of aging is wisdom. In fact, I think it’s the bestpart. Living five decades means I have very clear ideas about what works for me and what doesn’t. As a kid, I foolishly thought old people were boring — doing the same things day after day, with no excitement or mystery. Boy, was I wrong. Older folks curate the days they want. They sprinkle in excitement and mystery as it suits them. Old people are so cool.
I’ve tried — okay, half-heartedly — to become a morning person. I am now one with the fact that this will never happen. I’m a night owl. I’m all sunsets and stargazing and very little sunrise. Sure, I can wake with the sun if I absolutely have to. But it will never be my preference. I crave the quiet of night, when most of my time zone is tucked into bed, where they can’t call me, email me, or ask me what’s for dinner.
This is my peace.
Always a picky eater, I now fully embrace eating at home. Here is where all my favorite foods live — in my kitchen, made exactly how I like them. No more standing at restaurant counters wondering which entree I’m going to waste money on today. I don’t mind trying new places, but please don’t judge me when I immediately look for my standbys: sandwiches, soups, and salads.
This is my peace.
And while we’re fixing things: I have about a million brilliant ideas for making the world run more smoothly. (Just ask my friends and family, who lovingly decline every time I suggest they nominate me for President. Cowards.) Still, I stand by my platform: Let’s just make wearing black the standard life uniform and call it a day. As I’ve gotten older, my closet has morphed almost entirely into black — with a pop of color here and there for flair. I keep it real.
This is my peace.
Getting older doesn’t mean giving up excitement — it means getting better at choosing it. It means understanding what brings you comfort, what fuels your joy, and what you’re just fine living without. It’s not boring. It’s a beautiful kind of freedom. And for me, that freedom looks like tacos in my kitchen, black in my closet, sunsets on the hammock — and a little laughter tucked into every corner of the day…because I’m addicted to sitcom reruns.
ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.
I started taking piano lessons sometime during elementary school, though the exact year escapes me. I recall learning finger placements, scales, and, of course, how to read music. I had truly wonderful piano teachers who were both encouraging and straightforward. Practice was not just necessary but absolutely required. Whoa, the child who showed up unprepared! I took seriously the idea of practicing every day and it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized what an undertaking that was…not for me, but for my family!
I have a feeling that my personal practice policy was not a directive from either of my teachers but more a process of self-flagellation that I created all on my own. It went something like this, miss a note…start over…from the beginning. Repeat. This may not sound like a horrible methodology, but when you’re a child and prone to mistakes, practice sessions could go on…and on…and on.
My mom had this one joke that she liked to tell over and over. It was probably extra funny because it went right over my head. She would say, “Can you play far, far away?” I naively thought that was the name of a song rather than a location. I’m certain she made this joke for years before I finally got it. Did I mention that our piano was in the living room?
And all that long lead-up to get to another one of my favorite Christmas gifts—my Casio keyboard. Oh, how I wanted a keyboard! Oh, how I loved that keyboard! Oh, how wild it is that 37 years later I still have that keyboard AND IT STILL WORKS!
The keyboard was a gift when I was 12 years old. I wanted a keyboard so bad…think Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun. I would hint about it, talk about it, scheme about it, write about it, and I would lay out my case about why this would be such a good Christmas present. And then on Christmas…I got it!
I certainly didn’t deserve a Casio keyboard. I can play piano but I am no virtuoso. Our family budget didn’t warrant it, not by a long shot. Undoubtedly, I probably wasn’t extra good or anything like that. That’s one of the most remarkable lessons about love, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve (good or bad).
I found out later that my mom and dad bought the last keyboard in the store. It was the demo keyboard on the shelf. Mom said they almost didn’t sell it to her. Yet, she persisted. There was no stand, no box, just the keyboard, and the plug-in adapter. Since it was opened she was cautioned that the purchase was “as is,” no refunds. I should tell Casio just what a quality product they made back in the 1980s.
I don’t have to tell you I was the happiest kid in the whole world that Christmas. Oh, I had big plans. I was going to practice more than ever, I was going to be able to play everything from classical to pop music, I was going to write songs like Debbie Gibson…. Then my mom told me, “You know there’s a little plug-in on the back so you can play with headphones…in your room.”
I guess that counts as far, far away.
GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.
“A typewriter is a portal to worlds waiting to be discovered.” – Neil Gaiman
When I was eight I marched right into the kitchen and told my mom that I was going to college. She asked if I even knew what college was and I said, of course I do. It’s where you go after high school. And that was about as much as I knew about that. It wasn’t long after when I declared that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure she wasn’t too surprised. I had been writing and illustrating my own books and telling bedtime stories to my siblings for years. Around 4th or 5th grade, I decided that I wasn’t going to be just any kind of writer, I would be a reporter and a reporter needs a typewriter.
At Christmas time I received a Petite 600, a portable little typewriter complete with a learner’s manual. I’m not sure how much of an odd ask it is to request a typewriter at Christmas time, but I’ll admit now that I was an odd kid. Opening that present was the beginning of a new era for me. And while I was not a good typist, typing was a heck of a lot faster than writing things out and that was good enough for me.
I remember writing stories and even creating my own family newspaper. I would play “newsroom” and “reporter” all the time. I would use carbon paper when I typed so I could create multiple copies of my newspaper to distribute. My sister and I even secured a Barbie 6 O’Clock News Play Set. The determination level was high.
I did go to college and became a reporter and as a blogger today, I’m still writing. Receiving a typewriter was one of my absolute favorite gifts. It was more than just getting what you want under the tree. The magic was in getting the typewriter you wanted because someone believed in your dreams just as much as you did. You can’t buy that kind of gift.
GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.
Everyone should have a cup of coffee with a dog. Just try to make sure it’s not the same cup. More on that in a moment….
Losing a dog is hard. No one tells you just how hard it will be. After almost fifteen years, our Maddie is gone. She was the absolute best dog. That’s easy for me to say, but I wholeheartedly believe it. I had no idea what we signed up for when we brought her into our home. She was a gift for my son’s 7th birthday and as crazy as it sounds, we found her on Craigslist. Really. We loaded up the “swagger wagon” (our minivan) and hotfooted it 70 miles north to Lindsborg, Kansas to pick her up. The whole thing was sketchy. Really. Top to bottom sketchy, but we headed back home with a four month old Aussie and some super excited kids in the backseat.
I always claimed to be a dog person, but the reality is that I was more of a dog-adjacent person. Meaning that I like dogs (way better than cats) but I had also never had a dog of my own. Sure we had dogs growing up, however, they weren’t my responsibility. EVER. I can recall letting the dogs in and out and occassionally feeding them, but that’s the extent of my dog experience.
My son, Sean, always wanted a dog. ALWAYS. He had a stuffed dog as a baby and just seemed naturally drawn to dogs. He wanted a dog as a toddler. He wanted a dog as a preschooler. He wanted a dog…well, you get the picture. We told him that as soon as we had a house with a fenced backyard we would get a family dog. In July 2008, we moved into a house and had a dog by September. He held us to our word.
I could write novels on all of Maddie’s adventures. She was a herding breed and exercised that trait over and over. The poor kids were frequently rounded up and pinned up against trees, fences, the house…you name it. The more they screamed, the more excited Maddie got. Maddie was tiny when we got her, but it’s hard to imagine her that way because she grew up alongside the kids. My daughter, Casey, baptized Maddie an innumerable amount of times and both kids taught her tricks. She escaped the backyard on Christmas Day resulting in the Great Snowscape of 2008. Maddie knocked our Christmas tree over too many times to count. We discovered she had an affinity for sugar cookies…both baked and unbaked, resutling in several cookie capers and vomit. There was Maddie’s Deep Depression Era the summer when her fur was shaved to all of our horror! She was incredibly protective. She let her presence be known every time someone came in or out of the house. She nipped at everyone, even Sean and Casey whom she saw every day. We’re pretty sure she only actually got a hold of one person’s backside, but I can’t verify this. This dog. Oh, how we loved her.
Maddie was named after the character with the same moniker from “The Suite Life of Zach and Cody” show on Disney Channel. I started calling her Madeline because I love the Madeline books and I felt like it had a little more gravity when I was trying to be stern with the dog…this of course never worked. Maddie or Madeline, she remained indifferent and only listened when it suited her.
I’m grateful for the time we had together. Our family is better for it. Maddie brought joy, laughter, antics, adventures, and occasionally bewilderment to our household. She was all personality. She was the softest dog on the planet, and I can say this with all certainty because that was one of the most common compliments she received. She was beautiful and at almost 15 years had practically no gray at all to her coat. We loved to take photos and videos of her…running, playing with her toys, catching the ball, sleeping on the couch when she wasn’t allowed to be on the furniture…you get the picture. Casey had some of the best photos of her. Of course, Maddie wouldn’t pose…even if you bribed her, but Casey managed to get some great shots. I’m glad we have these reminders to keep her memory alive.
I’ll share my absolute favorite Maddie story now: Everyone should have a cup of coffee with a dog. Just try to make sure it’s not the same cup. When Maddie was a puppy she quickly became my sidekick. Not because I was her favorite (far from it), but because I was the one she got stuck with at home. Every morning Steve and kids would leave for work and school and Maddie would be with me. If you know me, I am not a morning person and thus coffee is vital for survival. I had the same routine. Get everyone out the door, pour myself a cup of coffee, set it on the coffee table in the living room and head back to the kitchen to fetch a bowl of Cheerios. We had one of those hand-me-down, low level ’70s coffee tables, the perfect height to put your feet up on or rest your coffee cup, but also the perfect height for a puppy to indulge herself in a new treat. Of course, Maddie wasn’t greedy. She’d just take a few licks from the top…while I was grabbing my breakfast. I was new to dogs, she was new to coffee and it was probably two weeks before I knew what she was doing. Caught in the act, I poured out the coffee, recalled the scene from Charlie Brown where Lucy goes nuts about dog germs, and started a new routine. If you’re going to walk away from your coffee cup, make sure it’s on a tall (very tall) surface. You might wonder how I wasn’t aware of this before, but as I mentioned earlier, I was a dog-adjacent person. Maddie and I, we learned together.
My coffee cup is safe now. I wish it wasn’t.
We love you, Maddie-girl. You are missed a thousand times every day.
This song has been on repeat in my brain for several days now, almost like it’s haunting me. Not because I’m a Swiftie, not because of the recent Taylor and Travis love story (of which I am a big fan,) and not because I heard it on the radio recently. So obviously, I’ve been a little spooked as to what has triggered my most recent earworm.
This is why we can’t have nice things, darling Because you break them, I had to take them…
TAYLOR SWIFT
I will admit that the song title has practically become a permanent part of my vocabulary lately. I’m not necessarily singing it, but I am saying it quite a bit. It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.” Basically, it’s my feeble attempt to explain why things go wrong, people can’t get along, and miscommunication abounds. In other words, we’re all imperfect humans who don’t know how to talk to each other and so we take the easy road (and not the high road as some might have you believe) and we default to the cut-off. (Insert scream here!)
It’s become my standard response to politics, pop culture, the daily news, and especially relationships— “this is why we can’t have nice things.”
hymningandhaing.com
We refuse to hear each other out. It’s early October and already I’ve seen three videos and heard one podcast giving talking points about how to shut down your annoying relative over Thanksgiving dinner. There are how-to articles with tips on how to cut-off just about every type of relationship imaginable: boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, parent/child, friends, coworkers, neighbors, acquaintances, and even strangers. What was once thought of as a jerk traffic manuever, cut-off has quickly become a scary way of life.
I’m not saying there aren’t reasons to cut people out of your lives. Clearly, there are. We all know that cut-off has been happening since the dawn of time. Still, it seems that with cut-off there’s a history of incidents or behavior between the parties involved where the cut-off might be warranted. This is why today’s new version of cut-off seems so violent. You can be talking to someone one day and then find yourself blocked or unfriended the next day. Yikes.
It’s almost as if cut-off has morphed into ghosting? (If you’re not familiar with ghosting, the dictionary defines it as the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.) It’s a little unnerving isn’t it? Unlike cut-off where there is an incident or series of incidences that lead up to the end of communication, ghostings often happens with no context whatsover. You exist, they exist, but you go about your lives as if you never knew each other. Creepy. Lately, I’ve been told by more than a handful of people that they’ve been ghosted by someone they thought they knew and trusted. Then poof…they’re gone.
At this point in my life, there’s been a lot of soul searching. I think it’s a natural part of maturing and aging. Maybe this is why this song has been resounding in my head AND my spirit. As we move into this political season and closer and closer to the holidays my heart is heavy. So often I’m reminded that relationships are the most important part of life. More important than jobs, money, status, ego…you name it. And yet here we are, so ready to throw people away. Is it really impossible for two parties to sit down and have a conversation? Perhaps find a way to air out their grievances and make amends? And if that’s not possible, at least understand the reason for the cut-off?
I can only speak for myself, but I have seen firsthand the pain and heartache associated with cut-off. I’m a big believer of forgiveness, living without regret, thinking before you speak, pausing before you act and trying to put myself in the other person’s shoes. None of which guarantees anything. But it’s a start. It’s scary out there. Without the effort, the song will hauntingly play on…”this is why we can’t have nice things.”
The tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood.
Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.
Alphonse de Lamartine, author
The Thanksgiving Table (November 2020)
I did it. But I wish I didn’t have to.
I made a full Thanksgiving meal on my own. I roasted a turkey. Peeled a mountain of potatoes. Used the drippings to make gravy. Baked a pan full of dressing, green beans, dinner rolls, an apple crumb pie, plus loads of turkey-themed cookies. I even opened a can of cranberry sauce (it’s okay, you can laugh at me). In all my 45 years of life, I’ve never done this before…never attempted to, never wanted to, and never needed to—but these are strange times that we’re living in and strange times apparently demand complete turkey dinners on Thanksgiving…especially when your Mom is gone.
The duality of living in today’s pandemic is evident everywhere you go. In one day you can see groups of friends hanging out and carrying on without a care in the world and turn the corner to see fully masked families heading into the local grocery store. Our elderly suffer from isolation in their golden years and our healthcare workers are overwhelmed and stressed while millions of others continue to call COVID-19 a hoax to their faces. Daily, Americans walk through temperature checkpoints to get to school, work, or to travel while others plan block parties and the like. There are rallies and protests. I even read about some well-meaning parents who hosted a homecoming dance and now dozens of kids have tested positive. I’m not judging. My own family walks in this duality. We occasionally see local friends, we work outside our home, my kids go to the gym, play sports, and try to maintain normalcy all while walking this line with masks in hand. I jokingly remind them “it’s COVID out there” and ask them to stay socially distanced as they head out the door. When they come home, I greet them and immediately send them to the sink to wash their hands. We’re not perfect. At this point in the pandemic, we’ve all had moments where we’ve let our guard down and subsequently prayed that we don’t pay the penalty. Strange times, indeed.
Nine months in and I can no longer count the number of family members who have contracted COVID-19 on my fingers. I don’t want to attempt to count the number of people in my circle who have had it and my heart breaks when I think about how the Coronavirus has affected my hometown in western Kansas. I have prayed for a number of individuals who have battled, struggled, and won. Praise God! And I have cried for those who weren’t so fortunate. As I write this the death toll in the United States is 267,000+
My mother is one of them.
It’s bizarre to grieve in a pandemic. The normal grieving process is both individual and communal, but when you can’t see family members for fear of contracting or spreading a virus, the grieving process becomes even more peculiar. And when your lost loved one is a victim of that same pandemic, you proceed cautiously and carefully. Honestly, there are days where it feels like you’re barely proceeding at all—like you’re standing still while the world has moved on.
You know the saying, “once bitten, twice shy?” Those are the eggshells that I walk on daily. I know how devastating and life-changing this virus can be. There are hundreds of thousands of people who should have been at the Thanksgiving table with their families this year, but they’re not. Empty chairs, not just in my home, but everywhere. Traditions not just broken, but shattered. Those of us who have lost family members and friends to COVID-19 are experiencing this heartbreak over and over as the narrative has gone from “we’re all in this together” to “there’s nothing to see here, folks.” And yet the pandemic and the loss of life go on.
There are hundreds of thousands of people who should have been at the Thanksgiving table with their families this year, but they’re not. Empty chairs, not just in my home, but everywhere. Traditions not just broken, but shattered.
a Life Interrupted
As we move into this unusual holiday season I can feel myself picking up the pieces of my broken heart non-stop. Normal Thanksgiving meant a road trip across the state with my kids. Normal Thanksgiving meant consulting with my mom, sister and sisters-in-law about what we would each contribute to the meal. Normal Thanksgiving meant hugs and seeing my nieces and nephews. Normal Thanksgiving is game nights, snacks and cousin sleepovers. Normal Thanksgiving is coffee with my best friend. Normal Thanksgiving meant going to my mom’s house instead of making a complete Thanksgiving meal on my own.
I did it. But I wish I didn’t have to. In fact, I would have traded anything for it not to be the way that it is.
It was the first Thanksgiving without my Mom and at every turn, we paired our grief with gratitude. I miss my mother so much and my appreciation for the time we had together has continuously grown. Today, I am even more thankful and grateful for her love and influence on my life. Often times I feel like my mother’s memory lives in the kitchen which was so appropriate as I prepared the meal. And while she has been on my mind constantly, in missing her this Thanksgiving I felt like she was very present…somehow still mothering me…urging me to make the most of the holiday, not just for me, but for my kids. That’s the kind of mother she was. Give, give, and give some more. Grieve, but be grateful. In the back of my mind, I kept hearing “keep the traditions.” In my heart, her memory confirmed the feeling that forward is the best option, the only option.
If you know me, you know I take tons of photos and videos. I document everything. (It’s the reporter in me). As Thanksgiving approached this year and the memories started popping up on social media, my daughter said to me, “Mom, I’m so glad you take all the photos and the videos so we can see and hear each other. It makes me sad, but it also makes me happy. We laugh a lot.” Taking photos and videos to share this Thanksgiving seemed extra important. And Casey is right, we do laugh a lot. In many ways, sharing photos and videos are the only way for the whole family to be together while we continue to grieve miles apart.
In the mix of photos I took this year is this one of me at our Thanksgiving table just before the meal was served with an accomplished grin on my face. And guess what, Mom? I didn’t break the oven like I did that time I tried making strudel! I know you’re proud…and maybe even a little bit relieved. We saved you a seat.
“In the day when I cried out, You answered me, and made me bold with strength in my soul.”Psalm 138:3
“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.
“Cooking and mealtimes are some of the most overlooked aspects of grief,” Heather Nickrand, author of Culinary Grief Therapy
Taco dinner complete with pico de gallo, black beans and Mexican rice.
My mother was a fabulous cook. She had this amazing way of making something truly delicious out of nothing at all. Looking back, she would have been a great contestant on The Food Network show, “Chopped.” You know the one where they give you a mismatched basket of food items and ask you to miraculously make something amazing out of it in 15 minutes flat. She was that good. One of my favorite memories of her cooking was just how much she could do with eggs. She could make them a million ways and they were always BOMB—and if she had cheese and tortillas—lookout because you were about to meet your new favorite dish. Breakfast for dinner was an absolute treat as a kid. She was creative, innovative, and basically a food magician. I miss this about her.
I’m not really a cook. I mean, I do cook, but I’m definitely not on her level. I am a baker though. We complemented each other this way. She would make my favorite dish when I would visit home (tostadas) and I would make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies or apple pie. In those moments, all was right with the world. And while I don’t consider myself a great cook, most of what I know, she taught me.
When my son was still a baby she showed me how to make Mexican rice. Sean loved to eat it, it was soft, fluffy, and flavorful. I can remember the first lesson in my kitchen and the subsequent lessons in her kitchen as she helped me perfect it. Mom cooked according to looks and taste, I, however, needed a mathematical formula. Through a series of trials and errors, I finally figured it out. Using an equation (yes, I am a nerd), I can figure out how to make any amount of Mexican rice needed to feed any size group. You can call it a gift…but mostly it’s a nerd thing.
After my Mom passed away, life was a blur. Daily chores were neglected, my mind foggy, I felt extremely lost. I’m sure I was exhausted in every sense of the word—mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually…you name it. And yet, people needed to eat. It was probably three weeks later when I finally got around to cooking something “real.” I decided on tacos, a dish I was certain I could make in my sleep, and of course an accompanying pan of Mexican rice. Every part of the process was agonizing. Each ingredient a tangible reminder of the mother/daughter and teacher/student relationship we had when it came to food. I immediately went to my Mexican rice math equation, but there was nothing. After almost two decades of memorization, my reliable recipe (formula) escaped me. I stood there looking at an empty pan, uncooked rice in hand and I couldn’t remember step one. Nothing, then tears.
I remember thinking, please, Lord, don’t let me forget this! I need to know how to do this. I can’t lose this. I’ve already lost too much. Please, help me to remember.
Here is the part where you might expect a sudden revelation. I hate to tell you this, but there was none. I tried. I cried. I screwed up the rice. Not only that, but I screwed it up the next time and the time after that. Time and time again I stood there, dumbfounded and lost. In the big scheme of things, forgetting how to make Mexican rice doesn’t seem like a disaster and yet it was. It all was. The pandemic, losing my Mom, coping, and trying to move on. It was all a disaster. The kids ate variations of crunchy, under seasoned, too wet, blah tasting Mexican rice…encouraging me all the way. I can remember my daughter, Casey, saying, “You’ll figure it out. Go slow.” These are phrases that I often say to my kids when they’re struggling and being hard on themselves. Hearing these words directed at me stopped me in my tracks. When a child repeats something you have frequently (or incessantly) told them it’s a parenting compliment, a parenting win. Honestly, though, I think it’s just called the circle of life.
I remember the frustration of learning new things as a child. Somethings came naturally, but for me, cooking wasn’t intuitive. My Mom was always gracious in her teaching. I went to college only knowing how to make cereal and grilled cheese, but through her guidance (and many telephone calls) learned to make so much more! I went through my Rachel Ray phase about the same time the internet and smartphones became a part of daily living enabling me to share my mealtime creations with just a click. I remember a phone conversation where she walked me through making a rue. I was terribly unsuccessful. We tried an in-person lesson on my next visit home. Still unsuccessful. It probably took me five years to learn, all the while she would say, “You’ll figure it out. Go Slow.” Yes, definitely, the circle of life.
You might be surprised to know that cooking wasn’t my Mom’s favorite thing. Talented as she was, and I’m convinced food was one of her love languages, she did it for us and for others lucky enough to be at her kitchen table. And, she always made it fun! I come from a large family, so preparing meals for gatherings was time-consuming. No matter, we all just piled into the kitchen and got to work. Mom was great at delegating tasks according to our abilities. This makes me laugh because most of my expertise was in chopping vegetables while my sister, Amanda, was in charge of more complicated (and delicious) menu items that required actual cooking and seasoning. All the granddaughters would get involved —assembly-line style—for enchiladas (a family favorite!) No one ever complained as being a part of Mom’s kitchen crew meant lots of taste testing and samples. A huge perk to the process! By far, the biggest win for me personally was the day my Mom complimented me on my Mexican rice. I carry those words around like a badge of honor, then and now.
So when I failed to remember how to make the Mexican rice, it felt like I was losing something special. In true resolute fashion, I refused to give up. With my Mom’s words in my head, I kept trying. Shortly after she passed I came across a social media post that said, “Be the things you love about the people who are gone.” I saved it on my phone, a poignant reminder on the hardest days. I’m not a cook. I don’t believe I’ve been gifted with that ability, but for my family, cooking and time in the kitchen were so much more than that. I believe my Mom cooked because she loved us and it kept us close. The kitchen was always the center of our home life growing up. The heart of the home, it’s still one of the rooms I spend the most time in, my kids, too.
It’s been more than four months now, and I’m not screwing up the rice anymore. I finally remembered the recipe (formula) and hope that I’m never in a place to forget it again as part of my Mother’s memory lives in the kitchen. She’s in every drawer as she has gifted me with a number of utensils and tools. She lives in the cupboard and the refrigerator as she has influenced the things I love to eat and feed my family. She lives on the countertop, her whiteboard taking up center stage on the kitchen island. And she’s certainly in my cookbook as I try to maintain the recipes and traditions that I’ve grown up with and pass them on to my own children.
May I be all the good things that I love about her…today and every day.
“Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared. This day is holy to our Lord. Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10
“A Life Interrupted” is an ongoing series of blog posts dealing with the loss of my mother to COVID-19.
There are moments where time simply stands still. In those moments a solid memory is formed…and that’s where the next song on the list comes in. “Someday” by the group Sugar Ray (released in 1999) was the soundtrack to an absolutely perfect space in time for me. As a transplant to California, I quickly learned that there’s a learning curve to navigating the Golden State lifestyle. First, practically everyone is beautiful. People dress differently in Cali and carry themselves with a lot of confidence. Next, most things costs way too much, really. And finally, driving there is a sport. Still, after a few months, I finally felt like I was finding my way. This was home.It’s hard not to love California…amazing scenery and that salty, ocean smell. I recall driving on the 101, windows rolled down, the rolling hills of Marin County in the background when this song came on the radio. A song about having no regrets, a song about believing in the choices you have made, basically a song about contentment. And that’s exactly what I felt in that moment. For whatever reason, whatever my destiny was, however my purpose on this planet worked out–I wholeheartedly knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that particular place in time. I’ve never forgotten that feeling.
Lead singer, Mark McGrath has said in interview that the group was about having fun and seeing just how far they could go. While Sugar Ray actually played a wide variety of music styles…it was their pop rock, upbeat stuff that launched the group to fame. “Someday” was a top ten hit on the Billboard Hot 100, Hot Modern Rock Tracks, Hot 100 Airplay and on the Canadian charts, as well. The band enjoyed great success with their trademark southern California vibe.
Whenever I hear the song, I’m transplanted back to that time (I can even smell the ocean!) My life has changed a great deal since them. I’ve been fortunate enough to have had other experiences like the one that day. Today, I refer to them as “God-moments,” little assurances where I know I’m in just the right place, and I am so grateful.
There’s a big difference between “growing up” and “growing old.” Each process garnering its own tension (and with any luck,) eventually leading to some sense of solace and peace. Still it seems that in today’s culture, “growing old” is definitely the greater evil. In fact, I listened to a podcast recently that basically laid out just how taboo aging has become (I realize the mere mention of the word “podcast” clearly ages me as well!) Let’s face it, at 40something I’m way past the “growing up” stuff. So I guess this just leaves me mired in the murkiness of “growing old.” Sigh.
Honestly though, I’m finding more happiness than heartbreak with each passing year. It’s not necessarily fun watching the wrinkles and the gray hairs appear, but mentally and spiritually I feel like I’m in a good space. A place I wouldn’t trade for being a teenager again (I’m still apologizing to my mother.) And as tempting as it sounds, going back to my college years just doesn’t appeal to me as much as it used to. They say you’re only as young/old as you feel. And as a self-proclaimed “old soul,” I figure I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Still, crossing onto the other side of the BIG 4-0, I strongly believe I’ve gained some insight. While I haven’t exactly reached curmudgeon status (I’m working on it,) I certainly classify myself as “old enough to know better,” “wise enough not to fall for that” (again,) and filled with enough “I told you so” stories to write a “how-NOT-to guide.” Hopefully this makes me “M” for Mature, but more realistically, most would just rate me “O” for Old. Still, I will not be deterred. So whether you asked for it or not, let me drop a little wisdom here…because I just might know something. Perhaps even something worth sharing….
There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed. As a kid, I hated going to sleep. I thought it was a huge waste of time. Add to that my overactive imagination, frequent nightmares, and night owl tendencies…and it becomes clear that sleep was not high on my priority list–EVER. Still, I have really come to value the power of a good night’s sleep. I especially appreciate sleeping in my own bed. To be honest, I have a really hard time sleeping anywhere else. Something about MY pillows and MY blankets. This is a safe haven. No TV in the bedroom. No scrolling through Facebook or watching Netflix in bed for me. When my head hits the pillow, I’m out. Beautiful, peaceful and restorative slumber…in my own bed. I’m all about it!
Moisturizer is your best friend. I have always made it a priority to take care of my skin. Never EVER sleeping in make-up (especially mascara!) Always wearing sunscreen (something I had to learn the hard way after acquiring a horrible sunburn while working a car wash fundraiser in high school. Ewww…blisters.) I’m a Noxema girl and a sucker for its eucalyptus scent. A family member suggested wearing night cream as well as day cream after college graduation. Great advice…I am eternally grateful (so is my skin.)
“Respond more. React less.” Not my quote, but a great little ditty nonetheless. Basically, the idea is that we take a moment to process a situation, instead of just going off on someone. In a world where every feeling is justified for its mere existence, there is something to be said about thoughtfulness. Look, I’m not talking about being a spineless, doormat…instead let’s hash out our feelings before we broadcast them. It could save face and maybe even some stress and heartache. “When we respond, rather than react, we actually communicate from our highest principles and deepest desires. Reactions on the other hand, come straight from our most shallow anxieties and fears.” –Hal Runkel
Be generous. It’s such a human tendency to want to keep things for ourselves. Some of us do it out of greed or maybe even fear. Others can’t let go of things because of guilt. We all have our own reasons, but I have found that generosity is its own reward. And it’s important to remember that giving isn’t necessarily limited to money either. Being generous is about a willingness to offer time, energy, attention, advice…the list could go on and on. Putting others above yourself is Biblical and a little goes along way!
Seek out healing people and places. There’s no substitute for peace. As a twenty something I remember meeting a woman who absolutely made the hairs on my arm stand on end! She was an older woman, polite and wonderful with kids, so when this gut feeling struck…I had no real explanation for it. In fact, I felt guilty every time the feeling came on. After some time, I was able to figure out exactly what was going on. She had an energy that just didn’t jibe with mine. Her jumpy, antsy disposition made me feel anxious. Her energy level actually drained mine. It wasn’t about judgement, we remained friendly, however it was just a gentle reminder for me (all of us) to seek out people who lift us up, people who help us to be our best self, and whose company is soothing to the soul. You don’t have to be BFFs with everyone on the planet.
Look deeply. This is a new one for me. An idea that has just become very important to me in the last year or so. You see, my kids are growing so fast. As hard as it is to believe, they actually change in some ways every single day. This is exciting and completely terrifying! They say “don’t blink” and wow, that has never been more true. The idea of looking deeply extends past my children, too. Sometimes I walk in my front door and just stare at my living room (piles of kid shoes, backpacks everywhere, bulky baseball/softball bags, etc.) and realize I am blessed. Sometimes I chase down the “deer moon” on a summer night (ask my kids about that one!) Often, I take photographs of seemingly mundane things just because I don’t want to forget the moment. If you catching me staring at you…please consider it a compliment!
The grass is never greener. I know that’s not exactly how the idiom goes, but it’s the truth. I cannot think of one time when this has EVER panned out. I’m not into comparing myself to others. I don’t want what you have, I’m too busy to play that game. It’s not healthy and it will get you absolutely no where. Don’t get me wrong, this is a tough one. The green-eyed envy monster is for real. And it will wreck your day (and even your life) if you let it.
You can say “no.” They never tell you this. From the time we’re babies, people are always telling us “no.” “No” you can’t have that, “no” you can’t touch that, “no” can’t do that either. But no one ever tells us that we can say “no,” too. “No” I don’t have to go along for the ride. “No” I don’t have to sacrifice my well-being and happiness just to appease you. “No” your choices don’t have to be my choices. You get the picture.
Laugh often. I love sitcoms and comedies. I honesty live to laugh. I also have a strange sense of humor and value sarcasm. Just a look or an odd phrase will have me in giggles. “Smiling really is my favorite” (ELF.) It probably helps that I’m easily amused. Life really is too short not to spend a good chunk of it laughing. It’s a funny world we live in…seek out your own joy. And when you can’t find anything to laugh about…laugh at yourself. It’s humbling and good for the soul.
God is everywhere. “Life in real-time is messy. The fingerprints of God are often invisible until you look at them in the rearview mirror.” Levi Lusko is the author of this quote and it has really shaped how I view the world. At 42, I already know that God is all around us…what a blessing it is to purposefully seek out His presence on a daily basis. It sounds lofty and maybe even hard to do, but it’s possible and so incredibly rewarding. The more we tune our spirit into seeking out His hand, the easier it becomes to discern His handiwork.
None of us can turn back time (although I’m willing to spend a small fortune trying-lol!) And while the world is telling us that 40 is the new 30, I’m not so sure I buy it…at least not wholeheartedly. I can’t help but think of so many who exemplify aging gracefully and I just pray that I can grab a little bit of that for myself…all labels aside (especially “O.”)
Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained in the way of righteousness.Proverbs 16:31
hymningandhaing 