This past week, with Mother’s Day, I was asked (again):“What’s it like having nine kids?” Now, let’s be clear. Size does not matter. But it can sure feel like it does. Large families tend to invite wide-eyed questions, whispered comments in the grocery line, or nods of awe, as if I climbed Everest with a baby carrier. I get it. Nine is not subtle. But I never chased a number. I wasn’t collecting children like…
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During this past spring’s spiritual formation program residency, my instructor noted that the average time someone spends looking at a piece of art in a museum is just 21 seconds. Glancing is the hurried impulse to see it all.Gazing is something altogether differenta willingness to let everything else fall away,to focus wholly on one thing. The Cliffs by Jules Breton – National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, Photo taken 3/17/25 The image above is currently…
Leave a CommentWe have all experienced the pain of losing someone we hold dear—our choices about how and what we remember become significant in these moments. The power of our memory serves as a bridge, allowing us to delve deeper into our understanding of those we’ve lost, even in their absence. As believers, we hold onto the faith and expectation that we will one day reunite with them. I often liken these acts of remembrance to carve…
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Originally posted in June 2020 In honor of Father’s Day and my dear Dad, Frank Andrews whose 101st bday is June 30th, I share a series on Frank features. Music Memories My dad believed in and loved the power of music. I remember my dad usually singing to one of his children. I often recall hearing him break out in this silly song together. The ukelele was Dad’s instrument. He would often break out his…
4 CommentsI struggle to listen. I have spent years reading, teaching, and practicing active listening, but I still struggle. Some friends would claim I am a good listener, but I know my inner struggle to attend and listen. This struggle showed up powerfully on a recent visit to my 91-year-old mother. My mom, Maxine, is declining. She no longer can link my name to her memory, but when I walk in the room with my husband,…
1 CommentVisiting my 88-year-old mother is part of my weekly rhythm. I don’t know what she’ll remember about dad or our long history together. That is no longer distressing as it makes for good improv. Whatever my mother says I can say, “Yes and… “ and run with it. There is one string of thought, however, that can be relied on. That happens when my mother remembers the house, her house now my house. It is…
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