​I’ll be traveling to New York next month, to my youngest son’s engagement party. He called last night to ask if I would feel comfortable if he invited his father to the celebration. I told him very honestly that I hoped he would do so.

We all face junctures where the past and present collide, where memories demand our attention and crowd our mind. Sometimes these collisions evoke fear or anger or revenge, sometimes they simply remind us of a forgotten part of our life.

I read a fascinating book recently entitled Journey of Souls. The author, Dr. Michael Newton, presents case studies of clients, who while in a trance, speak of a life before this earthly life. There is a great similarity between one client and another, which is even more intriguing for me. And, one of the similarities involves our purpose in life.

Often, we associate purpose with our jobs or roles. But perhaps, purpose has less to do with what our title might be and more to do with how we live that title – of mom or dad or director or professor or whatever.

I can identify myself as a mom of four, but such an identifier tells you little about me, for you don’t know how I try to live that title, which gets to my purpose, I believe.

Dr. Newton’s clients speak of learning to love, and I wonder if that is our sole purpose. If it is, then our circumstances are a means to reach that end. Tragedy and sorrows transform to a challenge to dig deeper into our hearts.  Could it be that through these hurdles, we are given the opportunity to go beyond our limits and in that stretch, become more than who we have been?

When my son asked if my past could step into my present, I paused for a moment, for I needed to retrieve that past. Strangely, I found that it was no longer there. When the past is depleted of its usefulness, all that remains are faded photos and the person we have become – through our reach for love, for joy, for happiness.  

by Gwendolyn M Plano​

​One of my favorite songs is Grandma’s Hands by Bill Withers. Recently, I heard Kristy Lee sing it, and I invite you to listen to her rendition. Always, whenever I hear the song, I think of my mom.
 
In my extended family “Grandma” is the guardian of all-things-possible. She’s the one to whom the 40+ grandchildren call to fix a problem. She’s the one the 100+ nieces and nephews look to for a pat on the back or a warm embrace. Grandma’s opinion trumps all others and her prayers evoke miracles it seems.

My siblings and I are aware of our mother’s power with our children. When Grandma says something, she is politely listened to – we may not be. If Grandma says this or that needs to be done, this or that is done – no questions asked. Somehow the younger among us have decided that Grandma is the queen.

And, they are all aware of Grandma’s hands.

Gnarled from arthritis and time, Grandma keeps them hidden as best she can. When I was a child, her fingers deftly made quilts and dresses; churned butter or turned the crank for homemade ice cream. She tended one garden after another, and when she could, she escaped the noise of yelling kids and painted peaceful scenes in oil on canvas.

At ninety years old, my mom’s hands, Grandma’s hands, have retired from such things. They now turn pages more slowly, struggle to pick up coins or button a blouse; but, for their limitations, these beautiful hands still reach out to hold or embrace…the newest baby, the child crying, the teenager needing encouragement, the mom or dad who needs advice. Time may have taken its toll, but love just gets refined.

Blessings to all on this Mother’s Day….