Last week, when Sunday rolled around, I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t even try. The events of the days leading up to it still felt too heavy and uncertain.
Let me back up just a bit. Every year, on August 6, my birthday wish is the same— to spend the day with my grandkids. Thankfully, due to a slight oversight, my husband Mickey and I had scheduled a gig on Thursday. That meant we couldn’t make the 6-hour drive to see the grandkids until Friday. What felt like an inconvenience at the time turned out to be perfect timing.
On Tuesday, my sister and niece drove down from Iowa, and Mom took us out to lunch. It’s been a long-standing tradition to celebrate our birthdays on the day in the middle. She was born on August 4th, two days before my 1st birthday. We’re Irish Twins. We had a nice visit, wandered through a few shops, and then slipped back into our respective lives.
But Wednesday evening, as Mickey and I were getting ready for our upcoming weekend trip, we noticed some unusual activity up at mom’s place—just two spaces down in the RV Park. She seemed flustered, as though she were searching for something. I walked up, and within minutes of talking with her, I knew something wasn’t right. I called a close friend, who arrived in record time with other friends who, thankfully, are also trained medical professionals. After a quick assessment, we decided she needed to go to the ER to be evaluated by a respected neurologist.
Now, if you know my mom at all, you also know she considers herself ten feet tall and bulletproof. At ninety years old, she is fiercely independent. She does her laundry, prepares her meals, goes where she wants to go, and sends out a daily astrological message to at least fifteen different people. She’s determined to keep up with the ever-changing technology of today, and so far, she’s done pretty well. She even takes online classes in areas of interest. She also attends many of our gigs, dances a jig, and sips a sweet cocktail, preferably with rum and key lime. And she has read every word I’ve ever written. Oftentimes, replying with thoughtful answers and an occasional suggestion on correcting a grammatical error. She’s been my editor, my proofreader, and overall biggest fan.
But in a matter of minutes, the person I had known all my life was someone new. I know she will not appreciate the fact that I am even writing about this, but I think it’s okay. After all, she is loved by so many. And why wait until it’s too late to celebrate the life she is still living?
"Too often, we don’t notice what a body does until it stops doing it."
Aging and the complications and inconvenience that can accompany it are not something to brush under the rug or hide. It’s not a weakness, but instead a reason to thank our bodies for getting us this far. Too often, we don’t notice what a body does until it stops doing it or needs some assistance. My mom’s health scare was a gentle reminder to give my own body a little grace—to show it a little kindness and gratitude for working nonstop since before I was born. This is no small miracle.
Years ago, when Mickey had his gallbladder removed, we met with a young surgeon who spoke passionately about the organs he worked with every day. When he got to the pancreas, his voice caught. He looked down, eyes glistening, and whispered, “The pancreas. What a hell of an organ.” His awe has stayed with me all these years—a reminder that the body is nothing short of miraculous.
My sister said this incident with Mom was a wake-up call for all of us. I agree. For ninety years, her body has worked tirelessly, her mind sharp and curious. Aside from the pacemaker she received over twenty years ago, she’s been a model of aging well.
This past week has been scary. I forgot how quickly life can change. Thankfully, she’s doing great now and is expected to recover fully. In the meantime, I found a poem that brought me peace, a gentle reminder of what truly matters: presence.
The Gift of Presence by Mary Anne Byrne
Just be present, and let everything be.
Stop pushing against the moment,
stop resisting what already is.
You don’t need to fix it,
change it,
judge it,
or escape from it.
Let go of the striving,
the grasping,
the tightening around how life should be.
There is peace in your softness.
A deeper stillness in surrender.
Let what comes, come.
Let what goes, go.
Stand as the witness,
aware,
open,
untouched at your core.
Even if the mind races,
even if emotions swell,
you can remain here,
in this space of allowing.
No pushing.
No pulling.
Just presence.
The breath flows in,
the breath flows out.
Life moves,
and you remain still within it.
This is not giving up.
This is waking up,
to the quiet intelligence moving through all things.
You don’t have to hold the world up.
You only have to let go.
In surrender,
there is freedom.
In stillness,
clarity.
In simply being,
you return home.Thank you for reading My Sunday Best. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.