Today, Rozann Carter talks what about an organization called Senior Connections taught her about aging and how losing what once defined us can sometimes reveal our true "value."
Think of your five favorite things to do—the things that define your interests or express your talents, things that have shaped you as a person and affected your life choices. Maybe these activities have helped you forge relationships or discover career opportunities, or maybe they simply offered hours of enjoyment and peace. Cooking? Golfing? Reading? How about traveling? Singing? Playing a musical instrument? Even attending daily Mass or organizing service activities? What about just taking a morning walk around your neighborhood?
Now cross off four of those things.
You can no longer enjoy them, no longer muster up the energy or ability to really even take part in them at all. No one remembers that you loved these things— they are only chronicled in snapshot photos that no one cares to see. Maybe you were even a master of one or two of those activities. Now, they have faded into memories— sometimes glorious, sometimes bitter— but nothing more than memories..
The smallest offers of grace are often the most profound, as Kerry Trotter learned last weekend, when forgiveness, understanding and a daughter's love played out in one small but moving vignette. Read on for the little lessons of love we can appreciate on Mother's Day.
Running the gauntlet of servers toting piping hot dishes of eggplant parmesan and chicken cacciatore, a gaggle of starry-eyed date nighters, and some down-to-business foodies waiting for tables, I caught my toddler daughter as she lunged out of my arms. It was nearing her bedtime, our meals at the bustling Italian restaurant had not arrived, and she wanted out.
So we were heading out.
I buried my slight annoyance that our shrimp scampi appetizer had just arrived, and that my husband, visiting mother-in-law and I were sharing boisterous, interesting conversation. My daughter needed to run around outside and I drew the short straw. This is mothering, I thought, get used to it.
As we walked down the few steps to the front door, I wrangled my squirrely baby in one arm while holding the door open for two women heading inside. They in no way indicated that they were grateful I went out of my way to be polite, much less even noticed how this door was mysteriously being opened for them.
I began to fume at their gall, and I felt a not-so-infrequent burst of hot headedness consume me. I snapped, but in a most passive-aggressive way.
“You’re welcome!” I barked, letting the contempt in my voice echo to a bassy thunder in the narrow staircase...