“I don’t know, she doesn’t need anything. She said she’d take money.”

“Of course she will. That is so your mom!” Miriam chuckled.

After we hung up, I wondered the same thing. What do you give someone who is turning 90?

This Saturday, my little mama will reach that milestone.

Born on September 4, 1920 on a homestead in Colorado Springs, Mom was one of six children. Their father—my grandfather was a Romanian man who traveled to this country by himself when he was 12 years old. He worked hard, married well, and tried homesteading. After a few years that didn’t work, so he took a job in Detroit and that is where my mother, Pauline Botu grew up.

She married my dad and had 48 of the best years of her life. (48 out of 59 ain’t bad, according to my father.) He died a few years ago, so now it’s just mom. She lives with my husband, my son, and me.

She frets because she can’t help. I assure her that she worked hard for several years, so her job is to pray. And she does.

So we’re going to have a party. A tribute to Mom. There will be a lot of good food and great friends. We’ll say all the things that we’d say at her funeral, but we just want to say them now.

My husband Tom is going to do ‘A Top 10 Things I Like About My Mother-in-Law.’ Number 10 is that she pays rent. (He’s considered billing me.) I know that a few of those top ten will have to do with the fact that my mom is a sports nut. She encouraged me to love football and baseball. For a few years, I even cheered for ‘the cubbies’ because of her.

“Just pick a team and root for it!” she told me when I complained about Tom watching too much football. I took her advice. I may gone overboard, because now I watch reruns of football games and think ESPN commercials are hilarious.

What do I give someone who loved me when I was unlovable? Who stood by me when I made lots of bad choices? Who cares even now when I get a cold? How do I measure the strong, simple faith that she exemplified to me and my sisters?

The answer is nothing that I could give her could repay all that she’s done for me. Which is really all that the gospel is about. Being unable to pay an insurmountable debt. Grace, pure grace.

But I could give her a gift. Like living my faith out in order to show Jesus to my almost-grown-children. That is a gift that reaps eternal rewards.

Something tangible that I might give her is to watch an entire ballgame in her room. We’ve switched to the Tampa Bay Rays because we were tired of losing.

And if that doesn’t please her, I could always give her cash.

“Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so daily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself , so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.”

Paula continued reading in The Upper Room devotional. She read about a man who’d been beaten down with words and accusations. I listened intently. I was beaten down–not with words, with my circumstances. I was discouraged because I’d taken my eyes off of Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith.

Then, Paula looked at my 90-year-old Mama, and Mom gestured for her to pray. As she began, it was if God Almighty lifted our family up with her prayers. The music of them played in my ears like a magnificent melody.

Isn’t that like Jehovah to minister to us in unexpected ways.

I am blessed to have a helper for my mom that is part of our eternal family. We don’t share blood, but through the blood of Christ, we will share eternity.

After Paula finished, I prayed. I lifted her up. I lifted her invalid mother up. Her concerns, her circumstances, her cares.

And all God’s people said, “Amen!”

“Okay, okay, I hear you!”

Opening the door to my refrigerator to grab the half in half, I feel an overwhelming urge to hug my boxy friend. “I love you. You store more food than I can possibly let go bad in a month AND you give me fresh drinking water whenever I’m thirsty. PLUS, I don’t have to feed you anything!”

What can I say but, ‘My refrigerator I have loved, my dishwasher I have hated.’ It’s then that the microwave reminds me again. This time the beeping seems sterner. I extract my 5-hour-old coffee while still in my PJ’s and head toward my office with determination. Then I hear it. The beep beep beeping of the 20-plus-year old dryer. It prompts me for the 5th time that my clothes are really, really, dry now and please take them out since I’m tired of reminding you.

“I know, I know, stop nagging me!” I retrieve the clothes and begin to fold. The phone rings and I answer “Charter Boat Gypsy.” Yes, we have an opening. Yes, my husband is a great fisherman, and yes we want and need your money. It’s then that I perceive strangers conversing in my bedroom. It’s the weather radio, warning me of a storm. Balancing the calendar for the boat in one hand, while cradling the phone under my chin, I turn off the radio and pencil in the customer.

“Mom, do you have my lunch?”

“Of course,” I lie. Gong back to my first love, I remove two pieces of store-bought fried chicken and grapes, throw them into a plastic bag with chips. I need a note. Wandering into my bedroom, I find the verse of the day, scribbling in on a big post-it, I wrap it around two pieces of dark chocolate.

“Rejoice in the Lord, always, and again I say rejoice!” Philippians 4: 4.

“I am rejoicing, Lord, but do you know what I did with my cold coffee?”

Right now, I’m sitting with my feet propped up on a retro chaise lounge in the most famous coffee shop in the world. Big Band music plays in the background while a plethora of people order $4 cups of coffee as if that were normal. So what am I doing here? I haven’t ordered my $4 coffee,… yet. For now, I’m cashing in on the Christmas gift card that I’ve milked (no pun intended) until almost the 4th of July.

Sometimes, a person (that’s me) has to go away from home to really think. That is exactly what I’m doing today. It’s a think-write day.

My thinking has led to writing. So for today’s blog, I’d like to share with you how I spent my Monday Musing night. I’ve been meeting with a group of young women between the ages of 18-26. We plan a vague menu the week before and then spend time together cooking. This past Monday, we chose Chimichangas, Mexican rice, salsa and cake. Nicole, a newly-married woman, demonstrated the chimis and rice, while Shannon, the almost-college-graduate brought a small cake and iced it with buttercream frosting. She pulled out several metal tools from a tote that resembled a Martha Stewart original and constructed pink frosting roses.

I drooled.

I love the cooking part, but I love the part of the evening that we spend together after we cook, eat, and clean up the best. We talk about the Lord—Jesus, that is. We share how He is working in our lives, and how we want to know Him better. We pray together and hold each other accountable.

The young women share their successes and struggles. I share too, but my sharing is different. I can look back on 51 years of struggles. I testify to God’s grace and I’m transparent about my sin. I recount the amazing way that God took my sin and mistakes and turned them into His victories.

I love to interact with these young women who are passionate about the Lord. It’s an encouragement to me and I hope that I’m a blessing to them. It’s an eternal investment for all of us. Kind of like, food from heaven.

The meal was great and the cake with the pink roses tasty, but the fellowship was the sweetest of all.

I’ve had teenagers, I don’t need a dishwasher hanging around the house, eating dishwashing soap and vinegar like it owned the place. Sleeping when it should be working. Costing me money with no contribution to our family. Sure, I can store the dishes there, but when I want it to wash them, all I’m left with is food-crusted plates and cloudy glasses.

It’s not even a blood relative. What can I say besides, I’m bitter.

I’m bitter because I spent days and weeks perusing ads to choose a dishwasher that I’d love. I’m bitter because I traveled to store upon store asking detailed questions of the tired salesperson. I’m bitter because the love I once had for my much needed appliance has twisted into utter disappointment and ultimate regret.

I could wash my dishes by hand, of course. There’s something comforting about that. Standing by my sink, using only a rag and soap. Piling them on the counter while my nineteen-year-old son chats with me, happily drying the plates and putting them away. Kind of like an unknown Norman Rockwell painting.

That’s a pipe-dream.

For now, I’ll keep yelling. I’ll invest in another gallon of vinegar and one more box of Cascade. And maybe, just maybe, my despised dishwasher will grow up and get a job, and maybe even move away.

One can always hope.

My son currently has two jobs so he can stay. He even offered to help in the kitchen last night. Maybe there’s hope for my dishwasher.

Whenever we go places, she introduces me as her mother. That role now belongs to me. I remind her to change her Depends. I take care of her money. I make appointments. I arrange her birthday parties. I guess that qualifies me to be her mom. And we’re both okay with that.

So when my daughter visited us in between semesters at college and mentioned that Grandma commented on how I never went into her room, it bothered me. All day.

Most mornings were taken up with writing, straightening, house management and family business stuff. Many afternoons, I work out of my house until dinner time, shipping software for a transcription company. Then there is a rush dinner to prepare. Plus, I’m involved in two Bible studies and I do have a husband.

Although, I oversee Mom’s care and do most nights and afternoons myself, other caregivers take her to appointments, give her showers and fix some meals. So this morning, I decided to have quality time with my 89-year-old daughter.

Martha Stewart blared on the TV as I entered Mom’s room. She was sleeping. I waited and watched as you would a child, until she awakened.

“Hey, Mom. Thought I’d watch the show with you.” Climbing into her hospital bed, I relaxed. I knew that I had writing deadlines, but this was important, too. She lounged in her green, lift-chair. We offered our opinions on the wedding attire fashion show, gasping at $650 pants that Martha thought were affordable. We remarked at the number and length of commercials. We admired the home made wedding pedestal cake.

Then, I left. I’ll never be sorry that I took a few minutes to watch a show with Mom, but I’m sure that I’d have regrets if I didn’t.

It’s hard to find that balance between caregiving and taking care of yourself and your family. It’s taken several years and many emotional conversations to come up with our plan. And just because you come up with a plan, doesn’t mean it will work a few months from now. There is always room for re-evaluation and balance.

I thought of how I home schooled my two children for 9 years. Even though I taught them daily, I was too busy. If there were one thing I would have done differently, it would be to sit down and enjoy them more often.

So I did that today with my mom. And we both decided against the $650 pants.

Next to him, a solidly-built, older gentleman walked a tight-rope as he conversed with a spell-bound crowd. In front of him, vendors of art, jewelry, and colored fabrics pedaled their wares to content tourists, warm with sun, some hot with alcohol.

As he spoke, adding marks to his picture, filling in shapes to make words, some laughed at him. Others passed within inches of him, trying to provoke a comment. Still others outwardly taunted and made faces while the ’show’ of Mallory Square continued on.

The scene of the cross came to mind. Heads wagging. Sour wine offered. Gambling beneath as ‘the old, old, story’ played out. A precious treasure available as passerbys grapple for trinkets that will one day burn.

After he finished his presentation, I turned to my daughter Sarah and said, “He must find it extremely difficult to come out here week after week, sharing the gospel with people who don’t care or who make fun of him.” We agreed, teary-eyed.

Just then, a younger man joined the speaker and their conversation floated over the ocean breezes to us. “I know. I can’t believe that the Lord gives me the privilege of speaking His Word here each week! I sometimes have to pinch myself,” he informed the young man.

My heart lifted while my opinions melted. The ‘old, old, story,’ is new and exciting and, shucks, it’s even good news. The Good News. And this man knows it and cherishes it and is faithful to preach it for 25 years now in Mallory Square.

And everyone said, Amen.

“Let me take a look at those pants and see if they’re too tight.”

I seethed. Who was she to talk. My mom had always been a generous size 18. At least I wasn’t there,… yet. I spat out something to the effect that it was none of her business, and stop telling me what to do. Then my spiritual side started to hot-foot it off to study God’s Word. Of all the nerve!

My response haunted me as I applied my lip gloss. I discussed her comment with myself in the mirror. Why was I so abrupt? What is it about mom that bugs my fifty-one-year-old-self so much?

Rebellion whispered faintly in my ear. The Spirit spoke to me and I realized that I didn’t want her telling me what to do. I thought about my kids. I’d voiced my opinion to them for years—metamorphosing in their ears like a Charlie Brown parent. I was abrupt. I used words that I thought were helpful, but were sometimes hurtful.

I thought of my mom. Most days she didn’t leave her bedroom except for the one block walk up my street. She meant to help, even though it hurt. I contemplated a time recently when I’d been brutally honest with her.

“Mom, you need to change your Depends. It smells.” Ouch. That’s role reversal in full swing. My mom even calls me mom. What I said needed to be said. But wasn’t there a kinder way to say it?

I vowed to watch my words with her.

You see, I’m a ‘Proverbs 31 Woman Wannabe.’ When that woman speaks, “the teaching of kindness is on her lips.” My desire is to have love and kindness oozing from my mouth. I realize that it needs to come from my heart. Lord, forgive me. Change my heart and my words

My feet led me into the TV room as my heart desired to depart.

“How do I look, Mom?” I prepared myself for the worst. She gave me the once-over.

“They’re not too tight. You look good.”

Thanks, Mom, and thanks, Lord.

So this morning, armed with the appropriate tools, I was sweeping and thinking right after the sun came up. I thought of how I’d been impatient with my Mom and how I could improve. My son came to mind, and I prayed for him. I wondered if Tom were on the water admiring God’s handiwork from out charter boat. I listened to the birds and tried to locate their position. And sometimes, I just swept.

Whether you’re a caregiver for a parent, a spouse, or your children, you need alone time. Time spent thinking, creating, worshipping.
Just like sweeping, it makes a real difference.

Her mother, Berta is one of Mom’s companions. She came to my house on Sunday morning so I could perform. She dressed, showered and fixed Mom’s breakfast. Then she brought her to church. She is exactly 10 years younger than my mother and they are true friends. They understand things about life, death, and old age that I’ve never thought of. On Wednesdays, after Berta takes Mom to her weekly hair appointment, they have lunch together and spend approximately $2. I don’t know how they do it, unless there is a grey-headed old man who works the counter at the chain and is sweet on them. So yesterday, because I performed, they worshipped together.

It is great when you have a team to help you with caregiving. It really takes a team. Paula, another woman from our church also helps with my mom. Both companions offer something very different to my mom and our family. I hope that we offer them something besides a little spending money. I serve them a heaping dish of Christian hospitality with a side of brotherly love whenever they come over.

I know some of you don’t have help. Let me know, and I will pray about that. But for today, I want to encourage you with God’s Word. II Corinthians 1: 3, 4 state, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

He is the caregiving God. He is the God of all comfort. Take time today to be comforted by Him.