I saw her in the mirror again.

The woman who looks like my mother. With her wrinkles and her thick thighs and her poochy belly.

I’m still surprised sometimes when I see her. But she always seems to recognize me.

When she smiles, I see deep lines on her face. The trails left by countless laughs and smiles. She has had a joyful life, and those are the reminders. Some days I detest the lines, but she reminds me how they got there, and encourages me to make them even deeper. She tells me to have pity on women my age who don’t have them, for they are precious.

The lines around her eyes remind me of the wonders she has seen, and her sun-scarred neck and shoulders bear witness to the majestic places she has been. They defy the current standards of beauty, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

When she stands tall, I see curvy lines where a thin, straight body once stood. Sometimes I get upset with her because she has allowed that to happen, but she reminds me of the wonderful things that body has done. Her belly and breasts bear the marks of bearing and feeding three children. (And those wide hips came in handy when she carried two of them around at one time.)

The legs with broken veins have climbed mountains, and the arms with saggy skin have paddled in oceans. Every part of her has served her well. Her journey could not have happened without them.

The silky blonde hair has turned a lovely shade of silvery-white. It is the one thing about her that I truly like.

I feel very self-conscious around her, because in my mind I am a previous version of her. The one with the smooth skin and flat belly. The one my husband fell in love with long ago. And I wonder if he feels the same way about my body that she does.

She reminds me that our journey together is not over, and that there will be more lines and more scars. More testimony to a life well-lived.

She encourages me to embrace them as they come, and always let them be a reminder of our glorious journey.

I decide to accept her wisdom, and to heed her pleadings. I offer myself grace.

For now.

I’m sure there will be another day when we meet in the mirror and I feel the old pangs. But I will try to remember her advice – the very advice her own mother once gave. To celebrate this season of life and all that comes with it.

A few days ago I bought camellias. Two tall specimens, destined to flank the patio, adding color and charm. I put them in the garage to ride out a pending winter blast – which lasted but a day. The following afternoon I planted them in large pots and traded the fading blooms of fall with colorful pansies and sweet alyssum. The warmth of the sun made for a sublime day.

This morning I stitched a blanket for a baby soon to be born. The rhythmic movements creating a time of mindfulness for me, just as the gardening had done a few days prior, both providing a needed respite from the inescapable thoughts of a dying friend.

This is life. Different from one day to the next. Giving and taking. Full of extremes, and lacking guarantees. What is here one day may not be here tomorrow. My task is to find the joy and beauty and love in each day. Because tomorrow will be different.

My camellias will always remind me of that.

*** For some reason I stopped writing a few years ago and mountains of words have since piled up in my head. But today I knew I had to get them out. ***

You might not remember me, but I remember you.

I showed up on your doorstep eleven years ago, frightened and bedraggled.

And you opened your doors.

You made room in your homes and hearts for us. You hugged me in the grocery store, and gave me money. Your children befriended mine at school, and you made room for us in the pew at Mass. You shared your kindness and made me believe that everything was going to be all right.

I thanked you, and prayed that I would never have the opportunity to repay you.

But that’s not how it has turned out.

Photo credit: wwltv.com

So I’m on my way. I’ll stock up on whatever I can find that I think you’ll need. I’ll show up ready to work. And I’ll try my best to make you believe that everything will be all right.

See y’all tomorrow.

Lisha

It hit me when I held the door open for the sweet, little lady. “Thank you, darlin’” she said. I smiled and watched her walk slowly to her car.

I wanted to follow her, open the car door for her, load the groceries into her trunk.

But her image had become blurry though my tears.

I whispered, “I miss being a daughter.”

Of all the things I have been, of all the hats I have worn, being a daughter was the constant.

Until one day.

I had an idyllic childhood. Almost every weekend of my youth was spent at our fishing camp on Grand Isle. My father and brother would be on the water at first light, leaving mother and daughter ashore. We filled the sunny days collecting shells on the beach or running crab traps in the surf, and the cloudy ones playing cards or assembling a puzzle. And talking. Always talking.

I didn’t realize during my teen years just how special my mom was. But my friends did, showing it by the hours they spent in her company.

When I moved away as a young bride the telephone kept us connected, and despite the outrageous cost of long distance in the 1980s, my husband never complained. He knew our bond was strong.

She doted on my children when they came along, even braving the delivery room when my firstborn arrived. I could not have imagined that experience without her.

I promised my father I would take care of her when he prepared to leave this world. And when the doctors told us just a few years later that she had only a couple of years to live, there was no hesitation. She moved in with us. I remember my husband’s words. “What’s the worst thing that can happen? She’ll live ten more years and drive us crazy.” He was close. She was under our roof for eight years, becoming part of every moment of every day.

Perhaps it’s a Southern thing, or maybe I was just overly attached to my mama, but being a daughter was a defining part of my identity. It was the one thing I had been for my entire life.

Until one day.

When I wasn’t a daughter any more.

My grief was eased the lifetime of memories and the promises of my faith. In my heart she was always with me. But my days felt empty. It took me years to identify that void. Once I did, I sought out every opportunity to again feel like a daughter. Like holding open doors for little old ladies.

A few days ago I bumped into a friend – who was shopping with her mother. I didn’t know this, but our mothers had been friends. When she introduced me as “Mary’s daughter,” her mother’s face lit up with the familiar smile of someone who knew my mom. And the empty place in me filled with love and pride and other emotions I don’t even have names for.

For ten years, I thought I wasn’t a daughter any more. All it took was a simple introduction to remind me that I will always be my mother’s daughter.

Happy birthday, Mom.

I could feel it vibrating, so I did a quick peek to make sure it wasn’t one of the kids. Seeing my friends’ names on a group text, I pushed the phone back in my purse until the movie was over.

As soon as we were in the car, I retrieved the phone. The message thread was buzzing with commentary about the day’s big news: the Ashley Madison list. Names from the list were flashing across my screen. My friend’s boyfriend. Another friend’s brother. An acquaintance’s husband. Local politicians. A prominent minister. I recognized so many.

My responses were judgmental. Seeing these names – and the dollar amounts spent on infidelities and dalliances – had me stunned.

These were bad people. They deserved this.

Then I paused, and thought about their loved ones. I asked myself the question: What would I do?

But the question was strictly rhetorical. My husband would never do such a thing. He’s better than them. We’re better than them. I let that feeling wash over me with a smugness that was unsettling.

“I’m better than them.”

But what if it had been a different list.

What if it had been a list that I was on?

I’m on a lot of lists. Some I’m proud of. The list of volunteers at my son’s school. The list of donors to our new church. The list of people who voted in the last election.

Other lists, I’m not so proud of. In fact, I’m so ashamed I won’t even reference them here.

But I’m on a lot of lists. And I would be devastated if some of them were shared openly. If my children were to see my name on them. If my secrets were revealed to the world.

And I thought about the people on that list.

Some of them are feeling like there is no recovery from something this bad. Some have taken their own lives, like the pastor and seminary professor from New Orleans. I watched the interview with his family through tear-filled eyes. If only he could hear their words. His wife’s message to others, “Don’t underestimate the power of love.” His daughter’s lament that her father “doubted the fact that I would love him enough.” How many people feel alone and ashamed every single day because their name is on a list.

We have let lists define us. We validate ourselves by being on the good lists. We denigrate others when they’re on the bad lists.

We judge by these lists.

It’s time to move beyond the great American pastime of judging others. We must live with so much love and grace that the people around us will feel that love and grace every day. We have to make sure people know we love them enough. Even if they’re on a list.

Then we have to acknowledge our own shortcomings so we can move past them. We have to treat ourselves with that same love and grace we are sharing with others.

Because we’re all on a list.

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Share your thoughts on lists.

I still have a calendar on my refrigerator. The old-fashioned paper kind, with columns and rows delineating days and weeks. I faithfully fill in the details of my life to keep things on track. When a month passes I separate that page and move it to the back, in case I need it for future reference. Then, at the beginning of each school year I print a new one, and the process repeats itself. I hang on to the previous year for a little while, eventually parting with it unceremoniously.

I’ve had limited success with a digital calendar, so the faithful paper organizer remains the tool I use to keep track of time.

There was a phase of my life when I didn’t need a calendar. I could remember exactly what time a future event was scheduled, or the exact day something in the past happened. I had an incredible ability to recall details, and it was especially sharp when it came to remembering time. I was young, and my days were fewer.

When I was a little girl my family went camping on the beach often. One day, as my brother and I played in the sand while my mother sunned herself from her lounge chair and my dad fished, a water spout approached the shoreline. We watched it get closer and closer, eventually coming ashore right where our tent was pitched. For years I remembered the exact date and time that happened.

But as the days in my memory grew in number, my ability to pinpoint time with precision waned, and a more general method of identifying time took over. I remembered things by years. I got married when I was 22. We moved back to Louisiana when I was 26. I had my third child when I was 37. The numbers were clear and well-defined.

As I grew older, there were fewer and fewer events that were marked so clearly in my memory. Instead, a system of measuring time by milestones took over. I would recall whether something happened before a major life event or after. That was before Katrina. That happened while my husband was deployed. That was after my mother died.

The bad things seemed easier to mark time by than the good things for some reason. The simple things that make my life so rich are often eclipsed by the challenges, so those things became the markers of time. And I don’t like that.

At this moment I find myself in a transitional place. My oldest son has graduated from college, landed a good job, and moved into his own house. He won’t be coming home for summers any more, or spending Christmas break here with his brothers. My middle son is halfway through college, and spent this summer in Italy, spreading the wings he’ll soon use to fly away. My youngest started his sophomore year of high school, will get his driver’s permit this year. I am reminded daily that his years left with me are few.

Everything I have defined myself by for the past two and a half decades is changing, and I wonder what the next part of my life will be like. And what I will call it.

I’m looking forward to periods called the time Mr. Wonderful and I got to travel more, the year I finished my novel, and the year I went the whole summer without cooking.

I’m dreaming of the year I danced at my son’s wedding, and the year I became a grandmother.

But I wonder how I will remember this time.

The calendar on my refrigerator says it’s 2015. But I will always remember this as the year he got his own place, the year he studied abroad, and the year he learned to drive.