I noticed that my fingers are sore in my right hand. This is the hand I write with , but for some reason the bones in that hand are acting as if the are healing again. Or as if they were broken again and needed to be reset.

It’s very painful. It may be due to my using one finger to type with because the rest of the fingers aren’t in a natural position, like when typing.

All I know is that my right hand cramps up terrible to the point of pain when I have a spoon or knife in that hand. I was making supper for the boys and when I released the knife, putting it down on the counter, I had a pain stab through my hand.

The words and ideas keep jumping in my mind. Sometimes I respond to their demand for acknowledgment. Each time I do, there is a release of joy, purpose, satisfaction for the creativity on the page. I like it. It feels good. My mind forgets the pain in my hand, and I feel redeemed.


Sitting with my 8 year old disabled son on my lap as I listen to the solo performance of Breath of Heaven, I feel the tears fighting their way to the surface. I hold my son because the seizures seem to avoid him if he feels comfort from an embrace of love. The soloist’s voice carries my tears closer to the surface as I identify with the pain, struggle and loneliness of being a caregiver. I adjusted his shirt, his position, searching to slow my breath and keep the tears back.

As she sang, “I have traveled many moonless nights with a babe inside, and I wonder what I’ve done.” The truth broke through my wall of protection.”You’ve chosen me now, to carry (my son). Iam waiting, in a silent prayer, I am frightened by the load I bear. In a world as cold as stone. Must I walk this path alone? Be with me now. Be with me now.Breath of heaven hold me together.Be forever near me….” My tears rushed and broke my walls. I struggled to keep them under control.The words from the soloist’s song were so true. My role in caring for my son gives me the knowledge to know the nativity story at the most personal level.

I sat in the third row, clearly seen by the pastor, yet trying to hide my tears. The journey is so long, ardorous and without rest. My son’s full rehabilitation still not within sight. “Breath of heaven, lighten my darkness, pour over me your holiness. Breath of heaven”.

I continued to listen to the words and know them as my own; “Do you wonder as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place? But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan. Help me be strong, help me be, help me.” I couldn’t slow the tears because it was all true. The pain, the wonder of my angel’s miracle is real too. He’s almost walking by himself. He wr

My middle son turned to me, seeing the tears and asked me what was wrong. I replied, “I have a headache.” He hugged me. My mood lifted. The soloist sang, “Breath of heaven, hold me together, be forever near me, breath of heaven”. My encouragement taken from the words of a song and my son’s embrace, I stopped the tears.

Not knowing a fellow parishener was watching, she came over to say, “You’re  the best mother, I’ve ever seen. You care for him so well.”

Angel Power Grows

This day. This amazing day. He shines his smile, hitting anyone in its way with warmth and charm. He grows. He works harder than I have ever seen him work. As he rode in the train with his nurse, his head thrown back to release the exulting joy to be moving in something so gleeful. I marvel at his delight, as he moves with the tiny tot train made from a riding mower. The man or engineer looked over sized for such a vehicle. He smiled and waved at all who connected visually. The Buddy Walk never had a train before. This year’s train was great for the excitement children were already thinking when Christmas truly arrives.

Before arriving to the Annual Buddy Walk, we sat in the car, patiently waiting for the traffic to change because the light had, however, no one was moving, and red-blue sirens were sounding in my rear view mirror, impatiently waiting for the traffic to find a way to pull aside and let them through. It became a sudden reminder of a day not so far away, where my angel was in need of rescue. My oldest son said, “Mommy, someone got hurt?”

“Yes, Sam”, was my reply. “Pray for them.”

“Dear Jesus, please make the hurt person all better. Amen”

“Amen.” I kept looking around to see how bad the situation was, and whether I had it worse. I did. Thankfully, two of the three drivers were able to leave their cars. The third seemed unconscious. Rescue workers were checking her pulse and neck. I turned away from watching, realizing I would cause another accident if I didn’t turn my focus in front of me. Our thoughts sober and thinking about the unconscious driver; her windshield broken, the air bag released. When I turned to my rear view mirror centered on my angel, I noticed his head stacked forward as if his neck didn’t have strength to hold up his head. As we pulled in to the parking area, I noticed he still didn’t move. We awakened him with water. He perked up some, but seemed to wilt like a flower in too much sun. We pushed ourselves toward a shaded area where he could flourish, and he did. Swinging his arms vivaciously whenever the train came by him.

My reflections tell me we are not alone. As my angel continues to progress and find his way back home to his immensely loving family, I know that he is different and will remain different. I may or may not be dealing  with a complete child. He has great lengths to go.His “isms” remain uniquely his own. Thankfully, this amazing day held much more healing.