Holding Mom's Hand
Some weekends leave you tired.
Some leave you grateful.
This one somehow managed to do both.
Saturday started earlier than we expected.
Somehow, in all of our planning for the trip to Richmond, we forgot one thing.
The food pantry.
We've been filling it for so long that it has become part of who we are.
It isn't something we remember to do anymore.
It's simply something we do.
So before we left town, we loaded the car one more time.
Only then did the road trip really begin.
The drive was for two reasons.
The first was a happy one.
We celebrated my mom's birthday a little early.
Lunch together.
Stories.
Coffee that surprised me enough to come home with two bags of it.
Simple things.
Good things.
The second reason was much harder.
My mom's best friend passed away a few months ago.
To me...
She was simply Aunt Bonnie.
No explanation ever seemed necessary.
She had earned that title long before I understood what family really meant.
When our daughter was born and our future felt frighteningly uncertain, she crossed the country to be with us.
Not because anyone asked.
Because that's who she was.
Saturday evening we attended a memorial Mass held in her honor.
The church was new to us.
Built in the seventies.
Beautiful in a way that only a church filled with decades of prayer can become.
Then something unexpected happened.
Our children were invited to carry the gifts to the priest.
I watched my wife.
My daughter.
My boys.
Walk down that aisle.
I wanted to be beside them.
Instead...
I stayed beside my mom.
My ankle wasn't going to make that walk.
More importantly...
My mom needed someone holding her hand.
Near the end of the Prayers of the Faithful, they began reading names.
Those serving.
Those who were sick.
Those being remembered.
Then...
They read my aunt's name.
The sanctuary fell silent.
And then, together...
Everyone spoke her first name.
At that exact moment, I felt my mom gasp.
I reached over and took her hand.
She squeezed tighter than I can ever remember.
In one moment...
I was still a little boy.
Holding my mom's hand.
And at exactly the same time...
I was a grown man.
Holding my mom's hand.
I don't know how both things can be true.
But somehow...
They are.
When my family returned from carrying the gifts, David wore a smile I'll remember for a long time.
I nodded.
Told him how proud I was.
Zoey looked just embarrassed enough when I squeezed her hand.
Jacob got a high five.
My wife got the words she deserves to hear far more often.
"I love you."
Sometimes families don't need grand gestures.
Sometimes they just need someone to reach for a hand.
The drive home was quieter.
The kids settled in.
Eventually their devices came out.
Life slowly became ordinary again.
Later that night I laughed harder than I have in a while with some of my closest friends.
It hurt.
In the best possible way.
I think we all needed that.
Sunday was slower.
Because Saturday had already filled us.
BLTs for dinner.
Home Improvement in the living room.
Early bedtime.
A tired body.
A tired heart.
A full one too.
This morning I'm exhausted.
The week is waiting.
Meetings.
Responsibilities.
Deadlines.
Life moves forward whether we're ready or not.
But this weekend reminded me of something I'll carry for a very long time.
One day...
If we're fortunate...
We stop needing our parents to hold our hands.
And quietly...
Without anyone announcing it...
We become the ones who hold theirs.
I don't think growing older happens on birthdays. I think it happens in moments we don't recognize until they're already behind us. Holding my mom's hand during that Mass was one of those moments. I wasn't fixing anything. I couldn't take away her grief. I simply stayed beside her while we remembered someone we both loved.
Maybe that's what adulthood really is. Not having all the answers, but learning when your presence matters more than your words. If that's true, then this weekend gave me one more lesson I'll carry for the rest of my life.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
