How many years does it take to change?

If you, or anyone, told me that I had to change, if I thought I had to change, I would have said “no way.” I admire folks who put themselves through programs in order to change. You will never find a person more impressed with twelve steppers … not the programs, although they are tried and true, but the steppers, than I am. The people who face the need to change and find a program that helps them to do it, that is inspiring to me.

I have tried to change; little things, like weight, eating habits, worry patterns, and people for whom I care. It has never been successful. Well, I’m not 212 pounds, I don’t live on butter and sugar and I have outgrown some of those worry patterns.

Harder to change are the ingrown beliefs I developed over all those years of raising all those children, mostly by myself. For instance, I have always believed that a parent’s job is to raise a child to be an adult, not a close to mom’s knee kiddo all his life. Ask any of them, I never expected them to be what I wanted them to be, to live nearby or to check in regularly after they were grown up. And they don’t.

Holidays have never worked very well for me. As a young person they were generally nervous occasions with at least the possibility of a depressed parent with a need to stoke his senses of inadequacy with cigars and whiskey, spoiling what we always hoped would be a good Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter or 4th of July. Some of those tendencies reappeared as I tried to raise my own children. Certainly the brooding likelihood was never far away. So we tried traditions; Tyler for Thanksgiving, all of us together at Christmas, inviting or accepting invitations for picnics or swim parties in the summer. But it was never very good, there were never enough gifts, the regular menu; ham, buffet potatoes, peppermint chiffon pie, didn’t make our holidays special. I always hoped for a good one, a memorable one, one that kids or grandkids would bring up in conversation later. There are some good pictures; group shots on the couch or in front of the tree, smiling at the beach, dressed in Mexican dresses, it looked like we were a “normal” family and having a good time. But it didn’t work.

Now I have changed! I have given up even hoping for a picture perfect family traditional happy holiday. Not “given up” all pitiful like. Really, its okay.

Yesterday was a perfectly good Easter.
It was a remarkably worthwhile Holy Week.
On Thursday I attended Maundy Thursday service at St. Francis. I don’t wash or have anyone wash my feet. It is meaningful to watch others participate but not my cup of tea.
On Friday with dear friends I went to Houston, even past Ascension Church, to eat a great Mediterranean meal, and then to Christ the King church (right there near Rice U) for breathtaking music of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. We stopped at LaMad for soup and dessert on the way home. Never been a better Good Friday.
Saturday I was at church by ten am, stuffed, sealed and stamped our stewardship mailing, prepared our newsletter for a mailing to follow in a few days and went home for a nap. I was back at church at 7:20 for a long, dark and light, moving Great Easter Vigil. I had never even been to one and it is quite amazing with the first half, a recounting of the major events in the old Testament interspersed with prayers and Taize hymns and then blazing with noise into the bright lights and joy of the resurrection. Even really tired, it was thrilling.
I was back at St. F on Sunday morning at nine to be the Vestry Person of the Day. The flowers, inside and out, were just beaming. Our altar has never shined brighter. Fr. John preached another home run. I counted the offering, went to the bank and then met six or so church folk at our regular restaurant, Shiraz, for our regular good lunch. And then I went home to take a nap. It was Easter, a major Christian/American holiday, holy day and except for a short phone call with one of my four children, eleven grandchildren, there was no family in it.

See, I am changed. And I didn’t even have to work at it. It is not pitiful. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I raised my four to go off and be themselves and they have. Some of them still check in with me from time to time. But their lives are their own, their families are their own, their religions are their own. Most of them seem to like me, some of them don’t.

I don’t know how many more years I will live. I do know that I will have to work as long as I can. I am not leaving anybody very much of anything and I hope I don’t ever have to ask any of them for anything. I had them, I love them, I enjoy them and that was what I thought you were supposed to do. I wonder if they will even talk about me when I’m gone? But I’m not gloomy or self destructive or even whining. I have changed.