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are you afraid to die

Where Mary Is—A Pilgrimage of the Heart

Brain Cancer Journey | Grief and Loss | Healing | Mary

Where Mary Is—A Pilgrimage of the Heart

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houseofloveandlaughterblog

Catholic Writer | Shop Creator
Navigating Grief and Joy, Finding to Hope, Seeking Truth, Trusting God and Creating Beauty and a Soft Place to Land

I had a different reflection planned for Our Lady’

I had a different reflection planned for Our Lady’s birthday today.

I wanted to write about the morning light falling across an image of Stella Maris holding Jesus, the candle I lit beside Mary, and the most stunning blue sky (her color) above me on my morning walk.

I wanted to write about all the ways the Blessed Mother has mothered me. About how she always leads us to her Son. To Jesus through Mary...that Jesus came to us through the womb of Mary.

About what she can teach us about wisdom and love, gentleness and strength, humility and docility, surrender and trust.

About her fiat.

But the day got away from me.

There were domestic duties and motherly things that needed tending to, and some bigger things I was holding in my heart and asking Mary to help me carry.

Apparently my reflection about the all the stories I want to share about Mary and of ordinary life was going to have to wait while I actually lived some of it.

Then one dear friend, something of a spiritual mother to me, sent a simple message:

“Beautiful day for Our Lady.”

Later, another dear friend texted, excited she had just learned that a little gift she sent me would arrive today.

On Mary’s birthday.

At that exact moment, I was picking up a little cake to celebrate Mary’s Day.

Because, birthdays call for cake.

When I got home, the package was waiting.

The card read, “Friends are the sprinkles on the cupcake of life.”

Inside was a beautiful mug that read, “A sweet friendship refreshes the soul,” and a note telling me she had been thinking of this momma’s heart as I sent my youngest off to college.

She couldn’t have known when she sent it what day it would arrive.

Maybe that’s part of what makes these little moments that much sweeter.

Maybe the veil lifted just a little.

I started the day wanting to write about the ways Mary has mothered me.

Maybe I did after all. Even if it arrives a little late.

Leave it to Mary to care for us through the hands of a friend or two...and make sure there is cake.

Happy Birthday, Blessed Mother.

Our life, our sweetness and our hope.

You can read the entire reflection Leave it to Mary—Friendship, Cake, and Happy Birthday
Link above

Watching the sun go down on the summer of 2026. L

Watching the sun go down on the summer of 2026.

Labor Day has always felt like the unofficial end of summer here on the East Coast. The last long weekend before we settle into routines, schedules, school years and whatever comes next.

And here I am, on the eve of it. Watching it fade away with the first fall chill in the air.

And it’s been a summer.

One I will be unpacking for a while.

Today, I finally cleaned my room and fully unpacked the suitcase from move-in two weeks ago and a few bags from our two beach trips this summer. Yes, I know. What took me so long?

Maybe some part of me hoped we’d hit the road for just one more trip to the beach.

Maybe there were simply other things that needed my attention. Maybe this is part of the aftermath of loss and still trying to manage everything on my plate.

My mom always told me, “The laundry will keep.” She was right about that. It keeps until you move it or put it away.

There were more pressing things at hand this summer: packing all the bags and gear for two college girls, spending time with the best people, and a few meaningful creative projects.

Or maybe I just wasn’t quite ready to unpack summer yet.

The summer held beauty and heartache. Change and letting go. Long days and late nights. Sunsets and Sunrises. Bike Rides and Beach trips. New Jobs and New plans. Things I wish had gone differently and moments I wish I could hold onto forever.

For first time in a long time, summer felt a bit more like I remembered summer could feel.

A summer of watching my kids keep becoming. Of finding my own way into what comes next, too. Of learning, again, that life rarely pans out exactly as we imagine it will.

Tonight, the light was golden. The air was cool. The windows were open. And the evening chorus of crickets and cicadas filled the air as lightning bugs flashed across the sky.

Maybe I was asking the sun to linger just a little longer, too.

One last golden hour on one of the unofficial last nights of summer 2026.

I’m grateful for these days, what this summer gave us, for what it taught me.

While I’m looking forward to all the fall vibes, a part of me isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to summer just yet.

Running into a friend this week who reminded me ju

Running into a friend this week who reminded me just how homebound I was during Jon’s journey with a terminal diagnosis collided in an unexpected way with finding myself somewhat housebound again, sticking close to one of my kiddos after a little medical procedure.

Different circumstances. Different kind of suffering.

But there was something very familiar about caring for someone I love within these four walls again.

And then I was asked, more than once, some version of:

“Why did you wait so long to get this done?”

“Next time, don’t wait,” the doctor who knows our story told me.

Reasonable questions and advice, I suppose.

But sometimes an ordinary question carries a little more weight than the person asking it could possibly know.

Because there are reasons some things had to wait.

Sometimes being asked why takes you right back to a season when life didn’t happen in the order you would have chosen, when there simply wasn’t room for everything and when so much was beyond your control.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week since I saw the friend, who clearly and lovingly saw me and how I stayed by my husband’s side as his wife and caregiver. Oh, to be seen, heard, remembered in the midst of it all!

And about some words hanging right there in my own kitchen that seemed especially fitting on the feast of St. Teresa of Calcutta:

“Love begins at home.”

Maybe I needed that reminder in a new way.

I wrote about caregiving, the things that had to wait, the ache of looking back and perhaps offering ourselves and one another a little more grace for the stories we cannot always see.

Love Begins at Home: Why Did You Wait? New on the blog.

“Because love doesn’t wait for life to happen in the right order. It meets us right in the middle of the life we have been given.”

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