Those Sticky Words...

We all have them, whether we quite remember or not. Words spoken to us when we were children.

And some of these words are difficult, so we try our best to put them in their proper place = not our hearts. It is right and true to wage a mighty battle with cruelty and name calling and blaming...labels whose shame might still challenge us, make us question ourselves.

These words happen, they do. And yes, words stick sometimes.

But then there are the golden words, rightly burrowed in our hearts. These words were spoken with lavish love. Imparted to us in fast moments, between the other stuff of life. Nearly missed, but not.

While we rode in a car's backseat, a child looking out the window then. An adult turned around and said something in a sure tone. On a walk around the block, a phrase was shared that has echoed forever. And somehow we knew this spoken thing was important, whether said once or repeated often. Our little necks craned to look up at big people around us, taking so much in.

Building ourselves, word by word.

For we knew what was being said mattered, even if we didn't entirely understand it...and we tucked it away for future use.

For later.

My mother used to say (once or often, I do not know):

To whom much is given, much is expected.

And my father often responded to complaining with this one:

Well you could be that dog, sent up in the rocket, never to return.

As a young girl it was annoying to hear my father quip about dogs in outer space, when I considered some unfairness to be of huge import. And it seemed a burden to be reminded by my mother of blessings and responsibilities, when I wanted to sulk and feel sorry for myself. During those years, I would have muttered that the usefulness of my parents' words was indeed questionable.

Then I began to become an adult.

Slowly.

Some people grow into mature human beings in their youthful bloom. Not me; it seemed to take a long time, until just yesterday perhaps, or maybe even tomorrow. Late nights of disobeying curfew, worrying my parents while I danced and danced...laughing all the way, skiing backward down hills and driving on bike paths after midnight. By mid-life, I was worn out with my own teens, some wiser humility and gratitude sneaking in.

Enter a leg tumor.

Part of that experience was looking for anything that would get me through. Keep me breathing, keep me sane, or at least sane enough.

And my elderly parents bowed at my doorstep.

They came to that icy front stoop where I had taken the awful call from my doctor...there is a mass, Julie. Opening the door, I hugged my mother, I hugged my father. Clung to them. Over the months ahead, they would offer up themselves, again and again. Surely in their own restless terror of losing a child, forever their little girl with big brown eyes. The dancing, sassy one - the one with deep trouble. So in my door came casseroles and flowers, endless listening to nightmares and tears.

Love, love and more love.

After a too long and banging MRI, my sobs wouldn't stop for a full two hours, breath hitching over and over. And my father asked oh so gently:

Why would you ever do an MRI again, without a sedative, dear Julie? Our dear, dear Julie, we love you.

And I bowed my head and said to the heavens:

Thank you, thank you for these people. Thank you for my understanding the bigness of my blessing, finally and completely.

Then in the middle of my prayer:

To whom much is given, much is expected...and you could be that dog, sent up in the rocket, never to return.

My eyes opened to know those once pesky words were among my surest treasures.

I had a health challenge, yes, but I was living...I had medical insurance, access to expert care, food on my table, friends and family with Big Love. The days that I couldn't get out of bed, which were too many, I lay next to bouquets of flowers, candles with sweet scents. Lounging like a cat on my bed...covered by a soft comforter from my mother and sister. All I could feel then were blessings...more than the pain in my leg.

Yes, Daddy...I could be that dog, sent up to outer space. But I'm not, no.

Prepped for ready then, I knew what to do.

And I also communicated near daily with friends in Kenya. Sobbing one day in the tub, I looked at my yellowed and spotted body, praying for a friend dying in Africa....without money for her cancer medical care. Yes, I had a purpose, a holy one (we all do). So I kept my meetings for The Mama Ada Foundation...because to whom much is given, much is expected. But in all that giving...I got more, way more. My friends lifted me in prayers...now Lord lay her down to sleep, we pray the Lord her soul to keep...and I returned their confident messages with smiling emojis, all the way to Africa and back again.

Yes, Mommy...I have been given much, so much is expected. I will give, yes.

P.S. And me? My sons might someday recall: Just because you can, doesn't mean you should...(insert their eye roll, but maybe not forever).