I’m not good at moments of silence. I can’t meditate. I’ve never been capable of clearing my mind of all thoughts. Instead, I think about things like what I’m going to eat next, if the rain will clear out, whether or not I have time to run an errand once the moment is over. I don’t want anyone to know I’m not focusing, so I look down at my hands.

That’s what I thought about today, my hands. As I looked down I noticed how old they looked. I thought about how one might be able to deceive their age with Botox injections and youthful clothes, but hands always give you away. As a kid, I remember thinking my Mother’s hands looked old. Her veins popped like a soft blue circuit board. They looked different from my young hands, no veins popped through. There was no supple, soft skin around each joint. My hands were young. My Mother’s hands were old.

I have my Mother’s hands now. Soft. Loose. Crisscrossed with puffy, blue veins. Old. I think I’m as old as she was when I first noticed her hands.

I’ve noticed this before, the oldness of my hands. But today, for the first time, I was grateful for them.

Grateful for the chance to have old hands.

You see, the moment of silence today was during a memorial service for an American Soldier.

A fallen Soldier who was born when I was a freshman in high school. Who graduated from his high school and enlisted in the Army the year I turned 35.

Who died a few months shy of his own 23rd birthday.

His life, cut so short that he will never have old hands. The blue, puffy, pulsing veins in his hands will never give away his age when he tries to pretend he is a younger man. He’ll never watch as his newborn baby grasps his finger with his tiny perfect hand. He will never look down one day and realize that he now has his Father’s hands.

He gave all that up. Willingly. Bravely. Selflessly.

For me.

And for you.

So that we can each live long enough to have old hands.

Thank you.

Parents spend a lot of time in the car. Driving kids to and from school, practices, games, and meetings. To their friends houses, the movies, and the  mall. We drive to the doctor, dentist, orthodontist, and hair dresser. We load up the car with groceries after we’ve stopped at Home Depot, Target, and the post office.

We are always on the go.

No matter how nice your car is or how well your kids behave (which is wholly dependent on the amount of in-car entertainment you provide) it’s tiresome. I love my new car. It’s the first car we’ve owned that allows me to play the music on my iPhone through the car speakers wirelessly. I can listen to my music while the kids watch a movie on wireless headsets in the third row seat. It’s like they’re not even there.

But. Even with that luxury, I get tired of being in the car.

By the time I picked John up from his cross-country meet today I was over it. John had called to say he was done, and could pick him up at the park where the races were held. While I was on my way he called to say he was walking back to the school, so I could pick him up there. I went to the school.

No sign of John. I texted to let him know I was there, assuming he was in the cross-country room getting his stuff. He called back and said he was on his way. (John has trouble texting because his phone has a crack in the screen. A week after he got it he used it to pop the lock on his locker. Brilliant.) I asked if he wanted me to head to the park. He said yes, just come back the way you came only go straight instead of turning.

I followed those instructions until the road dead ended. I called John, he tried to explain that I’d gone the wrong way. I resisted the urge to correct his instructions which should have told me to turn right instead of left and then keep going straight.

Whatever, it was getting late and I was tired of being in the car.

We met at the school parking lot and drove back home. We drove near three grocery stores and no less than five convenience stores.

Once inside I sat on the couch and was promptly accosted by Reese and a stack of books he desperately needed read to him. John made a snack. He fumbled around posing in his ridiculous cross-country uniform. He asked the boys about their day and teased his sister.

Then he said, “Hey Mom, can we go to the commissary? I need to bring root beer to school tomorrow.”

I almost punched him in the face.