Not a Saint

Occasionally, I run into someone I haven't seen in a while and they will ask if the oldies are still living with us. When I respond, they almost always say, "You're a saint."

Let me be clear. No, I am not. Not even close.

I try. Some days are better than others. I can be rude and I can be extremely cranky. I fall on my knees a lot and pray for strength, wisdom and guidance. I still fail. My big mouth gets me in trouble. My brain has difficulties distinguishing between battles worth fighting and those that are better to let go. I forget that the last word is not a worthy goal. I conveniently dismiss the fact that the oldies' lives have been changed way more than mine. I get selfish and have little pity parties in my head.

Sometimes my prayers are answered. I enjoy a nice evening on the patio with my mother-in-law. I notice that the father-in-law is getting stronger and walking taller. We share a (non-fried) meal and a few laughs. She plays the piano and I sing along.

Then, we all go to bed and prepare to start over the next day. Sainthood is not in my future.