Towards the end of my mother’s life, I experienced a particularly brutal day with the pain in my legs.  I had been driving to and from St. Louis  weekend after weekend.  Stress and fatigue trigger my neurological condition.

I sat at my mother’s side reading to her from the Book of Ruth.  Cancer riddled her body, weakening her bones, sapping her strength, and draining her energy.  Death would claim her in just a few months.

But for that night, one quiet summer night in Jennings, my mother focused on her baby girl.

You’re hurting, she remarked, in her raspy voice.  I shrugged.  It’s okay, I assured her.  I’m offering it up for you. My words referenced the old Roman Catholic practice of claiming “indulgences“, which more or less rewarded a sufferer for what they endured.

Oh Mary!  she cried.  You can’t offer your pain up for me!  I’m offering mine up for YOU.

I laughed.  Does that mean we cancel each other out, or trade places, I asked.  And then she joined me in merriment, chuckling long and low.  We embraced each other and held on tight.

So tonight, in the throes of a triple-whammy viral surge, with my back full of shingle pox and my sore throat, my itchy eyes, the burning in places that I rarely contemplate — tonight, I’m trading places with my friend and colleague DeAnna.  I’ll suffer this viral outbreak in her honor.  While I wait for the stepped-up dose of anti-viral to do its job, I’ll stifle any complaint, so that as she tries to recover from the illness which plagues her, DeAnna might benefit from a little indulgence.

It’s the first day of the thirty- month of My Year Without Complaining.  On this All Souls Eve (aka All Saints Day), I think of my mother, whose spirit peacefully dwells wherever our spirits go when our bodies expire. Here on earth, life continues.