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I recently spent a day with my 93-year-old mother-in-law, and it was lovely. Mother Mary, as my brother-in-law has named her, spends summers in the country with her only daughter and winters in Florida with her eldest son. The rest of us fill in for respite where we can.

Although she depends on us to get her meals, hand out her meds, and remind her which grandchild belongs to whom, she still has spunk. Each day, she grabs her wheeled walker and spins around the house for exercise. She closes each day with her Bible and prayer. On Fridays she rides to town to get her hair done. On Sundays, she attends her beloved Methodist Church, though she no longer sings in the choir.

Between those activities, though, Mother Mary sits quietly in her room. She admires the birds and flowers from her window. She works on word puzzles with a ferocious concentration. She reads, she writes letters, and she sometimes remembers to check Facebook and see what the great-grandchildren are doing all around the world.

The truth is, my mother-in-law’s world has shrunk right along with her petite frame. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She is mostly content with her birds, and her books, and her spot in the corner of the peach-colored room. Oh, she complains a little about aches and pains. And she is sorry to be losing the history she can no longer remember. But, she is not longing for her youth or wishing she could roam the world. She has finally even agreed that it was a good idea to give up her car.

Much of Mother Mary has probably crept into the character, Catherine, in my book Thirty Days to Glory. If she sees herself when she reads it this Christmas, I hope she knows I only used her good parts. Any of Catherine’s troublesome quirks are pure fiction!

And, I hope I’m living my own life today in way that will open doors of contentment for me when I am ninety-three.