The Gym, the Grace, and the Action

The first time Mom and I worked out at the neighborhood gym, we noticed something curious: one of her thighs was thicker than the other. I have been lifting weights and running since joining the military, but this was not about me. This was about getting Mom to show up once a week. She lets me guide her through a simple routine while I fit in a lighter workout.

Why invite her into my sacred Saturday ritual, the one space where I decompress after a long week? Because I am worried. I am worried about her health, her strength, her future.

Mom was an athlete once, volleyball, basketball, all of it. Then adulthood arrived. Work, exhaustion, motherhood. She did not take a real vacation until she was fifty, when I surprised her with a trip to Hawaii.

Now I watch her carefully: the way she catches her breath, grips the handrail climbing stairs, or laughs off a stumble that she only just avoided a proper fall, thanks to her volleyball days’ muscle memory. The verses remind me: “Do not worry about your life, what to eat, what to wear, but instead bring every concern to God through prayer.” I try. I tell Him often, “I am worried about my mom.” And somehow, He always covers her.

Take last night. Mom left an incense stick burning in the office all evening. By the time I got home, it had burned down completely, leaving only a charred line on the carpet. No fire. No tragedy. Just grace.

A quiet reminder: do not worry. God has got her. He has got us.

Still, the part of me that plans and prepares will not rest easy. Dementia runs in our family. My grandmother lived to ninety-two with a razor-sharp mind, but her sister is not. Sometimes I see hints in my mother, a forgotten item, a missed detail, that stir old fears.

But worry alone is empty. Years of caring for others, in both family and military communities, have shown me that love is better expressed as action. And so, Project Picaflor is born: my dream to build a community for my mother, and for many mothers, where independence is nurtured through movement, nutrition, and technology. Not an institution, but a lively, intentional hub with room for laughter, support, and yes, a bit of grace.

At the gym, Mom struggles to lift fifteen pounds on the leg curl machine, just with her left leg. She calls me over, laughing as I kneel to inspect. One thigh really is bigger than the other. We adjusted her plan, focusing on balance, and four months later, she is evened out.

She climbs stairs now without gripping the rails. Not always, but almost. The work is not finished, but neither are we.