Pilgrims in old age

 Even when death is expected, it can arrive with a shock. The finality of it. The sense of loss. Even for those of us who believe that death is not the final chapter, it’s a door that shuts, leaving us on one side, our loved one on the other.

I recently learned of the death of a dear friend, Michael Graves. I’m holding it in my heart, and it weighs me down. It’s heavy. It leaves me emotionally breathless.

It was not unexpected. For the last several years Michael has been fighting a losing battle with dementia. It’s been hard to watch his personality slipping away, his sharp wit growing dull. Wondering when he’ll stop knowing who I am. (That part never happened, thank God.) And recently a stroke, along with his long-term diabetes, robbed him of his last defenses.

Yesterday Hal and I gathered with some of his long-time friends just to sit around talking, remembering, crying, laughing, praying. It helped to reaffirm our basic belief that Michael is now being welcomed into his heavenly home, into the arms of Jesus, and then embraced by a host of those who have gone before. It helped as we assured each other that the real Michael is back, whole, holy, and full of joy. It’s a vision I’ll hold onto this week and into the future.

He's been on a long pilgrimage and he’s now come home.

My memories are becoming full of Michael as I knew him best over the last 50 years. He brought together so many facets of being human. He was a gifted sought-out university professor of communications. He was an academic, writing scholarly papers, presenting them in conferences, and loving it. He was a very funny man, witty in conversation, sharp in come-backs. He was creative—writing poetry, playing his banjo and singing, acting, problem-solving. I remember fondly our weekly poetry group where the six of us critiqued and affirmed each other; he was good at both.

I remember Michael always in company with Darlene. We were saying yesterday that’s it’s almost impossible to say “Michael” by itself. It’s always “Michael and Darlene.” As couples, we spent many hours in deep conversations and prayer, as well as play. We’re all asking how we can best support Darlene now. She lives in another state and travel is difficult for all of us these days. Prayers and phone calls somehow don’t seem enough. We’ll have to trust God to show us. At a basic level, she has to walk this path alone. But, maybe at a more basic level, her community can walk it with her.

We feel consoled by the fact that, even as Michael’s mind was slipping away, he became increasingly sweeter, almost docile, to those around him, especially Darlene. Although in his life he had been, at times, a fiery passionate person (never docile!), an innate kindness and sensitivity came forth as dominant in his last years. An incredible blessing. I imagine Michael now as still kind and sensitive, but also more fiery, creative, and passionate than ever. A complete person.

The message in church yesterday centered on Psalm 84 and the idea of our pilgrimage toward knowing God. I’ve been connecting it to Michael’s death and to the experience of growing older in general. Here’s the section that speaks to me now:

   Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.
   As they pass through the Valley of Baca [suffering], they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools.
   They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.” (Psalm 84:5-7)

The idea of life as a pilgrimage runs throughout the Bible, as well as in Christian literature (note John Bunyon’s The Pilgrim’s Progress). The word pilgrimage includes the sense of journey or travel as well as the fact of a destination. It’s not a wandering in the wilderness, although it may feel like that at times. According to Psalm 84, it’s journey that passes through hard places like the Valley of Baca (the Valley of the Shadow of Death in Psalm 23). And it leads to a destination: “before God in Zion.” The City of Zion is one of the names for heaven. The point is more in the phrase “before God” than in the name of the place. God is the destination.

Although the whole of life is a pilgrimage, I’m seeing the stage of growing old as a pilgrimage in its own right. It’s a phase of life full of unknowns. The path goes through inevitable valleys of suffering and loss. Sometimes it feels like that’s the whole of it: losing a career; downsizing; the diminishment of the body as we wonder, “What will go wrong next?”; the ever-present possibility of dementia; and on and on. I wonder how the phrase, “They go from strength to strength,” fits in with growing older. Physically, I know I am going from weakness to weakness, and at times it distresses me. Where is this “place of springs”?

There are sign-posts along the way: the retirement party; social security and Medicare; moving to a retirement community; the increasing number of medical specialists and medications; the loss of companions through death; the loss of the ability to remember names (and what we did yesterday); and many more that all tell us, “You’re old now.”

Reading through Psalm 84 and letting it soak in, I’m seeing death as a sign-post. The final sign-post. It’s not the destination or the end of our journey. It’s perhaps the portal we pass through to reach the end of our pilgrimage. A sign-post that seems negative (the final enemy) but that leads to life.

Maybe all the other sign-posts in the pilgrimage of growing older have their secret positive side. Maybe in some real sense we can go from strength to strength, ever as our bodies and our social roles weaken. Maybe we occupy a privileged place in life’s journey, closer to the end of the pilgrimage. Closer to a new beginning.

I hope to see Michael again when I arrive.

Something to think about.

1976

1984

2013 ?

2023

The kindness of strangers

 My recent hospital adventure brought to mind a long-ago memory, a memory of the first time I was a hospital patient. I was three-years-old and having my tonsils removed.

Memory is a tricky thing. We can’t know if we’ve really got the details right, especially if the memory comes from childhood. But while I’m uncertain of the details, some of the images and feelings have the ring of truth. I know it happened.

In those days, all kids had their tonsils removed. It was like a rite of passage and most families complied. So I don’t know if it was illness that took my parents to the hospital or if it was just time to do what everyone did. Anyway I remember my mommy settling me in my room, helping me put on my jammies, and getting me into the bed. Hospital rules were strict with enforced visiting times. No overnight stays for parents. Mom kissed me, told me she’d see me tomorrow, and left.

Alone. I don’t know if the incident I remember was the night before the operation or the night after. The timing is hazy. I just know I woke up in the dark room, all alone and frightened. It was the middle of the night. I began to cry.

Then she was there. The Nurse. She stood over my bed, then bent down and patted me, speaking comforting words. The next thing I knew I was in her arms and she was giving me a tour of the hospital. I remember her walking down the halls, explaining things to me. And then we stopped before this big window and looked in on all these sleeping newborn babies. That part I remember well. All the time the Nurse was talking softly to me.

After a while (an hour? five minutes?), she carried me back to my room, put me back to bed, and I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, Mommy was there. I got to eat ice cream.

How much do the images in my memory reflect reality? How many have I fabricated over time? I don’t know. What I am convinced of is the fear and loneliness, the Nurse, being held and comforted, the window of babies, and the kindness of a stranger. I look back and I don’t feel the fear; I remember the love.

Fast-forward some forty years. Hal and I had been on a tour of Latin American graduate programs in mission, prior to setting up our own program in a university in Bolivia. We had just been in Medellín, Colombia and were in the airport in Bogotá, ready to fly home. I always carried enough cash to handle details like the ubiquitous airport tax, required before boarding the plane. Sitting there in the waiting room, I took out my wallet to extract the $20.00 needed. But my wallet was empty.

I experienced a moment of terror, which soon settled into mere panic. We had been robbed while still in Medellín. Hal had no cash on him. We had a credit card, so we tried the different shops in the mall to see if anyone could give us cash for credit. No luck. No mercy. Of course no one would accept a check. I even tried selling my watch. Didn’t work. We knew no one in Bogotá we could call on for help.

We knew we could not get on the plane without the cash. The United States was not currently popular in Latin America and there would be no mercy from officials.

We sat there in the waiting room praying and trying to figure it out, obviously distressed. A woman approached us, looking concerned. She sat beside us and said she had observed our distress. She asked us why, wanting to know if there was anything she could do. We explained our dilemma to this stranger. The woman then opened her pursed and proceeded to give us $20.00.

That is simply not done in a Latin American airport. Ever. We were stunned and, having no other option, accepted the money, with many expressions of gratitude. We took her address and I later sent her a thank you card, but I never received an answer. She remains a stranger to this day.

Mercy from God coming through strangers.

Those were two outstanding incidents, but I think of many other gentle expressions: a friendly cashier who asks how our day is going; a smile from a passerby on a busy street; a kind receptionist in an office; a patient waitress. I’m sure you can think of other examples.

I ask myself how friendly I am to people I come in contact with everyday. Hal and I follow Pete Grieg’s devotional app, “Lectio 365,” and part of the closing prayer is “Jesus, help me give myself away to others, being kind to everyone I meet.” The challenge is to remember that prayer throughout the day.

I’m impressed with one of the laws that God gave the new nation of Israel: “When an alien (stranger) lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33-24).

That’s strong. Would to God the leaders in our land followed God’s law of kindness to strangers and aliens (immigrants). Would to God I followed this precept more closely myself.

Lord, have mercy on us all.

Fragility and grace

 I told my daughter recently that I was ready for something new. A new vision, a surprise, an unexpected adventure. Even something as mundane as a new hobby. The human spirit longs for refreshment and renewal. Being older doesn’t change that.

But we need to be careful what we wish for.

I went on an unexpected adventure last week, and I’m still recovering. Extremely weird symptoms on Monday night, along with a high fever, prompted us to dial 911 (a first for us), and it proved we were smart to do so. Once in the ER, the staff tested my blood and urine, then told me they were admitting me to the hospital for an infection. I wondered why they didn’t just give me an injection and a prescription, then send me home. At the time, they didn’t use the term sepsis. They told me I seemed to have pneumonia and a UTI.  Hal and David, our son, looked worried, so I told them to lighten up. I’d probably be out the next day.

All the hospital beds in the ICU were occupied, which a nurse told me was typical on a holiday weekend. So I stayed in the ER for 21 hours. The bed (examining table) was wretched, but the staff was marvelous—kind, friendly, and helpful in keeping me informed. I managed to sleep part of the time and was woken at 11:00 pm to be wheeled up to the ICU where a room was finally open.

Again—wonderful nursing staff and attending doctors. Each nursing assistant apologized before sticking me with another needle. It was sort of comforting. At one point three different medications were flowing into my body through three different ports. (I can show you the holes if you like.)

But I kept asking myself, “Why am I here? Why all the fuss?” The medications were doing their job and, other than all the tubes and holes and blood-drawings, I felt fine. Sort of fine, at least. The next morning when David asked me how I was, I told him it felt like all my internal organs were happy, all getting along with each other. It was like a river of peace flowing through my body. I got to order my meals from the cafeteria. They were nourishing, but I felt more grateful than ever for the retirement home where I live and its gifted kitchen staff.

The next night the assistants woke me at 12:02 with “Happy New Year! We’re moving you to a new room in the regular ward.” I knew I was getting better. I enjoyed the ride down the hospital corridors; those people move fast.

I get the days mixed up, but soon I got the happy news I could go home, taking the rest of my antibiotics in pills. That was on Thursday.

The reason I’m giving all these details is that it really was a new adventure. The only hospital experience I’ve had was the births of two babies and having my tonsils removed at three-years-old. In fact, I thought being a hospital patient might be like a mini-retreat. A room to yourself, time to read novels, and meals served to you on a tray.

I no longer think that way.

When I got home and read the after-visit-summary, I learned that the primary diagnosis was “Severe Sepsis.” Listed under “diagnoses also included” were UTI and pneumonia. That sounds like a lot.

It was a lot. I’ve since learned how blessed and protected I was. We got to the hospital early enough in the onset of sepsis to have a good chance at successfully treating it. The staff was alert and swift in getting me on the right medications and admitting me. And everything worked as it was intended to work. With such a diagnosis, getting out of the hospital in three days seems also miraculous. Thanks to the prayers of so many people and to the grace of God.

Hal and I are more aware now of the fragility of life, especially in this stage of growing older. Advanced age is not a disease. It’s part of the seasons of life. Yet it does include increasing physical challenges and, for some, mental challenges. We are more aware of the privilege of having loved family members and friends around us and of the accompanying privilege of cherishing those people. Of cherishing each other and not letting a day pass without affirming and blessing those around us. We can’t know what the next day holds or what kind of adventure we will encounter. What counts is how much we love one another today.

And, of course, grace. Whatever the adventure, the loving-kindness and grace of God hold us tight. All this fragility is a passing condition. Someday—complete freedom and life.

 

Favorite books of 2025

This was a good year for reading and, while I can’t mention all the good books I read, I’ve put together a list of my favorites. I’m afraid the list is rather long. If necessary, forgive me. Or not. Some of these books I was able to discuss with members of the book club I belong to, a highlight of each month. In a way, I’m discussing them with you now. Please let me know your favorites from the year.

Fiction

Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2013): This was one of my favorites, about an ordinary old man who took on an extraordinary task, that of walking the length of England under the belief that this would save his friend from dying. He suffers, makes some strange friends, and reflects on his life.  A book about transformation. I also read the sequels, The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy (2014) and Maureen   (2022).

Rachel Joyce, Miss Benson’s Beetle (2020): Similar to Harold Fry, this story features a frumpy old spinster who has a passion for beetles. She decides to journey to New Caledonia to try and discover the fabled  Golden Beetle. Her quirky traveling companion and the adventures they encounter make this a highly entertaining, and inspiring, book.

Dean Koontz, The Bad Weather Friend (2024): A combination fantasy/suspense novel about Benny Catspaw, a man who is “too nice.” He gets fired from his job, loses his girlfriend, but discovers he has been assigned a craggle, a critter with supernatural powers who is like, but not the same as, a guardian angel. They battle global injustice and try to save the world from destruction. Very entertaining.

Sara Nisha Adams, The Reading List (2021): This very good novel weaves the stories of several people who all mysteriously find a list of books “for whoever needs them.” As people read, some of whom have not before been interested in literature, they come together and their lives are touched for the better. 

Colson Whitehead, The Nickel Boys (2019): This historical novel, a Pulitzer Prize winner, tells the story of the  Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory in Florida, based on a real school that operated for 111 years. It deals with injustice and cruelty, focusing on two boys, one of whom escapes. The story follows him through life as he tries to recover from the trauma. Hard to read, but important.

Jennifer Ryan, The Kitchen Front (2021): I loved this book—even cried at the end. The historical background is England during World War II and a BBC radio show, “The Kitchen Front,” that gave recipes to British housewives using only the rations granted. The story revolves around four women who enter a cooking contest, with prize being co-hosting the radio show.  (I also read The Underground Library, 2024, by the same author, another WWII historical novel of the library set up in an underground shelter in London during the blitz.)

Richard Powers, Playground (2024): Fascinating tale of four people whose lives finally converge on the island of Makatea, on the verge of a decision that will determine its future. The playground is 1) the ocean, the real protagonist of the book—its vastness, beauty, life, and endless variety and 2) a brilliant AI platform named “Playground” that threatens to overpower human intelligence. In a sense the book represents the contest between artificial intelligence, humanity, and the mysteries of nature.

Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer (2000): Takes place in the farms and forests of Southern Appalachia in a humid summer when everything seems to procreating—plants, animals, and complicated human beings. Three intertwined stories of people trying to find their relationship with nature—and with each other.

Linda Sue Part, A Single Shard (2001): This Newbury Award winner is the haunting story of an orphan boy in 12^th century China, homeless and living with an older man who is crippled. The boy, Tree-ear, becomes enchanted with the beautiful celadon pottery and is apprenticed to one of the skilled artists. Shows the boy growing, maturing, taking a great risk, and being rewarded beyond his expectations.

Ariel Lawhon, The Frozen River (2023): A stunning story based on the true history of Martha Ballard, a mid-wife and healer in colonial Maine, 1789. Martha becomes involved in solving a murder mystery, fighting the injustice of men in the town who are leaders and oppressors. I loved it for the view of colonial life; a midwife’s profession; the brave, intelligent, honest heroine; and the portrayal of a good marriage. A bit of brutality, but the topic was brutal and the author did not fudge. Or exaggerate.

Marie Benedict, The Mitford Affair (2023): Historical novel based on the Mitford sisters in upper society London in the years leading up to WWII. Two of the sisters become fascists, even being drawn into Hitler’s inner circle. The political and the personal intertwine when another of the sisters has to made a decision between family and country.

Marie Benedict, The Queens of Crime (2025): Incredibly clever plot has a group of female crime writers join to solve a real crime and thus prove their worth to the male writers who don’t give them their due respect. The leader of the group is Dorothy Sayers and her cohort is Agatha Christie, which makes the book especially fun to read.

 

Non-Fiction

John Simpson, The Word Detective: Searching for the Meaning of It All in the Oxford English Dictionary: A Memoir (2016): Simpson spent over four decades working for the OED, the last 20 of those years as Chief Editor. He relates the later history of the OED, from 1976 to 2013, including its breakthrough into the age of the Internet, making it accessible to the masses (me) as never before.

Alistar McGrath, C.S. Lewis: A Life (2013): Best biography of Lewis I’ve read. Learned a lot about his relationship with Mrs. Moore, his response to the war (refusing to deal with it), his relationship to Tolkien, the conflicts with Oxford, and his relationship with Joy. A treasure.

Connie Dawson, John Wimber: His Life and Ministry (2021): I learned a lot of details about his life, and especially his struggles and the attacks against him. The book summarized the tremendous influence of his life on the church.

Carolyn Maull McKinstry While the World Watched: A Birmingham Bombing Survivor Comes of Age during the Civil Rights Movement (2011): The author was a child and a member of the Birmingham Sixteenth Street Baptist Church that was bombed on Sept. 15, 1963. She tells the story of her experience, with background of the whole civil rights movement especially in Alabama. She details aftermath of the bombing, how it affected the country and how it affected her. Excellent resource for understanding the suffering from the black point of view.

Claire Hoffman, Sister, Sinner: The Miraculous Life and Mysterious Disappearance of Aimee Semple McPherson (2025): An incredible history and a well-documented book. Tracks her rise to fame as a powerful Spirit-filled preacher and evangelist, to the point where her crusades attracted thousands. Her mysterious disappearance in 1926 and later strange reappearance sparked controversy and court cases that drug on for several years and tarnished her reputation. Good book about a complex person.

Bianca Bosker, Get the Picture: a mind-bending journey among the inspired artists and obsession art fiends who taught me how to see (2024): Bosker, a journalist, decides to dive into the contemporary art scene in NYC, trying to understand the art, and why art in general matters. Has incredible experiences in the five years she ends up spending there. In some ways it reads like an anthropological case study. Fascinating.

Safiya Sinclair, How To Say Babylon: A Memoir (2023): One of the best books I’ve read this year. Sinclair tells of growing up in the Rastafarian sect in Jamaica, a “communistic Christian commune.” Learning about the sect was fascinating, but Sinclair’s personal story griped me more. In this male dominated culture, with the father as autocrat, she was abused into believing she had no worth. This is the story of her coming to discover her identity and rise to become a recognized writer and poet. A tribute to the human spirit.

Kristin Gault, The Way We Walked: Friendship, Faith and the Camino de Santiago (2025): the book chronicles the walk Kristin (my daughter) and her friend Heather took on the famous Camino de Santiago, starting in mid-Portugal and following the coast up to the northern Spanish city of Santiago, with its famous cathedral. Details the challenges the women faced—physical, mental, spiritual— the transformation it worked, and the satisfaction on reaching the goal. Interesting description, with lots of humor, as well as inspiration.

Poetry

Nancy Thomas, editor, An Arc of Grace: selections by Quaker poets of the Pacific Northwest (2026): Maybe putting this book on the list is cheating because it isn’t published yet. But I spent a good part of the year with the poems of 14 good Quaker poets, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The book includes black-and-white photos of various Quaker photographers to match the mood of the poems. Prepare to purchase! And enjoy!

Note: I am posting this blog from a hospital bed! Much to my surprise! (Do you see how devoted I am to keeping up on my blog?) Fortunately I wrote it yesterday.

House of Bread

 But out of you, Bethlehem Ephrathah … will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel.  (Micah 5:2)

I once spent an afternoon in Laja.
A small town on the Bolivian altiplano,
Laja is a village of bakers.
People all over the region
seek out pan de Laja,
a flatbread made of wheat,
water, oil and pinches of salt,
sugar and yeast. Its taste gives
me a sense of high lands,
open skies, and distant Andean peaks

My friend, Victoria,
comes from Laja. Her father
bakes bread for a living.
I spent an afternoon with Vicki’s
dad, kneading dough, forming small globes,
letting them rise, pancaking them,
then shoveling the bread
in the adobe oven
with a long wooden spatula.
I felt proud, at the end of the day,
of my accomplishments.

Laja gives life
to the surrounding communities.

Bethlehem, House of Bread, a small town
in the Judean foothills, is also known
for a product that blesses surrounding
communities in ever widening ripples.
Sought after by some, rejected by others.
The Bread of Life.

                       The name, Bethlehem, in Hebrew means "house of bread."

nancyjthomas.com

Christmas stories—cute, sacred and … terrifying

 Last night our retirement community choir put on its annual Christmas concert. I love old voices. Their beauty comes from talent plus years of experience plus a deep sense of spirituality. I felt the sacredness of the occasion. And of the story. I enjoyed the appropriateness of sharing the story in community. Again.

The images have been engrained in most of us since our own infancy, passed down through the generations in the voices of parents and Sunday school teachers, envisioned through sacred art (some of which seems strange to our modern eyes), and sang about in countless carols. The baby in the manger, shepherds astonished by choirs of angels splitting the night sky with their Halleluiahs and Hosannas, wise men and camels, a haloed virgin mother and a bewildered papa. Some of us imagine a pristine setting (no cow poop anywhere) and others try to envision a cave for animals as it might have really been, mess and all.

Christmas pageants help us image the story. Some pageants are spectacular, like the one in Southern California I had to buy a ticket for; angels actually flew around (attached by semi-invisible ropes), live camels loitered in the background, and baby Jesus cried real tears. But for most of us, our local congregations give proud parents the opportunity to see their small children enact the story, sometimes with doses of humor spicing the production. Even with this messy simplicity, we can sometimes glimpse the glory.

But we don’t really know what that first Christmas was like for any of the characters. We can only gather up the facts we have and imagine. Thank God for imagination.

One of the greatest resources we have for stimulating our imaginations (and our faith) is the biblical book of Revelation. And, believe it or not, the book of the Revelation contains the Christmas story. This is a version of the story that rarely gets told as part of our annual celebrations. It’s terrifying and hard to reconcile with the stories in the Gospels.

Add it to your Christmas reading this year. Revelations 12:1-10 (and following) is entitled in my Bible, “The Woman and the Dragon.” Sounds like something out of medieval mythology, but it’s part of the apocalyptic literature of the Bible; that means it conveys truth. It contains a mysterious pregnant heroine, a vicious snake-like dragon bent on mischief, a dramatic rescue, a newborn baby, and all of this followed by a war in heaven. And the story doesn’t end there.

This is jarring. I tried to imagine a Christmas pageant following this version of the story. Here’s the poem.

Christmas Pageant Re-imaged
The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born.  Revelation 12:1

Mary stumbles on stage,
balancing the universe on her head,
crying out in pain.
Her adversary enters stage-left,
hovers over her. He grins
from each of his seven faces.
No gentle Joseph in sight. No shepherds.
No silent night.

As the terrors of childbirth are compounded
by the threat of infanticide,
the audience boos.
In a surprise move, God kidnaps
the newborn, then disappears from the scene.
Mary crawls off stage,
seeking a place to hide and heal.
Enter a mob of angels
dressed in battle fatigues.
The stage erupts in chaos.
The special effects guys outdo themselves.
The play reaches a climax,
takes a dramatic turn.
The serpent, bloodied and defeated
but not yet dead, is hurled
into the audience.
Screams everywhere.

Pageant concluded.

Merry Christmas.

Now is that weird or what? It seems to me a wide-angle-lens perspective of the whole Gospel story, an allegory of the global significance of the coming of the Christ-child into the world. One clue is that immediately after the serpent-dragon is hurled to the earth, a voice from heaven proclaims, “Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God, and the authority of his Messiah. For the accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.” The song continues, announcing victory by the blood of the Lamb and by the testimony of believers, giving, in a capsule, the whole salvation story.

A lot to meditate on. A lot to imagine.

Maybe on Christmas morning this year, along with the version in the book of Luke, we’ll read Revelation 12 aloud.

And sing our own Hosannas.

 

[Some free-image paintings I took from the Internet:]

Giusto_de_Menabuoi

Wabi-sabi and growing older

 Some words are so much fun to say, it almost doesn’t matter what they mean. A word like wabi-sabi. It sounds like a hot sauce or something Dr. Seuss might have made up, a small beast with six short legs, a long neck, a perfectly round bald head, and a smiling face. A wabi-sabi.

Well, that’s not what it means. Furthermore, it absolutely does matter what a word means.

I learned the term wabi-sabi just last week from my friend Gary. Gary is a photographer and he has been experimenting with wabi-sabi photography. He explained that this means taking photos of imperfect things and thus showing the beauty in them. He’s good at it.

Fascinated and curious, I turned on my computer to learn what AI had to tell me about wabi-sabi. Here’s what I found: “Wabi-sabi is a Japanese philosophy centered on finding beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness, viewing the natural cycle of growth and decay as inherently beautiful, contrasting with Western ideals of flawlessness. It’s an aesthetic appreciating simplicity, modesty, asymmetry, and the marks of age and wear….” It is expressed in many Japanese arts, such as tea ceremonies, pottery, and gardens. It accepts life’s transient nature.

I’ve been pondering this concept all week. I’m attracted to it because it seems so grace-filled. So merciful. My life is full of imperfections, yet I long for beauty. Maybe beauty lives closer to me than I think.

I have two small things I value highly because of the memories associated with them. (I'll call them Thing 1 and Thing 2, in honor of Dr. Seuss.) Thing 1 is a blue and white cup from Russia—not a tourist treasure, but from the kind of dishes Russians use in their homes. I’ve always been drawn to Russia, primarily because of her literature and music, and the brief two weeks I spent there only increased my admiration for the culture and the people. If one can love a thing, I love that Russian cup.

I also love an amethyst crystal I gave to Hal for his birthday, Thing 2. It’s a Bolivian gem, native to the land where we lived for many years. It’s perfect.

Or it was perfect. Both the cup and the crystal have suffered mishaps. The base of the cup is chipped. And the top of the crystal was damaged in a fall. It no longer comes to a perfect point. I’ve felt really bad that both these precious things have become flawed. I’ve even considered throwing them out.

I’m changing my mind. I’ll keep them around and try to let their imperfections make them more precious to me. Is that silly? Maybe. Maybe not.

This reminds me of a favorite poem by American poet Jarod Anderson entitled “Flawless.”

Flawless

Things that are perfect
are dead things.

Empty things.

A silence beyond change or challenge.
An endpoint.
A blank page.

You are a wonderfully messy thing.

An impossible thing made of salt
and rainwater.
Meat and electricity.

A dream with teeth.

You’re too good for perfection.

I’m thinking it would be good to apply the philosophy of wabi-sabi to the process of aging. Sometimes I’m almost obsessed by my imperfections in this time of life—the spots on my hands, wrinkles, the slight stoop of my shoulders, the flattening out of some parts of my anatomy and the bulging of other parts. Not to mention the crooked nose I’ve had since childhood. Very imperfect. It’s not pretty. My granddaughters are pretty; Grandma isn’t.

Not only the physical trials of growing older, but the mental, social, even familiar changes all seem to spell gradual decay and loss.

Could it be I’ve got it wrong? Have I unconsciously bought into the values of my Western culture? Do I need to change my brain patterns so I can see myself and others as God sees us? Could I look at these old hands with affection, remembering all the things God has done using them? Can I laugh affectionately when I forget names or when the right word doesn’t instantly come to mind?

Can I appreciate the beauty of the imperfections that come with aging, knowing that someday I’ll have a new body and a renewed brain? Can I live now with a wabi-sabi attitude?

Yes, I think I can; at least I can begin walking in that direction. And maybe you can too.

Remember, we’re too good for perfection.

Photo by Gary Fawver

Check out my new author web-site: nancyjthomas.com