Even leopards give thanks

Yesterday in church we listened to the story of Jesus healing the ten lepers two times. Not that he healed the lepers twice. We heard the story twice, once in Sunday school, and then again in church.

That makes sense. It’s an appropriate story for Thanksgiving week. Ten lepers healed, but only one came back to say “Thank you.” Of course we were then admonished to be that one, not only on Thanksgiving Day, but everyday. To make gratitude a habit. Good advice, healthy for the body as well as the soul.

That story has special meaning to me. Years ago, in a Sunday school, the leader was teaching on the miracles of Jesus. For such an uplifting subject, the class was remarkably boring. The teacher, a good friend, was a college professor in lecture mode, droning on and on. At one point he was reading off a list of all the miracles recorded in the Gospels. I had drifted off when, on the borders of consciousness, I heard him mention the healing of the ten leopards.

That caught my attention. Instantly my imagination went into full gear and I saw an African savannah with leopards and other wild beasts. Jesus was walking among them, having mercy on their conditions.

Then class was over and we filed into the sanctuary for the worship service. I wrote the following poem in the margins of the church bulletin:

The Cleansing

And it came about that Jesus, King, was passing
through the grass lands of Burundi and as he
entered a village ten leopards approached,

slinking between the huts, pad-padding down
the paths on great pudding feet,
ten shadow beasts brought low by mange and

malice came near and said to the King of Cats, 
O Master, Jesus, have mercy on us,
we know if you will you can make us clean,

heal our hide, sharpen our claws, restore our
terror names, and Jesus, Beast, said,
I will, be clean, and straightway the ten

leopards were healed and with leaps and holy
yowls they departed, but one, when he saw
he was healed, returned and crouching purred

his praise, a gravelly grace song, and Jesus,
Cat, twitched his tail
while all the skies of Africa sang.

While the poem was playful, it also turned out to be true. Christ is called the Lion of Judah in the Old Testament and in the book of Revelation. My slip-of-the-ear and the consequent vision presented me with a different perspective on the Gospel. A picture of a cosmic healing Christ who we’ll never be able to completely understand. And a new view of gratitude. I saw a bigger picture of grace and goodness abroad in the world. Writing poems sometimes does that to me.

As we focus on thanksgiving this week, let’s ask for a bigger vision of God and of the grace and goodness of God in our lives, no matter what is going on personally and in the world at large. Let’s be thankful.

If a leopard—or a leper—can express gratitude, so can I.

The dark part of the forest

 I usually know ahead of time what I’m going to blog about, but I began this day with a blank page and a blank mind. All of it reflecting a blank emotional state. Not so black as despair, but neither with a bright degree of hope. I’m comforted in knowing that the Psalms reflect lament almost as much as they do praise.

The thing is—I’m sick of being sick. And I’m not even gravely ill. But several chronic conditions continue to deplete my energy, making any kind of activity cumbersome. I figure I have around two hours a day to express my creativity, then I resort to books, movies, and naps. To some people that might sound like the good life. But not to me.

I’m in process of giving up a leadership role that has brought me delight, as well as an avenue of service. My body is telling me I need to let it pass to someone else, and I’ve chosen to listen, but not without a sense of grief. And I wonder what I’m to let go of next.

My purpose for writing on this blogsite is to explore ways to face the challenges of aging with courage and humor. I include myself in this purpose which is why I use the word explore. My way of working through issues and challenges is through writing. Today my courage is low and I’m not finding anything to laugh about. But I sense that I need to write from the valley as well as from the mountain top.

About 30 years ago, when I was a mere 51 years old, I wrote a poem about my fears of growing older. (At the time, I didn’t realize how young I still was!) I find it still relevant in certain seasons. I borrow from the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale and the phrase “coming unglued.”

Coming of Age

“It's all right,” he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

Grim, no? And a bit strange (like me).

Psalm 31 combines both lament and praise, going back and forth, showing the cyclic nature of our inward life. Mine at least. In lament, David expresses his anguish honestly.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.  (Psalm 31:9-10)

I detect themes of old age, chronic illness, and despair. But David knows where to take it. He cries out to the Lord in complete honestly. Later in the same psalm he writes, you heard my cry for mercy, and he ends the psalm with words to us: Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.

I’ll do that today. I’ll take heart, even as I’m in the middle of the forest of age, going deeper every day. I may meet up with a wicked witch and an enticing gingerbread house. But probably not. I expect I’ll find light for the path, a light that grows brighter and brighter until the day when all is light, beauty, glory, and grace. And I may even have fun on the way.

I’m feeling better already.

Loving the house of the Lord

 Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

That verse warmed me the other morning as I read it, curled up in my chair by the window. Then I asked myself where, exactly, is the Lord’s house. Surely it’s a metaphor for something other than a building. What?

As I thought about it, I realized that the phrase appears numerous times in the Scripture, with various meanings. It’s hard to pinpoint a location or describe its architecture. In one sense, God inhabits the whole earth and the expanse of the heavens. On the other hand, God’s house is used to refer to places where his people gather, be that tabernacle, temple, or local meeting house. “Let us go to the house of the Lord,” is a familiar call to get up on Sunday mornings and go to church.

It then occurred to me that, in a more intimate sense, my body is the house of the Lord. Paul calls it “the temple of the Holy Spirit.” My physical body. Now that thought intrigues me, because my body is no longer young and full of energetic promise. Is it still God’s house, the place where his glory dwells? Am I to love it as such?

Here’s the poem:

Loving the House of the Lord
Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

The Lord owns everything.
He is landlord of the earth.
He inhabits the Sahara Desert,
the Amazon rainforests.
He’s the original man-on-the-moon.
His glory shines scatter-shot
among the stars.
I’m awestruck, but it’s hard
to wrap my emotions around it all
on a regular basis.
My affections are limited.

He is Lord of the places
where his people gather
to sing, learn, eat
and sometimes squabble.
His houses have steeples, altars
and doors that open. And close.
I confess that sometimes
I don’t want to go
to the particular house of the Lord
just down the street.
How can I pretend to love it?

I’m told that my body
is God’s temple.
That if I abide in him
and he abides in me,
glorious possibilities
present themselves.
Come into my heart, Lord Jesus,
I sang as a child. And he did.
Somehow God found enough space
to make himself at home.

And I’m to love his house,
my body. My aging body.
Wrinkles, sags, neuropathy and all.
I’m to love my flesh, my spirit,
my mind, my emotions—
all of which are in some state
of rebellion. Spirit willing, flesh weak
on a daily basis.

Rather than fight it,
I’m to love it.
Treat it with affection.
Drink lots of water,
sleep long and well,
exercise, eat vegetables,
play outside, hug a tree,
hug myself. Laugh out loud.
Say Thank you more often.
Smile when I look in the mirror.
Tell myself, This is where God dwells.

Teach me how, Lord.
And let the glory descend.

Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

Some really good stuff

 I’ve been spending time cleaning up my files. Sounds grim but I actually enjoying sorting, organizing, and, especially, tossing outdated papers, realizing that I don’t really need all those photo-copied handouts for a class I once taught and might again someday, but in all honesty, probably won’t. It feels good to throw it out.

I find that information that was once important no longer is: those recipes that I thought I’d try out but never did, letters from former students that no one else will ever want to read, summaries of books I once liked, a stack of publicity fliers for a book I wrote several years ago, song sheets, beautiful bird pictures, and on it goes. It might be initially hard to part with the bird pictures, but if I grit my teeth and just do it, I end up feeling better. It’s all part of downsizing, of trying to make life less complicated for my kids when someday it all goes to them to make the what-to-do-with-all-this decisions.

Most of my files are moderately well organized and alphabetized. They make sense to me and I can usually find what I need. But my intuitive brain can only handle so much logic and alphabetized organization. So I’ve developed some special folders for those items I don’t know how to categorize. It could be a good quote I heard on the evening news, a funny poem I found in the newspaper (often anonymous), a Reader’s Digest story—items that made me laugh, touched my spirit, inspired me to do some research, or broadened my perspective on a subject I was interested in. Items I don’t want to forget and lose, but just didn’t know where to file.

So here’s my system: I have files folders with the following titles: Stuff, More Stuff, Good Stuff, Really Good Stuff 1, Really Good Stuff 2, and Stuff To Think About. I realize that probably wouldn’t work for everyone, but it does for me. It lets my whimsical side tease my rational well-organized side, and the two end up getting along better together.

Every once in a while, I take out one of my Stuff folders and just go through it. I find ideas for poems or articles, illustrations for talks, funny memories, great ideas—in short, scads of snippets and tidbits. I love snippets and tidbits. So I’m going to share some of what I found today in one folder, the one simply labeled “Stuff.” 

*Here’s a news item that appeared in April of 1997 (sent to me in an email from a friend):

“Earlier this year, the dazed crew of a Japanese trawler was plucked out of the Sea of Japan clinging to the wreckage of their sunken ship. Their rescue, however, was followed by immediate imprisonment once authorities questioned the sailors on their ship’s loss. To a man they claimed that a cow, falling out of a clear blue sky, had struck the trawler amidships, shattering its hull and sinking the vessel within minutes.

“They remained in prison for several weeks, until the Russian Air Force reluctantly informed Japanese authorities that the crew of one of its cargo planes had apparently stolen a cow wandering at the edge of a Siberian airfield, forced the cow into the plane’s hold and hastily taken off for home.

“Unprepared for live cargo, the Russian crew was ill-equipped to manage a now rampaging cow within its hold. To save the aircraft and themselves, they shoved the animal out of the cargo hold as they crossed the Sea of Japan at an altitude of 30,000 feet.”

Not so good for the cow, but the confession freed the innocent Japanese prisoners. 

*I found a one-page book review for a volume called Oxymoronica: Paradoxical Wit and Wisdom from History’s Greatest Wordsmiths by Mardy Grothe. It looked good, so I just ordered the book on Kindle and am enjoying it now. A few of the choice oxymorons from the introduction: “The best cure for insomnia is to get lots of sleep” (W.C. Fields); “I am deeply superficial” (Ava Gardner); “Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else” (Margaret Mead).

*Here’s a gift idea: give someone an empty jar and say, “Here. I’m giving you space.”

*Some conversation starters (if you’re desperate):
--Coca-Cola was originally green.
--Barbie’s measurements if she were life size: 39-23-33.
--Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
--A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, and no one knows why.
--It is possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs.
--The youngest pope was 11 years old.
--The phrase “rule of thumb” is derived from an old English law which stated that you couldn’t beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.
--An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.

*Here’s how poet William Stafford answered the question, “What do you do about writer’s block?” He answered, “I lower my standards.”

*A definition of the manger: “a feeding trough large enough to contain the Bread of Life.”

That’s probably enough stuff for one day. I’m afraid I haven’t reduced the volume of my Stuff file today. What would I throw away? When I’m too old to laugh (which will be never, I hope), I’ll just let my great grandchildren deal with it.

Confessions of a Lapsed Luddite

 About 30 years ago I discovered that I was a Luddite. Not really an out-and-out fanatic, I qualified as only a borderline Luddite.

It all started when Hal and I joined the 20^th century and bought a personal computer. As a writer, I quickly grew to love how it made my daily work so much more efficient (which is why I classified myself as only a borderline Luddite). To ease into our private technological revolution, we took a seminary class called “The Church and the Computer.”

My self-discovery took place during the first class session. The professor gave a brief overview of computer history. Among other interesting bits of trivia, he told us that those opposed to technological advance are known as Luddites, named after a 19^th century English protest movement against industrialization. I wrote it down in my notebook as something to look into later.

Then, somewhere along in the lecture, the professor casually mentioned that computers are making libraries obsolete. One of our textbooks amplified this, describing the use of computer library terminals in a large university. With only a title, someone can type a request on the terminal or on his personal home computer if he has a telephone hookup, and within seconds he will not only find out if the library has the book, but he can actually check it out and start the home delivery process, all this without even going near the library. The author of this textbook went on to state that one need never again waste time in a library looking for a book.

Waste time in a library! I was brought up on the value of wasting time in libraries, only back in my childhood we called it “browsing.”

I proceeded to waste some time in a library, looking up the Luddites, with whom I now felt a strange kinship. I discovered that the Luddites were a band of English working-class people who rose up in protest against a large weaving frame that was replacing man-power in the stocking industry. Masked Luddites rushed into homes that employed the frames and destroyed them. Historians differ as to where the term Luddite originated, but the version I like best concerns Ned Ludd, “a person of weak intellect” whom the other village boys made fun of. One day Ludd chased one of his young persecutors into a house that employed several of the weaving frames. When Ned couldn’t find the boy, he took out his frustration on the frames. After that, whenever a frame was broken, “Ludd did it” became the common cry.

The Luddite riots did not succeed, but the name lives on, according to my friend, Webster, in the hearts of all “who are opposed to technological change.”

I made that discovery a long time ago. Thirty years has shown that computers have not replaced libraries. Computers do help; I can now order online a book I want to read and, even though the local library may not have it stock, a computer will automatically order it from another library, then notify me by email that I can come pick it up. Very convenient.

Even so, I still love to browse. For me, spending an afternoon in the library is a sensuous experience. I enjoy looking down a row of books. The collage of colors and sizes presents a map of new territory to be explored. I imagine rivers, lakes, mountaintops, and peopled cities, all waiting for me. As I wander the rows, that subtle combination of leather, paper, cardboard, dried glue, and something else (what?) wafts like incense, a homage to the world of words and ideas. I like to take a book down from its niche and hold it, to touch the texture of the cover, run my fingers over the closed thickness of its pages, and guess what treasures I can unlock if I open it. I even like the library sounds—the varied rustlings and shushings and scufflings, a relative quiet that teems with life.

Wasting an afternoon in the library opens one to all sorts of serendipitous adventures. On my way to find one certain book, I can’t help but look at the books on either side. Often I make such delightful discoveries, I leave behind the one I came for in the first place and take home something better.

The retirement community where I live has its own library. While the holdings aren’t as large as the local library, there are still delightful discoveries to be made. Two such discoveries I made in the biography/memoir section are Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club and Tom Michell’s Penguin Lessons: What I Learned from a Remarkable Bird.

Schwalbe’s book, The End of Your Life Book Club, is a non-fiction memoir of Schwalbe’s time with his mother as she is dying of pancreatic cancer, a two-year process. It addresses end of life issues, the importance of reading and relationships, and provides the cohesive thread for the life stories of both Will and his mother, remarkable people. I photocopied the list of recommended reading at the end of the book.

Tom Michell in, Penguin Lessons: What I Learned from a Remarkable Bird, gives the true account of his experience as a young man on an adventure in Argentina, teaching in a British school. Over the vacation he goes to Paraguay and rescues a penguin from an oil spill. The penguin bonds with him and refuses to leave his side, so Tom has to take him back to the boarding school where he becomes a favorite of the students. The book covers themes of ecology and creation-care, plus the relationship that can exist between a person and an animal. (A film has been made of the story, but it’s not as good as the book. Hal and I read it aloud.)

I would not have even known about these books if I had not been browsing.

That said, I again confess that I am not a true Luddite. Not only do I love computers, I’ve recently been exploring the wonders of AI. Are you shuddering? Yes, there are dangers involved with this technology, but right now I’m focusing on all it lets me do and discover. (That’s a subject for a different blog.)

But nothing will ever replace a good browse in a library.

Note: For further proof that I am not a true Luddite, I am announcing that I have just launched my own author’s website. You can find it at nancyjthomas.com . Please look it up and browse awhile. This is a big deal for me.

When settling for less might be the best

 I hate that feeling at the end of the day when I re-read the to-do list I optimistically wrote that morning and realize all the items I can’t check off. It seems there’s usually some story I didn’t get written, some person I didn’t go see, a phone call I didn’t make, a meeting I forgot to attend, etc., etc.

I’m a genetic list-maker. It’s in my blood. I not only have to-to lists and grocery lists, I have lists of books I hope to read, favorite words, prayer requests, priorities, and on it goes. It’s how I stay organized. But I’m finding the system doesn’t work for me as well as it used to. Especially that to-do list. After I write it, I sometimes forget about it for the rest of the day. Then in the evening I wrestle with frustration at all I didn’t do.

Hal is even more intense than I am. His to-do list is impossibly long and his end-of-the-day laments more soulful. Some evenings we make pathetic music.

OK. I’m exaggerating a little. But only a little. Frustration with not getting enough done is part of life these days.

In my younger days, I took pride in all the stuff I got done in a single day. I was a master multitasker, juggling all sorts of balls—education, family, job, writing assignments. I even put free-time on the list. People would ask me, “Nancy, how do you manage to get so much done?”

It’s a cultural theme, something built into our society, something rewarded and recognized. I have a book on my shelf actually titled Getting Stuff Done. It presents a rather rigorous system that even I couldn’t faithfully follow, although it did help me get my files organized. Time management has become a cultural science, almost a religion to some.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have adopted the slogan “Never settle for less than your best.” The “best” includes, of course, getting that to-do list all checked off. And every task completed with excellence. Of course.

Just writing all this down makes me tired. I find myself doubting the wisdom behind it all.

Actually, I’m not as rigid about getting stuff done as I’ve portrayed myself here. The two sides of my personality—the left-brain analytical get-stuff-done side and the playful, intuitive, poetry-writing side—are fairly equally balanced. It’s the playful side that’s kept me sane. I need to remember that now. And value it.

I’ve suggested to Hal that if he had a shorter to-do list, he might be more satisfied at the end of the day. I’m realizing that I need to heed my own advice. I think what I’m going to do is make a list (here I go again!) of all the things I would like to do and that I could work on when I have the time and inclination. I’ll post it above my desk. And then I’ll keep my daily list short. As short as possible.

In the case of to-do lists and pressures to get stuff done, maybe settling for less is the best way to go. This sounds like a good idea now in the retirement phase of life—to loosen the ties of the lists and relax the pressure to perpetual excellence.

Long ago I discerned that God has given me three priorities in life. (Here it comes—another list! But a short one.) My priorities are prayer, poetry, and people. Simple. (The fact that they all begin with the letter “p” helps me remember them.) These are more an orientation toward life than a to-do list.

I won’t stop making lists, not with my current tendency to forget meetings and deadlines unless I have a written reminder. I’ll just try to make my daily list shorter and more playful. Maybe add to the list stuff like “laugh-out-loud at least once” and “hug Hal more than once.” How about “enjoy my morning coffee” and “look attentively at something beautiful.” Yes. I could check those off every evening. Happily. That doesn’t seem at all like “settling for less.”

From lament to praise: an early morning prayer

It’s 7:30 a.m. and I’m down in the laundry room. I know that you already know this, Lord, but I’m setting it down for the record because I forget. But you know that, too. So be patient and let me lament, rant, praise, and pray in my own clumsy way.

The four driers are tossing my clothes about, loudly humming as they do. I’ve finished my coffee. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth.

There’s a slightly bitter taste in my soul as well. I feel like lament, but I want to praise. So I’m going to try and combine the two.

I praise you, Lord, for all the changes in my body. I used to be a morning person. I used to wake early and pop out of bed, eager to greet the day. No more. I often wake from a night of poor sleep, having gotten up several times to go to the bathroom or from coughing and gagging. I go out to the living room to see if I can sleep sitting up. Sometimes I manage for a couple of hours but then I wake up with an aching back. I greet the day groggy and more than a little grumpy. Definitely not a morning person.

Problem is, I’m not a noon, mid-day, or night person either. What kind of a person am I?

OK! Enough of that. This is pure lament. Or maybe just complaining.

How can I combine this with praise? Is praise even legitimate when my whole body is protesting and my emotions are nowhere near a “spiritual high”?

Of course. I’ll just begin.

Praise you, God, for old bodies. Mine in particular. I can still walk; well, sometimes it’s more like a dizzy wobble, but it gets me where I need to go. My eyes still see; even if I can’t read the street signs, I can tell if anything’s coming toward me down the road. I can still hear; although I haven’t quite got the hang of manipulating the controls on these hearing aids, it’s better with them on.

Praise you, God, for my life companion. Although life would be easier if he were not so old, he understands all I’m going through. Old love isn’t the same as young passion, but a hug is just as comforting. The memories are sweeter because we share them. And even though it’s taken all these years to get to know one another, we’re still learning new things.

Praise you, God, for the beauty of the earth. From my chair by the window, I watch the day dawn. The clouds outside put on a difference performance every day, and here I am with a front row seat. The coleus plant on the window ledge has a limited wardrobe of only one outfit, but I never tire of admiring it. As I walk the canyon path, sometimes a deer surprises me, makes my heart beat faster.

Praise you, God, for family. I guess we’re the oldest now. The ancient matriarch and patriarch. Supposedly the wise ones. (We know better, but we’re not telling.) Any day now, the newest great grand-baby will be born. Our son and daughter-in-law get to be the grandparents—something that amazes me even more than this birth. We’ll let them, while we watch from the sidelines. It’s their turn. Family. It keeps going on and on. Praise.

Praise you, God, for good work that gives definition to my days and a way to make a small contribution to the well-being of others. For my job as poetry editor of a magazine that thousands of Quakers read every month. They all need good poems, whether or not they realize that. For my work as editor of the community journal of my retirement home; it lets me encourage my companions on this journey to tell their stories and give us a glimpse of who they are. For the privilege of coordinating the Sunday school class that has become my church family. All of this is joyful work. I thank you, God.

Praise you, God, that there are still stories to be told and poems to be written. And that you think I’m young enough to do some of that good work.

And praise you that although I woke up tired and grumpy this morning, I’m no longer that person. I’m praising you, glad to be who I am right now.

And so glad that you are who you are.