Too old for amazement?

 Usually I know by Monday what I’m going to blog about and I have it ready to post on Tuesday morning. Usually, but not always. Yesterday I had all these ideas I was juggling—old feet, diets, old hair, and hope—but I kept dropping the balls. So I left it to this morning and, sure enough, a text message from my daughter told me what I needed to write about.

She has just returned from a retreat on the Holy Spirit—which was amazing, she tells me. And she is currently in a professional conference on her area of service (visual impairment), and she reports that it is also amazing. Our son just reported on an amazing trip to Mexico, and he’s enthusiastic about an upcoming trip to Guatemala. God is doing such good things in both their lives that amazement is the right word. We see God answering our prayers for our kids above and beyond what we imagined.

But this morning as I read her message, I felt the contrast between the amazement that seems to define their lives and the sheer ordinariness of my life at the moment. It’s not that I’m jealous of my kids; it’s just that the contrast is interesting.

Not that I’m opposed to ordinariness. Quite the opposite. I think of the spirituality of Brother Lawrence—sensing God in the ordinary. Some of my favorite books have ordinary in their titles: The Sacred Ordinary, Ordinary Grace, etc., etc. I’ve defined my life mission as “seeing and expressing the grace of God found in the ordinariness of life.” That’s what my poetry is all about. Living here in the retirement community, peace and ordinariness are to be the tone of my lifestyle.

But when is ordinary just too ordinary?

Am I too old for amazement?

Amazement is an interesting word. In Old English the verb form meant “to confuse, stupefy, bewilder.” The earliest use in modern English (12^th-13^th century) meant “to stun, confound, bewilder, put into confusion.” But over time the meaning has shifted to what we mean today when we say, “I was amazed!” We mean, “I was filled with wonder or astonishment.” The negative has become positive.

I remember times as a youth or young adult (which means any age under 60) when I was filled with a joyful wonder that made me lift my arms, jump up, run around, and hug strangers. And I had the bodily energy to do all that. That wasn’t my normal life, of course, but times of a heavenly fire in my bones added that spark that made life exciting.

Any more, a fire in my bones sounds painful. Mild arthritis is hard enough to handle.

I do experience moments of amazement in worship. But if the music is too loud, the congregation too bodily enthusiastic, I get dizzy, and all I want is to escape to some quiet place. More and more I appreciate silent worship that lets my body relax. Of course, if I get too relaxed, I go to sleep. Oh well.

I experience wonder when I walk in the woods, stand by the ocean, or gaze into the heart of a rose. It’s a quiet wonder and I’m not sure it reaches the level of amazement. But maybe that doesn’t matter.

I’m thinking now of some recent grace sightings that have filled me with gentle wonder: the delighted look on my friend’s face when she turned around and saw me; the sight of my one-year-old great grandson discovering his first puddle; a poem that moved my spirit, made me say “Yes!;” the taste of an orange; Vivaldi’s “Summer Season;” soft sheets; a picnic with just Hal and me, splurging on hamburgers. All grace.

Still, I admit to a longing for more. I wouldn’t mind being so filled with wonder I tremble with joy for days afterward. Could my body take it? I hope so. Maybe. Or do I have to wait until heaven?

In the meantime (which is more kind than mean), I’ll forego the fire in my bones for a candle in the window. And a gentle amazement.

Trances, ecstasies, visions and raptures

 Yesterday in our Sunday school class, I taught a session on Teresa of Avila, the famous 16^th century Spanish mystic. I’ve always been drawn to Teresa—for her vivid imagination, her deep desire for intimacy with God, and her zeal for reform. Her book, The Interior Castle, has both intrigued and challenged me. An extended metaphor, Teresa envisions the Christian soul slowly growing in maturity, going from “mansion” to “mansion” in the castle until it finally reaches the 7^th mansion and finds perfect union with God. All of this takes place inside the believer, in the soul.

I stumble a bit in the 6^th mansion. Teresa’s experiences in prayer seem a bit extreme—visions and locutions, trances, raptures, and all sorts of ecstatic experiences that take the person out of their senses and leave them inebriated with God. Sometimes a sister might find herself silently drunk in the Spirit for days after the experience. I found myself asking, “Is this something I should want?” In one sense, yes, it might be wonderful. But, on the other hand, well—it all sounds sort of weird.

The 7^th mansion, the place of perfect unity, is surprisingly and blessedly free from extremes. God tells the saint that now that they are one (“the branch abiding in the vine”), there is no longer any need for more than occasional ecstatic experiences. The children of the spiritual marriage are good works, a reaching out to people who are suffering and need our comfort and presence. A good conclusion.

In the class discussion, one person told us that Teresa of Avila is the Patron Saint of Chess. Not only that, she was known for her joyful dancing in worship. That intrigued me, so I looked it up on the internet. Sure enough, partly because of Teresa’s use of the chess game as a metaphor in another book, The Way of Perfection, and because of her sharp intellect and ability to look ahead and plan, she has become the Patron Saint of Chess. Concerning her dancing, although her books focus on overcoming sin, on penance, and on suffering as parts of the path toward growth, many sources attest to her joyful habit of dancing during worship. She was a many-faceted saint.

One other thing. I learned that she is also the Patron Saint of Headaches and Migraines. One source said it was because her zeal for reform in the convents gave her superiors headaches.

Concerning the subject of ecstatic experiences, I wondered why this isn’t experienced as much among Protestants, and why it isn’t experienced more today. Perhaps it is in the more Pentecostal branches of the church. I also wondered why I haven’t experienced raptures, trances, or visions.

Then I realized I have. Although not a regular part of my life, at certain times in my journey the Spirit has visited me in a supernatural way that has impacted the rest of my life. Let me tell you about one such experience.

Hal and I had just returned to Oregon on our first missionary furlough from Bolivia. Accompanying us were five-year old David and two-year-old Kristin. Our task for the year—to travel throughout the yearly meeting speaking in churches, conferences, homes, etc., informing about the mission work in Latin America. I was nervous. Actually, I was frightened, sometimes experiencing moments of panic. Could I do this and do it well?

On this particular day, Kristin’s cousin Karina was with us on a play-date and the little girls, both two-years-old, were running around, giggling, having a noisy good time. I was doing housework, at the moment on my knees scrubbing the bathtub. I give these details to show that I was not in a spiritually charged, mystical atmosphere.

As I was scrubbing, the curtain that separates the everyday world from another realm divided and I slipped through. I was in the same house, but it was strange. I found a door I hadn’t seen before and as I opened it and went in, I discovered a secret room in this old house. It was a dining room, sparely furnished with a large wooden dining table and chairs and a wooden dish cabinet at the far end of the room.

I walked to the cabinet and somehow knew that I was supposed to set the table. I took down the four plates. They were fine china, white with a gold rim. But as I lifted each one, it came alive. A beautiful moving picture of nature filled it. The first held a meadow of wild flowers bending in a gentle breeze. The second featured a forest, leaves all fluttering, sunlight and shadows dancing. The third plate was a high mountain range, cumulous clouds scudding through the sky, and an eagle in the distance. The fourth and final plate showed a stormy ocean, waves crashing on the rocks, gulls cutting the air. All of them beautiful. I was breathless with the wonder of it.

Then I began taking down the four crystal goblets. As I lifted each one some inner instinct told me to put it to my ear like a sea shell. The sounds of each goblet corresponded to the scenes on the plates: bees, insects, and birdsong; the wind in the trees; the cry of an eagle; waves crashing on the rocks. Such incredible music!

I wondered who owned such marvelous dishes.

Suddenly an angel appeared at my side. He didn’t look anything like any angel I had ever imagined. He was obviously American and very athletic, sporting a blond crew cut and a knee-length Greek toga. I knew in my spirit that he was good. I was startled but not afraid.

The angel looked at me, smiled, then pointed to the dishes and said, “They’re yours, you know. Why don’t you use them?”

At that moment I found myself back in the bathroom, soapy sponge in hand, kids playing in the background. I sat back stunned, every detail of the experience clear in my mind. I sensed a new lightness in my spirit although I didn’t know what any of it meant. I carried that lightness and joy with me throughout the day.

When Hal returned in the evening I told him about my strange experience. He immediately responded with, “Oh, Nancy! Don’t you see what God is saying to you?! He’s telling you that in this hard task you have before you, he has gifted you with all you need to nourish people and to do it beautifully.” He wasn’t talking about food.

I’ve carried the message of the vision with me for over 50 years now. My life’s work has been about communication—mostly writing, but also teaching and speaking. As an introvert often called into public ministry which is naturally uncomfortable, God reminds me that he has given me all I need. Both substance (nourishment) and form (beautiful dishes).

I don’t know if this experience was an official “trance” or “rapture,” but I didn’t (and don’t) feel the need to categorize it. I knew (and know) that it was real.

Thanks be to God for all the ways he speaks to his children.

Just a tweak

 I’m a fan of traditional western medicine for the most part, but I’m also open to the healing insights of other traditions. I’ve even ministered in the area of inner emotional healing. This past week I experienced another type of non-traditional healing work.

Hal and I spent the week with our daughter Kristin and her family in their home in the forest. Kristin and David (our son) had gifted me with four sessions with a practitioner in natural medicine. This woman is a Christian with a gift in healing and training in massage and in the alleviation of allergies through muscle testing. Kristin had found relief from her headaches under the care of this woman. The kids thought she might help me with my vestibular migraines. I’m open to any help I can get. It was a generous and loving gift.

It was an interesting experience and I’m still processing it. (One of my processing strategies is writing—so you’re helping me right now as I write.) The first session included an hour-long massage that was delicious, followed by muscle testing during which my body told her that the emotion of pity was blocking my healing. What she meant by pity was inappropriate or excessive compassion. I thought of my deep reactions to the suffering in Gaza or the trauma currently faced by immigrants in my own country. In response, she had me hold a jar containing some substance related to pity while she did some pounding/rolling work on my back. She explained she was retraining the nerves in my body so they would respond in more wholesome ways. I didn’t, and still don’t, understand it, but I had told myself ahead of time to be open and just let God work anyway he wanted to. I left the session feeling a deep peace.

During the second session the woman led me in a time of inner healing concerning traumatic events that took place over nine years ago, around the time my dizziness and head pressure were beginning to trouble me. It was very revealing. I know that we are whole creatures, that body, mind, and emotions interact. I thought that I had already made peace with the events, all concerning conflicts in my faith community. But apparently I still had some healing work to do. Or have done to me, as she again gave me a vial to hold while she worked on my back and prayed.

In the following two sessions, my body “told” her that it doesn’t metabolize proteins like it should and that it has problems with heavy metals. The information about proteins especially fascinated me as I know that protein imbalance is a recognized problem in all kinds of migraines. The exercises with holding different vials and her work on my back were to reorient my bodily systems and help them function correctly. So mysterious.

Like I said, I may be baffled but I’m holding my heart open to healing from any source of light. I do feel a great sense of peace and lightness since the treatments, although the dizziness and head pressure haven’t noticeably reduced. I’ve been told before that my rational left-brain and my intuitive right-brain are well balanced. In other words, I’m able to hold doubt and belief together and just wait to see what happens. I’m ok with weird.

I believe in what my traditional doctor is doing, in the medicines she’s experimenting with. And I certainly believe in prayer. I’m also open to the possibility that this condition might be like St. Paul’s “thorn in the flesh,” something God is letting me live with for his own purposes. More mystery.

Back to prayer, here’s a prayer/poem I wrote a year ago. It’s in the form of a conversion between me and God.

Just a Tweak

    Yes, Lord. It’s me again,
    here in this new day.

Good morning, dear one. Well come.
What can I do for you today?

    Thanks for asking. (Even though
    you already know the answer,
    your courtesy encourages me.)
    And thank you for this awesome
    body/mind/spirit.
    I am wonder-full at how
    wonderfully and fearfully
    I am made.

    But since you asked,
    could you just tweak
    this body a little?
    I know I’m growing older
    and that a bit of wear ’n tear is natural,
    but is this particular malfunction
    really necessary?
    Just a tweak, God. That’s all I’m asking.
    You can do it if you want to.

I want.

    Okay, then. That’s what I’m asking for.
    Here, let me sing my prayer to you.

    Have mercy on me and heal me.
    Set me feet upon a rock.
    Put a new song in my heart.
    O Lord, have mercy on me.

Okay. But you’ll have to let me do this
my way, in my time.

    Yes, God. My times are in your hands.
    I’ll wait.
    And in the meantime
    I thank you for your grace
    and your artistry in making me.
    And I anticipate the tweak.

    Amen.

Older than I look

 My daughter recently walked the Camino de Santiago, journeying from Portugal up to the northwest corner of Spain where the St. James (Santiago) Cathedral dominates the city of Compostela. Upon return she gave a beautiful coffee coaster made of porcelain tiles. Each small tile is distinct, no two being the same. I love it.

Wondering whether the coaster was made in Portugal or Spain, I turned it over to read the small print on the back. I learned that the company is in Asturias, Spain, but that the coaster itself was made in—you guessed it!—China.

I struggle with the question many people here in the retirement center ask—where are you from? I don’t always know how to answer. I’ve lived in so many places. I was born in Iowa; grew up in Iowa, Arizona, and Southern California; went to college in Oregon; and spent a good number of my adult years in Bolivia and other Latin American countries. But really, I’m from Oregon where I now live.

Or am I?

Like the coaster, it’s hard to tell. I had to turn the coaster over and read the fine print.

Please don’t turn me over to find out where I’m from.

But inside me, somewhere—heart? brain? where?—there are deep words that read “from before the foundation of the world” God knew and chose me (Ephesians 1:4). I come from heaven. I come from the heart of God. I’m older than I look.

Truth be told, I still live there. The Old Testament prophet Moses tell us that the Lord has been our dwelling place throughout all generations (Psalm 90:1). In the New Testament we read that we are to abide in (live, dwell, sink deep into) Christ (John 15). If we’re following the footsteps of Jesus, that’s where we live, no matter where we make our bed.

And someday, in a new and living sense, I’ll return to my beginnings. I’ll go home, back to the heart of God, but in a deeper, more experiential way. Physically as well as spiritually.

Considering my beginnings, I’m “older than the hills,” as the saying goes. But considering my destiny, I’m just getting started.

I’m so much younger than I look.

Doing the stuff or just believing?

 Recycling is good and I’m recycling an old idea today. It’s the dilemma of works (doing the stuff) versus faith (just believing), especially as applied to the challenges of growing older. Actually, I’ve written on this before, but I still wrestle with it. I wrestle by writing.

Recently I read in Romans 4 Paul’s praise of the old patriarch Abraham who was blessed by God because of his faith, not for any works he did. Paul makes it clear that faith is superior to works. Even good works.

Since retirement, I squirm when someone asks me what I’ve been doing lately. I have to pause and try to remember.

Like many of us, I came from the world of work and I can look back and feel proud of my accomplishments: textbooks written; poems published; classes taught; kids fed, educated and finally launched. Not to mention all the education I soaked up (and paid for).

Not all of it was good works, of course. I had plenty of set-backs. I was a miserable failure at teaching in public high school. I lost a significant scholarship because on the final interview I couldn’t remember my name. (I’m not kidding. I was that nervous.) I could go on, but for the sake of my pride, I won’t.

At any rate, I worked hard. I did a lot of stuff and made a name for myself.

But now that life is on the shelf. When I visit my old school, church, or place of work, there are so many people I don’t know. And they don’t know my name and could care less about my accomplishments. I’m another person. It seems that the time of works is over.

So, what have I been doing lately? Not much really. I pray and write in the mornings, but that’s what I love, what I’ve always wanted to give my time to, so it probably doesn’t count. Sometime I attend an exercise class. In the afternoons I might visit a friend and we talk. I take walks and naps. I read a lot of books. Occasionally I watch a movie. (Occasionally I binge on a Netflicks series, but that’s a secret). I might work on a puzzle or draw flowers. Many evenings other people fix my meals and wash the dishes. Then we watch the evening news, pray for the world, and go to bed early. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. It all adds up to—not much.

Not only do I squirm at the question of how I’m spending my time, I sometimes struggle with guilt. The active, left-brain, accomplishing self feels guilty. But the softer, more intuitive self tells the busy self to just shut up. Sometimes she does.

I know this isn’t exactly what Paul means when he champions faith over works. But now that my time for works has diminished, I take comfort from his perspective. Do I have enough faith to justify that comfort? That’s a good question.

To complicate matters, the Apostle James turns the faith/works equation on its head when he tells us that “faith without works is dead.” Dead. That’s pretty drastic. I guess I can’t let retirement release me completely from the need to work for the kingdom. Maybe my praying and writing and talking with people are forms of work? I’m not so sure about the puzzles and the movies and novels, but, honestly, I don’t feel too guilty about any of it.

I know I’m getting older, but I’m not yet ready for dead, thank you very much, St. James. And I honestly don’t want to be busy accomplishing stuff anymore. So, I need to keep seeking a healthy balance of good works appropriate for my time of life and a faith that sustains it all.

And I’d like to be less flummoxed by the question, “What have you been doing lately.”

Maybe “not much” is a whole lot.

You Are Old, Father William

When my friend Harriet was in the last months of her life (at 104 years old!), I continued our practice of reading books aloud. The last one we read was Alice in Wonderland and, when Harriet had not fallen asleep, she laughed along with me.

We especially enjoyed the silly poems, one of which, “You Are Old, Father William,” I have copied below. Like all Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poems, there’s a lot of sense hiding in the background. This poem features the contest between young and old, the young being the son who is scolding his father for inappropriate behavior. The son is a bit of a know-it-all but the father doesn’t let it affect him.

You Are Old, Father William
By Lewis Carroll

 "You are old, father William," the young man said,
    "And your hair has become very white;
  And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

  "In my youth," father William replied to his son,
    "I feared it would injure the brain;
  But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again."

  "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
  Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door —
    Pray, what is the reason of that?"

  "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    "I kept all my limbs very supple
  By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box —
    Allow me to sell you a couple."

  "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
  Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak —
    Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

  "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
  And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life."

  "You are old," said the youth; one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
  Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose —
    What made you so awfully clever?"

  "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
    Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
  Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

I like this poem because of the way it pokes fun of the social expectations of what is appropriate behavior and appearance for old people. Maybe this was truer in the Victorian era when Carroll wrote his books, but the pressures exist today too. I resist conforming to the stereotypical images of “old lady” or “old man” and I know many of you do too. While I don’t intend to try back-somersaults or balancing an eel on my nose, I hope my actions and appearance can at least reflect a young spirit.

Way to go, Father William!

Things I don't do well but can't give up

 It seems that much of growing older has to do with giving up. It begins with giving up our job, sometimes a life-long career, and that involves giving up part of our personal identity. Then we move on to giving up stuff (we call it downsizing), giving up relationships (more of our friends are dying), and giving up activities we used to be good at. We move on to giving up the car and, sometimes, giving up our teeth and other body parts. We fear someday giving up our dignity as people have to care for us as though we were infants.

Grim.

When my thoughts about all this become too grim for comfort, then it’s humor to the rescue. So I made a list of “things I don’t do well but can’t give up, at least not yet.” Here’s the list:

1.     --Cooking: Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever done this well. I have a history of bland casseroles, substituted ingredients that didn’t turn out, forgetting the cheese, stuff burnt on the bottom of the pan, and so on. Hal and our grown kids reassure me they enjoyed my meals, but they are all very nice people and wouldn’t say anything else. At any rate, I’m even less fond of cooking now than I ever was. But I’m not ready to give it up. We have a kitchenette in our apartment, so I cook. And when I’d can’t bear the thought, we go down to the community dining room where other nice people fix our meals.

2.     --My guitar: This is another activity I’m not sure I ever did well, but it gave me a lot of joy. I got my first guitar in high school when folk music was the rage. I loved Joan Baez and wanted to be like her, and so—the guitar. I’ve plunked and strummed for many years now, but never arrived at any proficiency. There are two reasons for this: 1) I don’t have the musical gene and 2) I hate to practice.  Right now the guitar sits propped up against the book case, along with her daughter, a ukelele (which I also used to play). I keep thinking I’ll begin playing again and get really good at it. And tomorrow would be a good time to start. The thought of getting rid of them makes me sad.

3.   

--Tent camping: Hal and I used to do this. But the last few times we’d begun to wonder. Those air mattresses seem to be getting thinner and thinner, our backs in the morning stiffer and stiffer. Getting up several times in the middle of the night to wander through the trees to the camp bathroom doesn’t seem as adventuresome any more. To be honest, the last time we hauled our camping equipment to some lovely state park was before the pandemic. But the stuff still occupies much of our storage container—tent, tarp, air mattresses, pump, sleeping bags, propane stove, pots and pans, lantern, and numerous other essential camping stuff. From time to time, we talk about getting rid of it, but we just can’t bring ourselves to do it. Not yet.

4.     --Art supplies: These occupy space in our apartment and I also have a locker down in the community art room. I’ve never considered myself an artist, but after retirement I began to experiment and enjoyed it. I’ve even taken a few art classes here in the retirement community. So I dabble and sometimes I get it right. I’ve become good enough for personal greeting cards, including some really funny birthday cards for the grandkids. However, along with my missing music gene, I was not born with an art gene. When I say, “I’m not really an artist,” my friends tell me never to say that. But it’s true. Still, I’m keeping the art supplies for now and using them. It’s healthy. And fun.

5.     --House plants: Some people kid about murdering their house plants. But I won’t kid about it; I am that criminal. And yet I love the idea of filling my rooms with beautiful leaves and blooms—real ones. Plastic doesn’t appeal. So I’m going to keep trying. I’ll just stoically throw out the dead plants and buy more as needed. My plants look really good for at least a year.

6.     --Poetry: Like so many serious writers (even writers of humor), I periodically wrestle with doubts. Some days I look at my books and think, “Wow! I like these poems!” Other days I want to throw everything I’ve ever written in the garbage. Pathetic, right? I wonder if I’m losing my edge as I age. But then I think that if I write a poem a day, out of 365 poems a year, some are bound to be good. Really good. Simple statistics. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’m in no way ready to give this up.

7.   

 --Prayer: I used to think I had a special calling as an intercessor—praying for family, friends, enemies, against all sorts of illnesses, and, of course, for world peace. I still wistfully hope I have this calling. But then why do I fall asleep every time I sit down to pray? Pacing and praying makes me dizzy. Is there a new technique I need to learn? (I hope not. I’ve always resisted praying by technique.) I still want to go out on a limb as I pray, asking God for impossible things, like world peace. I just also need to pray that the limb doesn’t break. No, I’m definitely not willing to give this up.

This list could go on and on, but that’s enough for now. Life goes on. I probably will give up the guitar and the camping equipment. But for the time being, I’m hanging on to the rest.

I’m not giving up.