Psalms of old age

 The last few years I have been meditating on and writing poems about the Psalms. It’s interesting how many I can apply to the challenges of growing old. David writes a lot about his enemies, cursing them and asking God to destroy them. Very Old Testament. I don’t have the same kind of enemies David did—evil men destroying his reputation, army rebellions, assassins on the hunt. But I do have enemies. In the following poems, based on particular psalms, I address the hardships of growing older. They can be real enemies. And we know that the last enemy is death.

Midnight Prayer
When I am afraid….  Psalm 56:3

My enemies are not David’s enemies—
warriors, rebellions, political maneuvers,
smear campaigns, assassination attempts—
but they are real nonetheless
and I, like David, find myself
afraid in the night.
The enemies of age are relentless—
the rebellion of body parts,
loss of purpose and a means
of contribution, being marginalized
not only by society
but in my own family,
the specter of dementia,
and the ever present threat of death.
Record my misery, O Lord!
List my tears in your scroll.
Remind me again and again
when I am afraid
to put my trust in you.

Thirsty
I thirst for you….  Psalm 63:1

I’m perpetually dehydrated.
Although I know the importance
for my health, somehow I can’t remember
those three tall glasses of water a day.
I wake up in the middle of the night parched.

How much more do I need to drink
deeply of your Spirit. My heart is dry,
my strength depleted.

Please, Lord,
make me thirsty for you.

Requirements
“Let your compassion come to me that I may live.” Psalm 119:77 

What do I need to thrive in my old age?
--I need to open my window in the morning and breathe in clean, cool air.
--I need nutritious food in reasonable amounts; think spinach, bananas, and hot fudge sundaes.
--I need regular exercise, chugging away in “Strong for Life,” and long walks in the forest.
--I need heart-friends who tell me secrets, make me laugh, and let me be silent.
--I need good books and someone to talk about them with.
--I need stuff to do that makes life better for someone else.
And under, around and including all this,
I need your compassion, Lord.

Hold Me Steady
Your word … stands firm…. Psalm 119:89

You, who set the earth on a firm foundation,
you, whose faithfulness is rock-solid,
tie me to the mast of your word.
Keep me upright through the storm
of old age.
When all I thought stable is washed overboard—
accomplishments, health, beauty,
my place in the family,
my place in the world—

your word tells me who I am.
Your precepts define my worth.
Though all life shifts,
I cling to your word.
Hold me steady, Lord.

A Light on My Path
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.” Psalm 119:105-112

Last year I attended a retreat
in a rough campground
set in an old growth forest.
The back-to-nature stuff seemed more suited
to the younger attendees than to those of my age,
although I savored the sound of the wind in the trees
and the nearby rushing river.
The bunk-house was spare, crowded, cold,
and, more important, lacked a bathroom.
Since I now have to get up
several times in the night, my small flashlight
turned out to be more important than the Bible.
A light on my path as I stumbled through the pines.

Sometimes real life seems rougher
than a primitive camp site—
the ground more uneven, the nights darker.
Your word is indispensable for survival.
My flashlight in the dark. My light in the forest.
Show me the way, Lord.

Celebrating libraries and poetry!

This is National Library Week and I, for one, am celebrating. Established in 1958 by the American Library Association, this is a time to visit, celebrate, and support the contribution libraries make to children, families, serious scholars, and book-lovers of all stripes.

I love libraries. In fact, browsing is my favorite sport. The public library is my favorite civic organization. I love it even better than the executive branch of government, the Supreme Court, and the national military all combined. Imagine that!

As if that were not enough, April is National Poetry Month. Did you know that? Organized in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, it aims to increase appreciation of poetry throughout society.

Actually, I didn’t know about National Poetry Month until I received an invitation from George Fox University to participate in an event to celebrate poetry, local poets in particular. We met in the university library (how appropriate!), in a large space that looked more like a lounge than a library. Very homey. I was one of three local poets invited to discuss poetry as part of a panel and then to read some of our poems. After that, an open mic encouraged people in the audience to come up and read one of their own poems.

Walking to the event, I told Hal I wasn’t sure if many people would show up. I said that even if we shared with ten people, it would be worth it. The space was set up for about 50 people, and I was surprised when the sponsors had to scrounge to bring in more chairs to accommodate the crowd.

We had such fun! For the panel part, the facilitator had a list of five questions and each of us three poets were to respond in turn. The first question was, “What was your first introduction to poetry?” That was easy—my mother and Mother Goose! And when I was two-years-old a great aunt gave me a copy of the poems of Robert Lewis Stevenson. Both books were large with lovely pictures, and my mom read with feeling. She read the same poems over and over and I found myself memorizing them, without even trying:

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!  (etc.)

********

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.  (etc.)

From those times I learned that poetry is play. Playing with words. It was even more fun than playing with dolls.

Speaking of poetry, I am spending a good part of this week in The Writers Cabin at Camp Tilikum, outside of Newberg. The brainchild of Richard Foster, it opened just last year. In fact, I was the first writer-in-residence. I used that occasion to put together a collection of poems on the life of Christ. It’s been a long-time project.

The book was recently accepted for publication by Wipf & Stock Publishers. This week at the cabin, I am dedicating the time to the final formatting of the book before I send it back to the publisher for typesetting. It’s arduous work, but the peace and quiet of the cabin will let me concentrate. Hopefully I’ll be able to write a few new poems as well.

The book is entitled Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. I hope it causes readers to have a fresh perspective on the words, deeds, and significance of the ongoing life of Jesus. It blesses me and I pray it does the same for you.

In the meantime, high praise for libraries and poetry! 

Note: I’m posting this blog early this week because I go the cabin this afternoon, and there is no Internet. Imagine that.

My personal rotational bulge

 In recent years scientists have been telling us that the earth is not a perfect sphere. Instead of a sphere, our planet is technically an oblate spheroid, which gives it a slightly pear shape. An egg might be a better image.

Centrifugal force, rotation, plus gravity are the causes. Because the planet has been spinning for so long, the top and bottom poles have slightly flattened, causing a bulge around the equator. It’s called a rotational bulge or an equatorial bulge. The diameter at the equator is 26 miles longer than the pole-to-pole diameter. That’s not much. In fact, it’s almost impossible to see from a space craft.

Actually the earth’s bottom pole is flatter than the top pole by some 42 miles, which helps give it the pear shape.

Lest you feel too badly about this imperfection, you need to know that the rotational bulges of Saturn and Jupiter are far worse.

In addition to the earth’s bulging mid-section, other “surface imperfections” contribute to the distortion—mountains, abysses, canyons in the bottom of the ocean, desserts, and forests. (I, for one, say “Thank God” for the imperfection of a forest!) At any rate, our planet is far from geometrically perfect.

I think I also suffer from rotational bulge, and it might be more noticeable than that of my favorite planet. I’m getting older and I’m chronically dizzy. Much of the time I feel like I’m spinning. I really do bulge at the middle, plus I must be flattening at my top and bottom poles. I’ve apparently lost several inches from my youthful height. And then there are all the cracks and crevices, the bushy forests, the dry deserts.

Am I now more of a pear or an egg? Neither option attracts.

Actually, in the fruit-basket this retirement community resembles, I’ve noticed quite a few pears just like me. I’ve also seen walking apples, papayas, mangos, and bunches of grapes. Some of my colleagues remain slim but now walk with a light stoop; they’re the bananas. Thrown together, we make a colorful, tasty, fragrant salad. Lovely it its own way.

Even so, I’m not particularly happy or accepting of my rotational bulge. I buy clothes that hide it, sort of. I try to remember to walk tall and suck in my tummy. I exercise and diet, sort of. But it’s not natural and I forget.

I have friends who seem to accept the bodily shapes of growing older. They don’t bother with loose clothes and, in the ugly current phrase, they “let it all hang out.” I admire these brave unselfconscious people and wish I were more relaxed about it all, as they are. Maybe I’ll get there as I talk myself into it. But I doubt I’ll ever be comfortable with letting it all hang out.

But, really, so what if I’ve become an oblate spheroid? As long as I can think, create a poem, be a good friend, and worship the Lord in the beauty of his holiness, I’ll just keep on rotating. Being who I am at this stage of life. Joining with all my delightfully fruity friends.

My unfaithful episcopagus

 My husband Hal was a precocious little boy. He learned to read early and he loved science. His parents had received from a friend an old set of Encyclopedia Britannica volumes and he discovered the section on human anatomy. It fascinated him. His sight-reading ability was not quite up to the level of anatomical vocabulary, but he did the best he could, coming to his own unique pronunciation of certain words.

At dinner one night, he informed his parents that the food they were eating was going down their episcopagus to get to their stomach. The word delighted them and they adopted it. For the next couple of years none of the members of the Thomas family had an esophagus. They each had an espicopagus (pronounced e-pis-co-PA-gus).

Years later I wrote a poetry book for my grandkids based on actual funny things they or their parents said when they were kids. Here’s the poem about their Grandpa’s hilarious mispronunciation:

MY FAITHFUL EPISCOPAGUS

Yes, of course, I love my lips!
My belly button gives me flips!
I like my feet,
my eyebrows are neat,
and my little toe is really sweet,
but the body part I like the best
is my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It’s hidden inside me, after my mouth,
behind my throat, but further south.
It’s long and round,
and without a sound
it carries my food, every pound,
‘til it lands in my tummy a while to rest.
Oh, my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It carries jelly beans, spinach and peas.
It transports mango sauce and cheese,
all of my lunch,
my breakfast and brunch,
the yummy granola I love to crunch.
There’s none to compare in all the west
to my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

Had enough?

I’ve had a different adventure recently involving my esophagus. For several years I’ve had trouble swallowing. I coughed and gagged frequently and had trouble sleeping with all the phlegm and other stuff coming up. I usually ended up spending the night in a recliner with my head raised.

This started during Covid and the medical people I could get to online misdiagnosed allergies, sinus problems, gastric reflux and other common maladies. They recommended a variety of over-the-counter remedies, none of which worked. I’m sure people began suspecting me of being a hypochondriac and chronic complainer.

Then late last year my primary-care-physician had me take a barium-swallow-test, and the two medical technicians found my problem five minutes into the test. They showed me the shadow on the X-ray and told me it was a large diverticulum (pouch) attached to the top of my esophagus. I had thought diverticuli developed only in the colon (where my husband harbors his), but no. They can also pop out on the esophagus. I was glad to finally have a name for what was happening in my body. I had an unfaithful episcopagus.

After the test, things happened relatively quickly (I’ll spare you the details), and at the end of January I had an operation on my esophagus. (To be medically precise, it was an Endoscopic Zenkers Diverticulectomy. Is that not impressive?!) The end result of it all is that I returned to normal. I can swallow again. The gaging is gone. I can sleep lying down all night long.

Normal is good.

It’s good to know that, even as we age, there are serious bodily ailments that can be fixed. In some areas of our lives, normal is possible.

I thank God for modern medical wonders, for non-invasive (though the mouth) procedures that were unthinkable even a decade ago.

I thank God for normal.

In addition to that-----

I’ll sing up high.
I’ll sing down low.
And all of my days
I’ll give high praise
for my faithful episcopagus!

illustration for the children's book

Super Salad Moments

My daughter Kristin has her own blog/newsletter, and I love her latest entry. It concerns the challenges of growing up in another culture and the adjustment difficulties in coming “home” to the US. Kristin, born in Bolivia, was 16 when we returned to the US.

She writes of a time when she and her college-roommate went on a double-date. She was paired with the young man who would one day be her husband. The foursome were all dressed up and heading for an elegant restaurant, a new experience for Kristin and something out of her comfort zone.

In situations like this, she had learned to watch and take her cues from her companions, cues such as which of the many forks and spoons to use when. Even so she was a bit nervous.

When they were finally ready to order, Kristin writes that the waitress “targeted” her first. To her relief she gave her order without a hitch. But then the waitress asked her, “Soup or salad?” Not used to that question, she answered simply, “No, thank you.”

But the waitress asked again, a little impatiently, “Soup or salad?”

Kristin repeated her answer that she really didn’t want any.

For a third time, “Soup or salad”?

Kristin, realizing that the waitress wasn’t going to let this go, said, “If I have to eat salad, can you at least make it a mini?”

At that point, her friends realized what was happening and began to chuckle. Not used to the soup or salad option, Kristin had misheard it as “super-salad.” And no way did she want a super-salad.

In Bolivia Kristin had learned from us never to eat salad in a restaurant as we couldn’t be sure the lettuce was prepared in clean water. The danger of infection was high. But soup, on the other hand, is a Bolivian specialty. We all love Bolivian soup.

So Kristin was glad to order soup. In retrospect she recognized this experience as a conflict between her two cultures. She’s had many. In her blog, she referred to these experiences as “super-salad moments.” I like that phrase.

I have my own super-salad moments.  I belong to two planets simultaneously. The planet of Old and the planet of Young.  On the outside I live in the culture of Old; seen as a color Old is yellow, not a vibrant yellow, but somewhat faded. On the other hand, I’m still Young on the inside, a lovely lively blue. Sometimes the two don’t get along. Sometimes they clash, like when I’m walking down the sidewalk, feeling chipper, and then see my reflection in a store window. It takes a second for me to realize that that white-haired lady with the slight stoop is me. Oh no!

Of course, I don’t always feel young and vital on the inside, especially if I’m struggling with illness. At the same time, I still have my imagination, creativity, and humor. I still worship and pray and marvel at beauty. I still cherish friendship and love a good conversation. I’m still young, in spite of it all.

The outside old (yellow) and the inside young (blue) don’t always get along—unless they blend and become green. Green is a great color.

Psalm 92 speaks of the one who follows God: “They will still bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” Paul tells us that, “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). That’s the blending of the old and the young. The challenge is accepting the limitations of growing older, yet still experiencing that inner renewal as a present (and future) reality. 

I know I’ll still have super-salad moments, lots of them. As Kermit the Frog once sang, “It’s not easy being green.”

It’s not easy.

But it’s good.

Note: If you want to read Kristin’s original blog, go to her webpage (kristingault.com), then click on the blog section.

 

My adventures with the slug

I’m ambivalent about the slug. I simultaneously respect and find repulsive this small garden-variety beast. But the slug and I have a shared history which I will share with you today. Lucky you.

This post will combine memory (an important task as we age) and confession (an important task at any age).

First, let me go back in time. I adopted the slug in a fit of whimsy during the time when my kids were small. We were all avid book-readers, well-supplied with popular picture-books for children. The Golden Book series was a favorite with me because I inherited it from my own childhood. Add to that Dr. Seuss, the Archbook series of Bible stories, Are You My Mother?, Mother Goose, the Little Bear books, Madeleine in Paris, Curious George, and a host of others, and our kids were off on the road to a good education.

Now enter the slug. As mentioned above it was out of pure whimsy that I began slipping slugs into the story books I read and re-read to the kids. Only now and then, in odd places, without skipping a beat, I would read, “As the prince slipped the glass slug on Cinderella’s foot….”  And Kristin would giggle and say, “Mom, it’s a slipper, not a slug!”

(Interestingly enough, years later when I tried it on my grandkids, it didn’t work. Instead of amusement, they got mad, as in, “Come on, Grandma! Read it right!” So much for whimsy.)

And then there was the time when David, on some Boy Scout hike, took on a dare to kiss a slug. Later he told me it was a scientific experiment, to see if kissing a slug really does make your lips go numb. It does.

The next time slugs enter my story, I’m in graduate school. To help support my addiction to education, I worked as research librarian in the same school. As such I was in charge of making sure all theses and dissertations passed the mustard in regards to margins, headings, grammar, and references. As if that were not fun enough, I also got to edit the school’s style manual.

To be perfectly honest, academic style manuals are not my favorite literary genre. And the manual I inherited needed extensive editing.

Again, my sense of whimsy clicked in. Partly in order not to go crazy with academic jargon and stylistic rules, I began subtly inserting slugs into the text. As long as it didn’t interfere with the manual’s purpose to give clear formatting instructions, I figured my slugs did no harm. They certainly made my work more fun. I’m sure my co-workers in the office occasionally wondered why I was at my desk giggling.

I inserted most of my slugs into the examples, not the actual instructions. “References Cited” provided rich opportunities. The school used the reference system of the American Association of Anthropology, and I selected my examples from various journals. Slipping a slug into a title was easy.  Samples:

Rumekkiart, David E., and James L. M. McClelland. 1986. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition among Slugs.

Rogers. E. 1963. The Hunting Group: Hunting Territory Complex among Mistassini Slugs.

Legge, Anthony J. and Peter A. Rowley-Conwy. 1987. “Slug Killing in Stone Age Syria.” Scientific American 257:88-95.

Gwyn, Douglas T. and Eugene P. Slug, eds. 1995. A Declaration on Peace: The World’s Renewal Has Begun

In the capitalization guide to theological terms, the “S” list contained the following words:

Satan
Savior
scriptural
Scripture
serpent, the
slug, the
Son of God
Spirit, the

(Although slugs deserve respect, you don’t have to capitalize them.) I found many other hiding places for my slugs. In fact, I managed to hide some 30 slugs in the manual.

For several weeks after the revised edition of the style manual was published, I held my breath, wondering if the Dean would call me into his office and fire me. Now, some years later, I admit to being disappointed that no one ever mentioned it or even noticed it. But, after all, who reads all the examples in style manuals? 

Lest you think there was an ethical problem with my “crime,” please note that this blog post is a true confession. Forgive me.

Some decades later Hal and I found ourselves in the middle of a new slug adventure. This time with a live slug.

It’s called kombucha tea, and the recipe asks for tea, sugar, water and a SCOBY. That stands for “Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast.” It was actually alive. We called it simply The Slug (upper case letters required). It floated in a gallon jug of tea, in a dark corner of our laundry room. And there in the darkness, it quietly procreated. Every few days I would siphon off a quart of the fermented kombucha tea, replenishing the brew with fresh sugared tea. Then Hal and I would actually drink the stuff. For our health, of course.

Our daughter-in-law, Debby, first got us on to this. (Our grandkids referred to their SCOBY as The Octopus.) The use of kombucha tea has been traced to ancient cultures in both China and Russia, and its health claims make it worth trying. It tastes just strange enough that you know it’s got to be good for you. Adding apple juice helps.

In spite of the many benefits of kombucha tea, we eventually gave it up.

There you have it. My adventures with the slug. Now that we’re here in the retirement community, I’m asking myself, “What will the next chapter bring? Where will I find a slug hiding around here?”

When I discover it, I’ll let you know. 

Note: The above nonsense has been adapted and expanded from an earlier post in my blog site “Mil gracias,” August 2011.

Another Note: I wrestled with whether or not to post this story. I’m agonizing over the war and wrestling with family tragedy as well. Humor seems somehow incongruous. Is it even appropriate in the middle of so much trauma? After reflection, I’m thinking that, maybe yes, now more than ever. What do you think?

 

On the death of a child

 I had planned to write a humorous post, but a tragedy in the extended family makes it hard to laugh or play today. Over the weekend the 20-year-old son of my daughter-in-law’s sister was killed in a motorcycle accident. We are related to this family through kinship ties and friendship. The parents are childhood friends of our son, and we are close to his grandparents.

The news has shocked us all, but especially Malachi’s parents and sisters. Our son David, on a teaching assignment in Bolivia, has cancelled the rest of his trip and is currently on a complicated airplane route home—five airports with three-hours layovers in four of them. But it’s that important that he be here to comfort and offer whatever help he can.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child, even an adult child. Our friends adopted this boy as a baby, receiving him into their arms at the Portland Airport, fresh from Africa. They accepted him into their family, loved him, and raised him to manhood. They suffered through all the common traumas involved with bringing up a child (and some uncommon ones, too), and delighted in his different developmental stages and steps forward.

And now this. A friend who lost a son in his 40s several years ago shared her sense of how unnatural it feels that your offspring should die before you do. It seems that way to me, too.

But like I say, I can hardly imagine the pain and loss. I’ve never experienced it, other than in my nightmares.

And now—how to comfort? How to pray? What to do that might make any difference? My kids are going to just be with them—and cook meals, do the laundry, things like that. But mainly to be there and cry alongside them. Maybe that’s the most helpful thing, I’m guessing.

Words fail me. Not even knowing how to pray, I’m turning to some written prayers of the church, some ancient, some more recent. As part of the Quaker Church, we don’t go in for liturgy, and maybe that’s our loss. I find that the deeply thought-out and crafted prayers by women and men who know God are very helpful. Many of them have passed the test of time and have encouraged, delighted, and comforted people like us for ages. They supply words when I am groping. Here are some I am using today:

From The Book of Common Prayer: Grant, O Lord, to all who are bereaved the spirit of faith and courage, that they may have strength to meet the days to come with steadfastness and patience; not sorrowing as those without hope, but in thankful remembrance of your great goodness, and in the joyful expectation of eternal life with those they love. And this we ask in the Name of Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.

From the Celtic Daily Prayer book:

This night and every night
seems infinite with questions,
and sleep as elusive
as answers.

Pain and longing are always present,
dulled only a little
by the distractions of the day.
I am weary; I am angry;
I am confused.

Circle me, Lord.
Keep despair and disillusion without.
Bring a glimmer of hope within.

Circle me, Lord;
keep nightmare without.
Bring moments of rest.

Circle me, Lord;
keep bitterness without.
Bring an occasional sense
of Your presence within.

From Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey

Remain with me, my God.
For you are not aloof from what I feel.
You also lost a child. Your sympathy is real.
Be near to me, O Christ, for you were also
crushed by every grief and afflicted with every affliction.
You were a man of sorrows. Somehow, in this,
I find a hope rekindled.
I am not alone in this. My God has gone before me,
into suffering, grief, death, loss, and separation.
Where I am, you have already been.
And you are with me in this now.
I would follow you, even in this.
Especially in this, I would follow you.

Lord, hear us when we pray. Amen