Best friends—forever?

 Judy was my best friend in the second grade. It was mischief that first brought us together and a certain level of silliness. We stuck together at recess, sometimes chased boys, not wanting to catch them, just scare them a little. We told each other secrets—“cross my heart and hope to die.” In the third grade we became blood sisters. This was a semi-gruesome ritual where we each poked our arms with a needle, drawing a bead of blood; we then rubbed the spots together, thus mingling our blood and supposedly binding us for life.

Having a best friend was very important in Ramona Elementary School. Even the popular kids, those with lots of friends, had one special best friend. Moving up to middle school (called Junior High back then) it became more complicated. We squabbled a lot and switched best friends almost as much as we changed clothes. Jealousies, note passing in class, and all manner of adolescent pettiness make me blush (and smile) as I remember.

Elaine was my best friend in high school. I had other friends, but she was special. We were special to each other. It wasn’t mischief that drew us together, but our shared faith in God and our ideals. My concept of friendship was deepening. The secrets we shared were real—our fears, the stuff that made us happy, our dreams for the future.

We both lived out in the country, two miles from school and we walked those two miles every day. We picked out one meadow where we imagined that one day we’d both live in mansions, married to handsome husbands, and raising beautiful children, still side-by-side. Other days we imagined what our life would be like if we both went to Africa as missionaries. Always together, of course.

In my university years I was blessed with many close friendships. We didn’t bother anymore with the best-friend concept. I learned I could cultivate close relationships with several people and share those friendships, without jealousy or pettiness. I’ve kept in touch with some of those friends. In fact, I married one of them.

In our life together, both at home and abroad, Hal and I have been blessed with life-long friendships that are as close as family (without any blood-sister rituals). With some people, even though we’ve been separated by distance and time, if it happens that we get together it’s almost as though no time has passed; we pick right up where we left off.

With others I’m sad at having lost contact, in spite of how close we once were.

These days young people refer to their “bff” (best friends forever). I smile at the idealism and naivete of that term. I hope I’m not becoming cynical, but forever is a really long time.

I’ve been thinking about what makes some deep friendships endure over time and what causes some to gradually fade with time and distance. What makes for permanent life-long relationships? Why do some get lost along the way?

I’m not sure what makes the difference, but I’m realizing that both types are gifts from God.

I rejoice in the ongoing long-time friendships, loyalties that grow richer and sweeter with the passage of time. These are inexpressible treasures--people who knew us when, who know us now, and who will be there tomorrow (as long as we both shall live). People who accept the changes and grow with us and we with them. I thank God for these friendships.

But I can also cherish past friendships that are “lost” because, really, nothing that nourished us and made us better people is lost. There are friends God gives us briefly--for a week, a month, a year, a decade--and we're part of another life. We love another person and we're God's channel of grace (and they are God's channel to us) for a season. And when that time ends, we go our separate ways. These friendships are valuable too, temporarily permanent gifts of grace. We don't devalue them for their brevity, but accept God's gifts and his timing as they come. And as they go.

Now in the season of growing older, I find that friendships are as important to me as they ever were. I’m not referring to having an active social life and lots of casual relationships. Those have their place, but I still long for genuine friendships, for people I can laugh or cry with, share secrets with, even just be with in silence.

Here in the retirement center, I’ve found some delightful companions. Some of them are becoming close friends. It’s more risky now because we’re all growing older. Some of my new “best friends” have died, and the hole they leave behind hurts. Everything seems temporary because we can’t know when death will step in and interrupt a friendship. Yet maybe that’s why it’s more important to cherish and nurture what we have now. We need each other. We need genuine friendship. We need to learn to be “temporarily permanent.” It’s worth the risk.

And, if we walk hand-in-hand with the giver of all friendship, future reunions will be “actually permanent.” And very long-lasting.

Limitations, loss--and future gain

No one likes to be called a quitter. Nasty word, quitter. I’ve never seen myself as a quitter, although I do have some dark memories of times I just gave up. But mostly I pushed through the darkness and found a way.

That’s changing as I age, and I don’t like it. I would rather expand that be pulled back by limitations. But it seems that knowing and accepting our limitations is the new name of this game called growing older.

For some time now my body has been telling me to slow down. Chronic dizziness and fatigue have made some of the leadership roles I’ve loved seem more like burdens than joys. Recently I gave up leadership in a Sunday class I love; serving in the capacity of class coordinator was life-giving and I felt as though I were making a contribution. But when something that once was light starts becoming heavy, you know it’s time to let go and let other people step in. So I did. But not without a tinge of grief.

And now I’m in the process of finding someone else to edit the community journal I began some nine years ago. It’s become a way for people in this retirement community to tell their stories and I’ve loved being part of the group that puts this together once a quarter. But, again, my spirit tells me it’s time to let go.

Our plot in the community garden, my guitar and ambitions of becoming a classical guitarist (foolish, considering I have no music gene in my DNA)—these are other things I’m giving up. It’s time.

All of this makes me wonder if I’m losing my voice, along with my active roles. Will I now just melt into the background, become dimmer and dimmer until nobody even remembers my name?

Now that’s pathetic. It’s me at my worse, and I don’t always grovel at that level. Actually, I get hints that letting all this float up off my shoulders might in some way free my spirit to focus on the things that matter most. I hope that’s true.

I had a strange dream the other night. I still remember it, so that tells me to pay attention. In the dream Hal died (the worse part of the dream) and the rest of the dream focused on how I expressed my grief. In short, I went mute. I stopped talking. I lost language. With family members or in groups of people, I made myself melt into the background. In time, people seemed to accept it.

One night, still in my dream, I was with a small group of close friends and people were sharing their prayer requests. I sat and listened, mute as usual. But then as we went into a time of prayer, my tongue was loosed. I began praying for my friends, out loud, with wisdom and discernment. With compassion. It surprised everyone, myself included.

Then I woke up.

As I’ve been processing the dream, I’ve decided it was not prophetic. I’ve not been given a warning that Hal will soon die, although I know we’ll both die someday. And it’s not telling me that when all else fails, pray. No. I think it’s about facing loss and letting myself grieve the losses, even if that means a time of silence to sit with the absences. But there is something good on the other side, something I can do well and that will give meaning in this time of life.

I believe that. In fact, I do want to learn how to pray better and how to settle into more fruitful times of worship and intercession. I want to learn how to do silence and contemplation better (meaning more than five minutes at a stretch). I’m making time for this.

I now have more time for writing; I’ve still got poems to write, stories to tell, memories to mine. And I’m fulfilling my hope of refreshing my ability to read the New Testament in Greek. I’ve lost a lot since my seminary days, but it’s coming back little by little. And it’s lots of fun.

And then there’s people time, of course. More time for long conversations, for reading books and talking about them with other book-lovers, for just being with the people I love.

As often happens when I write this blog, I’m processing my situation and coming to a place of hope. Journeying from negative to positive. From grief to joy. I haven’t arrived yet, at least not consistently, but I feel better about it all. I hope you also find yourself encouraged.

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.