Books! The Best of 2022

This Christmas Hal and I gave each other books, as usual. (Doesn’t sound like downsizing, does it? But we intend to give away more than we add to the collection.) I gave him (us) the two volumes of Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey, liturgical prayers to be read personally or in community. Beautiful and insightful. He gave me (us) a faith-gift, a guidebook to Oregon Hiking by Matt Wastradowski. This year, 2022, has been physically challenging to both of us, but we are trusting that we will be up and hiking again in beautiful Oregon in 2023.

I like to do a “Best Books List” at the end of every year. These are not books published in the current year, but books I read during the year, whenever they were published. They are not all the books I read; that list would be too long. But the best of the best, in my opinion. So, here they are. 

Fiction

Diane Akerman, The Zookeeper’s Wife (2007): Novel based on a true story of the zookeepers of the large Warsaw Zoo during World War 2 who provided a half-way house for Jews trying to escape the holocaust.

Pam Jenoff, The Lost Girls of Paris (2019): Another World War 2 novel based on the true story of two English girls who infiltrate French society as spies, to collect information on Nazi strategies.

Jacqueline Winspear: Various novels in her Maise Dobbs series about a detective in England. Reminds me of Alexander McCall’s novels about detective Mma Ramotswe in Botswana. Delightful.

Marie Benedict and Victoria Murray, The Personal Librarian (2021): Historical fiction based on the life of Belle Da Costa Greene, a black girl who passed as white and became personal librarian to J.P. Morgan.

Jodi Picoult, Small Great Things (2010): Story of a back nurse falsely accused of causing the death of a baby. About the pervasiveness of racism in our society.

Amor Towles, A Gentleman in Moscow (2016): About a man sentenced by the Soviet police to a life-time exile in a Moscow hotel. How he manages to make a meaningful life and eventually escape. Funny and poignant.

Hillary Rodham Clinton and Louise Penny State of Terror (2021): Couldn’t put it down. A setting of international terrorism and conspiracy, with some thinly veiled references to an inept real-life former presidency and the problems it raised that continue to plague the country.

Lynda Rutledge, West with Giraffes (2021): Another novel based on a true story, of two giraffes who miraculously escape a hurricane at sea and then slowly journey across the US to the San Diego Zoo. Loved the characterizations of the funny, crusty people who accompanied them. 

Non-fiction

Catherine Randall, Lost in Wonder: The Life and Faith of Gerard Manley Hopkins (2020): Fascinating biography of one of my favorite poets.

Christie Tate, How One Therapist and a Circle of Strangers Saved My Life (2020): Memoir of a very disturbed young woman whose relationships with men were disastrous and her experience of healing through group therapy, something she violently resisted at times.

Pete Grieg, How to Pray: A Simple Guide for Normal People (2019): Simple, yes, but also profound, practical, and encouraging.

Sarah Ruhl, Smile: The Story of a Face (2021): Account of the author’s journey with Bell’s Palsy, her process to come to accept it, live with people’s reactions to her, and maintain hope for a cure.

Daniel Nayeri, Everything Sad is Untrue (2020): Memoir of the author’s escape, with his family, from Iran at eight-years-old, their journey across the Middle East and Europe as immigrants trying to find a home, eventually landing in the US and facing resistance. Told with humor while facing hard situations. Helped me enter into complex situations I will never personally experience.

Carolyn Leaf, Switch on Your Brain (2013): While a little too formulaic, it gives a biblical affirmation to the science of neuroplasticity and hope for building healthy thought patterns.

Adam Grant, Think Again: The Power of Knowing What You Don’t Know (2021): Presents principles for keeping an open mind and changing perspectives according to the evidence. The best part for me was the concept of “confident humility.”

Gregory A. Boyd, Present Perfect: Finding God in the Now (2010) and Benefit of the Doubt: Breaking the Idol of Certainty (2013): Boyd is becoming a favorite Christian author. Academically sound and spiritually profound.

Poetry

Mary Oliver, Devotions (2020): Selected poems from all her many previous books, from 1963-2015. Prolific poet with excellent poems scattered here and there, worth while searching for.

Douglas McKelvey, Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2: Death, Grief, and Hope (2021): Beautifully written liturgies for the hardest times of life. Very helpful in what proved to be a year of losses.

William Jolliff, At Rest in My Father’s House (2022): That I personally know the poet makes this book every more significant. Bill writes poems that come from his background in rural Ohio farmland. Both insightful and beautiful, I love this book. (The book is insightful and beautiful, not me. That was an ambiguous sentence.)

Drew Jackson, God Speaks Through Wombs: Poems on God’s Unexpected Coming (2021): The poet brings his own experience as a black man living in the US to these poetic responses to the first eight chapters of the Gospel according to Luke. Provocative and well worth meditating on. 

So, this is my list. I’d love to get the titles of some of your favorite books from 2022. One of the challenges of these later years is that of continuing to learn. Books help.

The cachi-wachi of Christmas

 A big part of retiring and moving to this retirement community was downsizing our stuff. I’ve written about this previously. This included all sorts of Christmas decorations: funny things the kids made, a collection of cross-stitched tree ornaments, gift ornaments from other countries, different creches, hangings, and so on. You know what I’m talking about. I actually managed to get it pared-down to one box of precious Christmas stuff. We’ve decided our small apartment won’t handle a Christmas tree, and that helped.

Marie Condo, the queen of de-clutter, to the rescue again, reminding us to only keep stuff that brings us joy. We have a word for that in the Aymara language of Bolivia. Cachi-wachi. Beloved stuff. So let me show you some of our precious Christmas cachi-wachi. This is part of the stuff we brought with us.

The first is a carved wooden creche made by an Aymara artisan in the small community of Juli, Peru. The shepherds are dressed as Aymara sheep herders, and the animals around the manger include two high altitude llamas. It reminds me that Jesus came as a baby to a culture similar to the Aymara people we served among for so many years.

The second manger scene is one I made from a pattern found in a woman’s magazine over 30 years ago. The figures are felt, glued onto an Aymara awayo, the cloth the women use to bundle their babies and carry them on their backs. I’ve made and gifted dozens of copies of this hanging.

The creche below comes from Rwanda, Africa, where our son and his family served for many years. It’s made of some kind of straw, hangs from the ceiling, and twirls around in a breeze. The angels seem like weird alien insects and they always make me laugh. If the real thing was anything like this, I understand why the shepherds were “sore afraid.”

The next "ornament" came as a gift a few months ago. I knew that the Christmas cactus sometimes blooms, but this one didn’t give any hints of being anything other than a nice succulent taking up space in our window. It surprised me. It probably shouldn’t have. The name itself is a clue. But it’s Christmas time and this plant opens up a new pink blossom every day. Soon it will be covered. I like to just sit, look at it, and smile. Like that baby born so many years ago, it stirs up hope from a deep place.

I love Christmas. I’d love it even without the cachi-wachi, but the stuff helps me celebrate. It’s all touchable. These things occupy space and brighten up the room with their colorful materiality. And isn’t that what this time of year is all about? God put on materiality. He became a baby and occupied space in a real place. We call it incarnation. God made flesh. Human. Real and touchable.

It's a miracle beyond my understanding. But not beyond my celebrating.

"Step on a crack...

and break your mother’s back,” we sang
as we hopped down the sidewalks of Ramona,
carefully positioning our toes
so as to do no harm.
But I stepped on cracks all through childhood,
most of them not on sidewalks
but on rules and expectations, such as …
    --stealing penny candy from Pike’s Market,
    --writing spelling words on my arm before the test,
    --reading trashy stories from “True Confessions”
            magazine at my friend Sheila’s house,
    --passing notes during church.

I was reasonably sure that “what my mother didn’t know
couldn’t hurt her” (another wise childhood saying).
In spite of my prevarications, I broke her—if not literally
her back—in all sorts of inward parts of her anatomy,
up until the time she died. Kids do that to their parents.

I remember her last year, bed-ridden,
she looked at me once, smiled, and said,
“Nancy, I’m so proud of you.” She meant it.
She’s whole now, nothing broken.
And she now knows all my silly secrets.
Sometimes I sense her presence. She still smiles.
Still the same message. “Nancy, I’m so proud of you.”

Cracks and all. 

What I learned from the hurricane giraffes

Recently my book club discussed a marvelous novel entitled West with Giraffes (2021) by Lynda Rutledge. This novel is based on the true story of two giraffes at sea on their way to New York. The Great Hurricane of 1938 strikes, but the giraffes miraculously survive. As the protagonist, young Woody Nikel, reflects, “I never thought I’d see a bigger eyeful than that hurricane as long as I lived. But I was wrong. Because the last thing you think you’re going to see in the middle of flipped boats and buildings afire and bodies dangling and sirens wailing is a couple of giraffes.”

The giraffes, whose crates had been bolted on the deck of a freighter, made it through, a bit banged up, but alive. After a time resting and being attended to, the animals board the back of an old truck for a trek across the United States, headed for the San Diego Zoo. Woody and a “giraffe whisperer” Woody calls “Old Man” drive the truck and care for the giraffes (a true part of the story). It’s a two-week trip full of natural and human disasters, near catastrophes, and a bit of romance with a photographer named Red.

The giraffes are the stars of this story. The giraffes and the relationships that can develop between animals and humans. As the book jacket notes, this book “explores what it means to be changed by the grace of animals.” While the book is full of disasters, the hurricane being only one of them, it is also full of natural wonders, the giraffes being the chief example.

But what I want to write about in this blog on aging is the frame-tale that surrounds the story. Woody Nikel is now 105 years-old and living in a nursing home he doesn’t particularly like. His friends are all dead and all his memories are in the far past. But the memory of his trek with the giraffes, Old Man, and Red persists and he finds himself thinking about them more and more. But he has long stopped trying to tell the story, thinking it matters to no one but himself.

And then he remembers Red’s baby, a woman now, who knows little about this part of her mother’s life. It’s like a revelation. He reflects,

“It’s you.

“That’s when I know I’d been a foolish and selfish man.

“It is a foolish man who thinks stories do not matter—when in the end, they may be all that matter and all the forever we’ll ever know. So, shouldn’t you hear our story? Shouldn’t you know how two darling giraffes saved me, you, and your mother, a woman I loved? And it is a selfish man who takes stories to the grave that aren’t his and his alone. Shouldn’t you know your mother’s brave heart and daring dreams? And shouldn’t you know your friends, even though we’re gone?

“I knew, then, there was something else an old man could do. I found a pencil and I began to write.”

During the first year of the pandemic when I was especially missing contact with my family, I began thinking of all the stories of my life that I hadn’t yet told my kids or grandkids. What if I never got the chance? Would all those stories just disappear?

So—I found a pencil and I began to write. Well, actually, a computer. But I spent the better part of that year in isolation writing down the stories, starting with the ancestors, writing a chapter on my parents, then telling stories about my growing up years, then life as a wife and mother, as a missionary, and as a writer. Seventeen exciting (to me) chapters. I’m leaving open the last chapter on growing older. After all, my story’s not over.

I’m not famous and I don’t think many people will be interested in this book. And to be honest, at this point my kids aren’t very interested either. I’m hoping that someday some curious granddaughter will start wondering about that funny old lady. Maybe someone (or two or three someones) will read and love the stories, knowing a little more about where they came from.

Maybe. Maybe not. But the stories will not die when I do. And I get a great deal of satisfaction just knowing that.

 

Some awesomely radically random words

 That’s a strange title for one not given to exaggeration. I could have entitled this blog, “Conversations with my grandchildren.”

Teenage grandchildren talk differently than we do. Especially the boys. You all know that. They take perfectly fine English words and turn them on their heads or blow them up to more-than-life-size. Sometimes they merely trivialize them. As examples (“random samples,” I could say), I refer to the following conversations, carried on in two different dialects—theirs and mine. These have been slightly embellished for publication, but they are based on real comments made to me by my grandsons:

1.
That casserole was awesome, Grandma.
     Thank you. Are you OK?
Why wouldn’t I be?
     I just hope my casserole didn’t knock you to the ground in holy fear, what with being awesome and all.
Whatever.

2.
The concert was awesome. It totally knocked my socks off.
     I’m sorry. Actually, that’s better than losing a sock in the laundry. You hang on to the remaining sock, thinking its mate will show up. It never does. At least you lost both at once. Did your feet get cold?
No, Grandma. My feet didn’t get cold.

3.
It was so irritating, Grandma. His comments were totally random.
     Without clear intentionality?
What?
     Were his remarks completely lacking in cohesion and continuity, without reference to context?
What are you talking about?
     Nothing. Just some random questions.

4.
I like your blog, Grandma. It’s totally rad.
     Rad?
Radical. Totally.
     Interesting perception. I don’t see myself as a radical leftist. Actually, I’m more of a pacifist than a revolutionary.
I like your blog anyway

While I don’t get as many opportunities to travel in these years, I’m glad I still have the chance to learn new languages.

Over the river and through the woods

 

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place
throughout all generations.”  Psalm 90:1

Over the River and through the Woods…

to Grandmother’s house we go.
We used to sing that at Thanksgiving.
My mind gobbled up the image,
an idealized Thomas Kincaid calendar picture
complete with snow, a horse-drawn sleigh,
candle-light streaming from the windows,
and a plump, rosy-cheeked grandma,
apple pie in hand, waiting to welcome
the family home. I knew that’s how it would be
when I became an old lady. Grandpa and I
would be the hub of a living wheel
of hugs and stories, music and good food.
Welcome, welcome! Welcome home!

That’s not how it turned out.
We are well taken care of in our retirement home,
but our small apartment can host two or three
at the most. Family gatherings take place
at one of our kids’ homes and now include
numerous in-laws. We have to decide where
to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Thomas Kincaid
flew out the window years ago.

Thank you for replacing my fantasy
with a vision of reality richer and warmer
than any calendar picture.
You, Lord, have been our dwelling place
through all generations.

You are the hub of the wheel.
You shelter us, feed us, teach
and discipline us, give us rest.
You make us one in you.
You’re the one who says, Welcome home

Companions in grief

 It’s been a long hard week. Our dear friend and colleague died before any of us thought he would. The sense of loss has been overwhelming.

How much more for his wife, also our dear friend. My dilemma as an introvert has been how or even if to reach out to her. Maybe this is not the right time? Maybe she just needs to be alone? I don’t want to inappropriately intrude on time with family. I don’t want to make things worse with my presence or words. I certainly don’t have any wise advice to impart, not having traveled this path myself. But doing nothing also seems wrong.

Actually, my friend herself solved my dilemma, inviting Hal and me, plus our son and daughter, over the second evening after the death. Her three daughters had traveled to be with her. Our kids all grew up together on the mission field, so it was like a family reunion. We hugged, cried a little, laughed a lot, told stories, remembered all the funny and wise things Ron did. We ate a good meal supplied by a neighbor. Our intention had been to drop in, express our love and loss, then leave in “good time.” We ended up being together for four hours. It was healing and we all sensed it was “sacred time” (much better than “good time”).

But my concern as an introvert remains, specifically in situations where a friend is experiencing trauma or grief. I want to be a companion in grief, someone whose alongside presence is a genuine comfort. I need to learn how to step out of my lack of confidence and simply be that companion.

I spoke to two of my friends who have experienced grief, asking about what other people did or didn’t do that helped. And what only made things worse.

Marcile has experienced widowhood twice in her life. In her first marriage, she and David were still young, only 46. David was killed in a small-airplane crash that stunned the community and left Marcile bereft and alone. In an instant. Shortly after the memorial service, she recounts spending a weekend away with close friends. But during the whole weekend no one even mentioned the fact that David wasn’t with them. People sometimes think that if they don’t speak about a negative fact, it’s like it doesn’t exist. Not able to stand it any longer, Marcile brought up the subject and asked her friends to talk about it. She needed help in facing the new reality.

Marcile came to see grief as a dark pool that she had to walk through. It takes time. Sometime she felt as if she had arrived at the other side, only to be blindsided by a memory, again plunged into the pool. She said it helped to have a few trusted friends who walked alongside, who understood that the journey would be long.

My friend Bonnie recently lost her husband, after having spent a lifetime together. She found she needed both the company of trusted friends and times of silence. Shortly after her husband’s death, an acquaintance showed up uninvited, saying, “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Being alone is sometimes what I need,” Bonnie tells me. At this time in life, she prefers to stay home and has dropped some activities, including keeping up an active social life. “I’m not tending to friendship right now. I can’t do casual chit-chat.”

This does not rule out contact with others. Even before her husband died, several neighbors sensitively showed up, bringing coffee in the morning, checking in everyday but not staying too long, showing genuine affection and concern that comforted Bonnie. She currently keeps up meeting with several trusted friends, friends who know how to listen.

Heidi Matson, another friend who has walked the path of grief, has written a book about it: Even Though: A Journey through the Valley of Loss toward Hope (2021). I call Heidi a friend, but we’ve not actually met in person. During the pandemic, I had the privilege of editing Heidi’s book and we spent lots of time on the phone and conversing through email. Her story touched me and I’ve given her book to several of my grieving friends. (That can be a dangerous thing to do. Some equate receiving a book about grief as a form of advice. And not all grief books are equally helpful. Take care when you give your grieving friend a book.)

Heidi writes with humor about the insensitive things people can say. She writes about 

the inane, insensitive, and even ignorant comments made by several well-meaning people. Many can only sit in the pain and confusion [death] brings for so long before they are compelled to fill the space or try to fix it. As a result, they end up saying ridiculous things…. Silence, by the way, is rarely stupid. When you don’t know what to say, that’s probably a pretty good indicator that you shouldn’t say anything…. And the truth is, nothing you can say will make it better. But you can say a lot of things that will make it worse.

Heidi and a friend decided to face the issue with humor, creating “The Stupid List” where they listed insensitive comments. The list included, “You’re cute. You’ll be remarried in five years.” “God only does this to strong women.” “I’ve been avoiding you. I just can’t stand to see you. It’s too sad.” And so on. Most of us here in the retirement community would never say such things; we’re too mature, right?

In another chapter Heidi writes about the necessity of community for healing, speaking especially about friends and family who had experienced trauma themselves.

Often the people who were best at knowing how to be present were those who had themselves suffered. It is what I call the “fellowship of suffering.” The connection and understanding that exist with someone who knows what it’s like to feel suffocated by grief is a great comfort.

She writes about the people who simply held me—in their hearts, in their prayers, and in their arms.

Douglas McKelvey in his book, Every Moment Holy, includes a liturgy for “A Friend of One Who Grieves.” It voices my prayer:

“…. Give me wisdom, grace,
and empathy, O Lord, to simply walk beside,
to let my friend lead as they learn to navigate this grief,
and not to ever in arrogance believe that I can
somehow set them straight, or make it right,
or give advice they do not need from me.
Teach me how to set aside my own discomfort,
so that I might compassionately perceive,
in the context of their specific loss and their specific need,
what true encouragement and helpfulness would mean….
[Let] me serve my dear friend well
by a close and constant willingness
to bear some small part of their long burden.
Amen.

The vacuuming prince

Keeping a retirement community of some 400 residents running requires a large staff. These are the people around us everyday, who clean our rooms, cook and serve our meals, fix our broken faucets, and tend to us when we get too old to take care of ourselves. In time they become familiar to us. We learn their names and they learn ours. Some become friends.

Some of the stated values of this particular retirement community are integrity, compassion, dignity, and service. The community tries (maybe not always with perfect success) to live out these values in board decisions, administrative policies, resident activities, and employment practices. Fair wages, adequate on-the-job training, and a recognition of the dignity of each person—these are the goal.

Most of us residents are grateful for the staff that work here. I especially enjoy the opportunity to interact with the Hispanic workers; they remind me of my home in Bolivia. And it’s refreshing to have so many young people—high school and college students—serving us meals in the dining room. (I did the same thing in this same dining room when I was in college. I loved how the residents treated me.)

According to the last report, this community employs 246 staff persons, many part-time. Most of them seem happy to be working here (they all need to work somewhere); others seem burdened. But they all have private lives. They all have stories.

Some of the ways residents express their appreciation is through a scholarship fund and bi-annual bonuses in the form of gift cards, furnished entirely by resident offerings. Perhaps even more important, is when residents respond personally to different ones, learning, not only their names, but also what we can of their unique stories. This can be a challenge as they’re all on a schedule, with timed breaks. But little by little, it’s possible.

Let me tell you John’s story. I first ran across John as he was vacuuming the carpet in our hall. I greeted him and he responded with such a warm smile, it touched me and after that I made it a point to chat with him whenever our paths crossed. Once he commented on a hanging of shells on my door, asking me where it was from. I told him it was from the island of Ponape in the South Pacific. He smiled and told me he recognized it because that’s near his homeland, the island of Yap.

Yap? Intrigued, we invited John up to our room one day after work. We had lots of question, and what we learned amazed and delighted us.

Yap is a cluster of islands about 800 miles east of the Philippines surrounded by barrier reefs, part of the Federated States of Micronesia. Beautiful beaches climb inland to forested mountains. It has a year-round temperature of about 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Population on the main island runs between 11,000-12,000 people. It’s small but it sounds like a paradise.

The religion is a form of imported Catholicism mixed with animism and ancestor worship. People are proud of their customs and language, and struggle to maintain their way of life while facing the modern world. Hard to do.

John comes from this culture, but he is not just a random member. He is royalty. His step-father was chief or king of the island, a position handed down in the royal family. As such, John was in line to become chief.

When he was in high school, a Korean student shared the Christian gospel with John and gave him a Bible. He had always been curious about that figure up on the cross and wondered if there were more to life. After much reflection and prayer, John decided to become a follower of Jesus. This did not go over well with the family who disowned him for a time.

John moved to Guam and met his wife Donna in a church. They had their first two children in Guam, then decided to migrate to the Northwest corner of the United States where both John and Donna had family. They eventually made their way to Newberg, Oregon where, after several jobs, John found himself on the maintenance staff of George Fox University. He worked there for 19 years, while raising his family of now four children. Oregon became home.

When George Fox began cutting staff positions, John decided to move over to Friendsview, again finding a position on the maintenance staff, where he continues working today.

I wrote this poem about John: 

The Prince of Yap

The man who vacuums
the carpets in the hall
is really the Prince of Yap.
His late father was the King of Yap
and he was next in line
to succeed to the throne.
But he didn’t want to be king.
He envisioned another life,
dreamed of open borders,
less ocean, more scope.
So he migrated to America.
One of his relatives is now king.
He’s happy to be here,
vacuuming rugs, secretly knowing
he still is, will always be,
the Prince of Yap. 

I suspect that other members of the staff are also secret royalty, probably not in the same sense John is, but royalty nonetheless. All people of great value with wonderful stories to tell.

Who knows what first?

 You’re right. That’s a strange title that can be read different ways. I’ll explain.

It’s said that “Knowledge is power,” and I believe it. Knowing stuff gives a certain control over life situations. Events don’t so often creep up on you unawares. You can plan and strategize how you will face problems or react to conditions. Knowing what’s going on or about to happen places you above the ignorant and uniformed. Especially if you’re the first to know. Then you get to be the one to tell your friends and neighbors.

It's been interesting to see how this phenomenon works out in the retirement community. We’re a close community, somewhat set apart from the wider world around us. But there’s a lot going on around here, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up with all of it. So knowing stuff becomes important. And knowing it first seems to matter.

What time will the electricity be off on the fifth floor? Why didn’t the yoga class meet today? Why don’t we have vespers on Sunday anymore? Is so-and-so on vacation; where did they go; when will they be home? Why is the coffee machine in the dining room not working? Who? What? Why? Where? When? Knowing matters.

The One-with-the-Answers matters. It can become a silly game. Some people always seem to have the answers to whatever question (not always the right answers) and they delight in sharing their insights. Why do these people irritate me? I guess it’s more me than them, hooking into the game. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in junior high school. Or even in grade school with the nerdy little kid who responds to every question the teacher asks with waving hand and, “I know! I know! Ask me, Teacher!”

I especially hate it when I have an important piece of information and I generously impart it, only to hear, “Oh, I already knew that.” So I decide to keep quiet in the future, but I never manage to do that.

Not everybody around here plays this game. But from time to time, I find myself hooked. Shouldn’t retired people be more mature? Shouldn’t I be more mature? Who cares who-knows-what-first?

I’m writing about this because when I notice some unhealthy attitude, I need to confess it. And then I need to laugh. Especially at myself.

Of course, there is another side to the need for information around here. These are the scary questions: Who is moving from independent-living to the health care center? For whom did the ambulance come last night? Who fell? Who had a stroke? And, of course, who died in the night? This knowledge goes beyond the who-knows-what-first game.

These are our neighbors and friends, people who live next to us. In many cases they are people we’ve come to love. With knowledge comes sorrow. And although in a retirement community these events are common, the news is none-the-less jarring each time around.

And, of course, there’s the aspect of the inevitable. With each illness and loss, it seems that our turn is coming closer. It’s a sobering thought and sometimes one that’s hard to face. But it’s something that I know will happen sooner or later.

It’s something we all know, but the frequency of these events in this place makes the knowing more poignant.

Well, here’s something else I know. Job suffered horrible illnesses and the deaths of his children. Yet he found the courage to say, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God; I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another.”

This I know.

In the meantime (which can be very mean), I will grow in grace toward my more knowledgeable friends. Especially the Ones with the Answers.

And I will laugh more. Especially at myself.

Shifting family circles

Hal and I picked up our grandson at 2:00 yesterday morning and drove him to the airport. We hugged him and sent him off to Morocco where he will spend the next two years. We were all a little sad, but I could see both sorrow and excitement dancing in his eyes.

This comes at the end of a two-year exploratory period that’s seemed like a roller coaster ride. Having graduated from the university several years ago with an engineering degree and a desire to serve God and people in some needy place overseas, questions presented themselves. Where? Doing what? With which organization? For how long? The search took him down some interesting trails, all while he was holding jobs in the engineering field that put his salary at a level beyond what we’d ever earned. But he’s not in it for the money.

So now he’s off. I’m happy for him, but I’ll not deny the sense of loss I feel.

And this is not the first time I’ve felt this way.

Twenty-seven years ago, I discovered how important grandchildren were. It was like a new world opening up with these little critters playing an extremely important role. Of course, we were thrilled back when our own kids were born. But we were also terrified, not at all certain how we were supposed to carry out this parenthood thing. So much responsibility. As the years passed, we grew up alongside our kids. We learned by going where we had to go.

But with grandkids, it’s different. We’re already grown-ups (supposedly). And we’re not the ones responsible to bring up these marvelous creatures. We get to love them, play with them, spoil them, and on it goes.

Except when it doesn’t. Life, of course, is more complicated than that and all families are unique.  As Tolstoy famously said, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Even relatively happy families have their rough spots (or years). Not everyone gets along with their grown kids and grandkids.

But I’m reflecting on me, my grandkids, and loss.

Hal and I lived abroad when our seven grandkids were small. Four of them lived in Africa! We made a commitment to spend time with the African grandkids at least once every two years, and as often as we could with the three in Oregon. When we were together it often felt that we grandparents were the center of their world. They fought over who got to sit by us, pestered us to read the same books over and over, and gobbled up our attention as if they had been starving. It was exhilarating. And exhausting. We were the exhausted ones. Not them.

All that changed, of course, with the onset of adolescence. We probably never really were the center of the world for them, and we definitely were not when they hit the teen years. Peer relationships took over, as is normal and right. But I’ll admit, I missed all the focused devotion. It actually hurt my feelings when I’d visit and hear, “Hi, Grandma! Bye, Grandma! I’m going to spend the night at my friend’s.” I felt loss, the loss of my “special grandma” role.

Families keep changing. Kids grow up, get married, and allegiances re-form. Nuclear families spit like the atom and some particles get lost in space. At extended family gatherings Hal and I sometimes feel like relatives rather than family.

This for me is one of the scariest paths in this old growth forest called aging. I’ve struggled off and on all my life with the sense of being on the periphery. Now it sometimes feels like I’m losing the connections that tell me who I am and to whom I belong.

Just another opportunity to grow up, I guess. Maturity is a weird goal. When it seems like I’m getting close, something happens (or some grandkid hurts my feelings) and the goal posts stretch off into the distance again. But the Spirit keeps reeling me in, reminding me that Christ is the center, and that I belong to him.

(I realize that I’m switching my metaphor from football to fishing. But—oh, well. At my age, I get to do that.)

About those grown-up grandkids, I’ve noticed something weird and wonderful. The relationships keep changing, but now that we’ve begun to relate as adult to adult, it’s a new level of friendship, a greater sweetness, and a whole lot more fun. I can’t wait until they have babies and I get to do it all over again. Maybe by that time I will finally know what I’m doing.

So—Aren’s off to Morocco. I’m going with him in my prayers. I can’t wait to see what God will do in and through his life. I’m so glad I get to be one of his grandparents.

Not My Problem

 Garrison Keillor almost always makes me laugh. I love the way he tells the funniest stories with his deadpan, bored face. I can’t do that. If I come up with something funny, I start laughing way before the punchline. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. I’d never make the grade as a standup comedian.

Keillor recently came up with a new book, Serenity at 70, Gaiety at 80: Why you should keep on getting older (2021). Needless to say, it’s funny.

In the Preface, he introduces the idea of “It’s Not My Problem.” Each morning he wakes up when he wakes up and ambles down to the kitchen, no longer “on a tight schedule or under close supervision…. I look at the front page of the paper and think, ‘Not My Problem.’” He considers the conflict between those who insist on vaccinations and those who vehemently resist, and smiles. Not My Problem. Freighters detained on the docks, straining the supply of goods to the populace. NMP. Climate change, immigrants sneaking across the border, protest marches, problems at his former place of employment, squabbles among his adult offspring. To all of the above (including a few additions to his list), Keillor says, “Goody goody gumdrops, though it is NMP.”

I suspect (hope) that most of this is tongue-in-cheek, for the sake of a laugh. Or for us to figure out that his real stance is hiding behind the clever words.

For us retired people, maybe “Not My Problem” is the right idea. When we were young and ambitious, wanting to change the world (or get rich), multi-tasking was the way to do it, stress and pinched nerves often a by-product. Everything was Our Problem. But that has passed away, presumably. This is the time to rest, write our memoirs, and go on cruises.

Maybe.

With my own adult children or grandchildren, there’s no way I’m able to say “Not My Problem.” When one of them suffers, I wake up in the middle of the night and try to pray away my anguish. It’s often best to stand back, pretend it’s NMP, and let them work it out themselves as independent adults. Except if they come to me for advice, which is happening less and less.

On a global scale, many of my friends say they no longer watch the news on TV. It’s all too negative, violent, and biased. There’s no way to know the truth what with all the infamous “fake news.” Hal and I disagree and nightly watch a news program we feel is relatively objective, “relatively” being the key term here. We take seriously our responsibility to be informed and pray over the world. But, truth be told, we wonder if there’s anything we can actually do about the different crises. Anything that would make a difference.

I know. Prayer is the most important thing I can do, and I think I believe that. But still I battle this restlessness, a sense of need to do something more to relieve the situation.

Take the ongoing war in the Ukraine. The images of bombed out towns, Ukrainian refugees trying to find shelter, Russian citizens protesting in the streets and being arrested, all of it is horrific. I feel so protected here in this comfortable retirement community, isolated from the world.

Take Russia’s threat of a nuclear response. With an unpredictable and immoral person like Putin in control, no one can take this threat lightly. No one, wherever they live and whatever their age, should say “Not My Problem.” It could become a problem with serious consequences for the world.

Again the question, what can we do? Hal and I are exploring the options, asking God for wisdom. One important action is honest discussion of this and other points of crisis, discussion right here in our community. It would be helpful to explore the what-to-do question together.

St. Paul admonishes Christians to “not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Philippians 4:6). That’s often hard for me to do, but I consider it the way of wisdom. I also think that this does not indorse a “Not My Problem” stance, even among the retired. It does not obliterate our responsibility as children of the Kingdom of God to cooperate in God’s mission to be peacemakers and stewards over creation. It does not erase our need to keep asking, “What can we do?”

I need more insight and discernment. Maybe you do, too. When is “Not My Problem” the correct way to think as we rest into these latter years? And when do we stretch ourselves, ask for strength, and join forces with others to bless and heal our world?

  

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Regrets--mosquitos or monsters?

The advancing years are times when our regrets come out from their cage and begin pecking on the walls of our brain. They can be tiny mosquitos or monster birds (or something in between), depending on their dominance in our thoughts.

My friend Mr. Webster defines “to regret” as “to be very sorry for….” The gret part comes from Old Norse and means “to weep.” The re prefix makes it a repeated state of mind. Drawn-out over time. We can regret something we did in the past or, perhaps more common, something we didn’t do. Persistent unresolved regrets can begin to march through our brains, letting the past trample the present. In classic understatement, that’s not good.

Being the different people we are, Hal’s regrets tend to take on monstrous proportions, while I bat away at mosquitos. Last week we were reflecting on our son David’s latest hiking adventure with his son (our grandson) and remembering all the great father/son things Hal did with David: week-long hikes on the Inca Trail, weekend excursions out on the Bolivian altiplano to visit small country churches, and all the shared activities that took place when Hal became assistant scout master. It was good.

But the one regret that continues to tease his brain—that he didn’t do the same thing for our daughter, Kristin. That regret can even give him a sense of failure as a father when I’m not able to talk him out of it. Actually, it did make Kristin feel bad, although we didn’t know that at the time. But, even more actual, she has forgiven him, helped, I hope, by the memory of all the fun stuff we did together while Hal and David were tramping about.

We had other failures as parents, of course. That comes with the territory. None of us does parenthood perfectly. But by God’s grace, sometimes the kids turn out well anyway. That certainly has happened in our case, and Hal and I keep reminding ourselves of that. And trying to let go of the regrets.

My friend Marcile told me the story of the time when her son was graduating from college and moving to another state for graduate studies. It was a turning point in his life, a leaving-home rite of passage. Marcile’s husband was expressing to their son his regrets at all the things he hadn’t done, including taking the time to pass on his mechanical skills so that Stan could fix his own car.

Stan responded, “Dad! You taught me how to be a friend! I have friends who can fix my car.”

Our regrets can blind us to our truer accomplishments—like passing on values to our children. Thank God for adult children who can set us straight.

I have regrets. Some of these mosquitos are peskier than others. Here’s a sample. I regret—

--that I didn’t keep up my Hebrew language studies or practicing my guitar. My Hebrew has joined the Lost Tribes of Israel, and my guitar skills are best kept private.

--that I never took the opportunity to visit Iguazu Falls, even though we lived just one country away.

--that I never learned how to cook Bolivian food.

--that I never asked my grandparents to tell me the stories of their lives. I was too busy growing up and establishing my own identity. Now they’re gone.

--More seriously, I think of people that, for one reason or another, I deliberately kept at a distance and probably hurt. A failure to love.

One of my tasks in these years is figuring out how to face and resolve my regrets. In some cases, I can actually do something to turn the regret around. I’ve found old journals and letters that are filling in some of the gaps of what I know about my grandparents; I’m writing these down to pass on to my kids. I’m currently taking guitar lessons. I could take a Hebrew class, but I probably won’t. My Bolivian friends have invited me over for some fine Bolivian meals, and I can live with that.

Iguazu Falls, and many other relatively small regrets, are just fading away. That’s what they should do.

In some areas, I’ve needed to ask for, and accept, forgiveness. And then let God’s grace carry the regret away on a Spirit wind. I’m in the process of learning how to do all of this. It doesn’t come automatically.

I love what poet Jarod Anderson wrote:

Our task is to become our truest selves and to smile
at the knowledge we will not succeed.

The key word here is smile. Relax. Let it go. Accept who and where we are now.

And I love the wisdom of Dag Hammarskjold in his journal, Markings, when he prays,

For all that has been, thanks.
For all that will be, yes.

That’s the kind of wisdom I want to grow into. 

Definitely probably

 I was walking out to my car when I crossed paths with a resident and a young man in earnest conversation. It looked like a grandma and her grandson. I caught just a whisp of their conversation as the young man said, “I definitely probably will go there.”

I had to chuckle, wondering if the guy realized he had just canceled out any certainty of going “there” (a graduate school?). Can anything happen definitely probably?

Well, maybe. Maybe he meant that this particular university was definitely an option and that he’d probably choose it. Maybe that’s what he meant. But probably not.

That’s just the way people talk, without much thought to the meanings of words or to the logic of their combinations.

On the other hand, there’s something appealing about “definitely probably.” Opposites often marry, with interesting results. The staunch firmness of “definitely” plus the wishy-washy sense of “probably” add up to an ambivalence that is characteristic of life.

I’m frequently always ambivalent. Sometimes I’m certain of something, but not sure it applies to me. Something can be absolutely true, but a bit iffy at the same time.

Example: when I was young, I understood that all people eventually grow old. I loved my grandparents. I noticed old people in the city park sitting on benches and wondered what they did when they were not in the park. As for me, old age would probably happen, but I couldn’t picture it or even really believe it applied to me.

Well. Happy birthday to me. As I write this, I have just turned 77 years old. Definitely.

But even now, I have a list of definite probables. Here’s a sample:

--I definitely probably will, sort of, keep getting older.

--I rather imagine my body will rebel in ways I can’t now imagine.

--It’s a possibility that a park bench will become more and more attractive.

--It’s definitely probable that I might become a widow someday.

--Death, of course, is the ultimate definite probability.

And yet….

Choose life, the Scriptures tell us (Deuteronomy 30:19-20). Whatever age you are, Choose life!

I have a choice to get out of bed every morning and either groan or say, Yes! I thank you, God, for most this amazing day! (Thank you, ee cummings.) I can choose to eat an orange, exercise to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (or just one of them), hug Hal, write a poem, hug a tree, or sing (as long as no one else is around).

On bad days, I don’t do any of this. But even then, that’s a choice I make.

Today I’m 77 and I choose life. I may even remind my kids that it’s my birthday. And I will thank God that Hal remembers. (I reminded him last week.) I will thank God for the definites and trust him for the probables.

It’s looking like a good day.

Too many funerals

 A memorial table stands in the lobby of the retirement community’s main building. It’s next to a large grandfather clock that chimes the passing of time, an appropriate reminder for all us aging residents.

I pass the table every day when I leave the building, and I always stop to see whose photo has been newly placed there. That’s how we find out who has died during the night or in the past few days. In a community of over 400 residents, there are usually a few photos on the table. Sometimes more. Death is a presence in this place, the shadow beneath the trees.

In the past four days I have attended three memorial services. That’s too many. In spite of my being a believer in Jesus and in life beyond the grave, my spirit is heavy this morning. I acknowledge, along with the Apostle Paul, that death is an enemy.

Paul also says that while we grieve, we don’t grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13), and I witnessed that in all three services. I guess that’s why we now call them “memorial services” or “celebrations of a life,” rather than funerals. Even so, I still sense death as an enemy and I can’t shake the sadness I feel.

The service on Saturday celebrated the life of one of the residents of this community, a man in his eighties who had lived a full and rich life, who had given himself away in ministry to others. His wife is my close friend. Many people attended and we did, indeed, celebrate this life. One of the speakers said, “It’s easier to face grief when the loved one has lived a sweet life, a beautiful life of service.” A sweet life. In this case, that was certainly true. Listening to the testimonies of his wife and kids, hearing a summary of his passions and contributions, I felt privileged to have known this man. It seemed like he had fulfilled his life purpose. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of thy Lord.”

But now comes the time for my friend to feel the absence of someone who shared her life for over 50 years. Gratitude will mix with grief, and I know she will face both with maturity. She will have people who accompany her, as well as times of silence, alone before God. Not an easy road.

Sunday’s memorial service was similar, but also very different. We were celebrating the life of our nephew Josh who died at age 43, after a six-month painful bout with cancer. Josh leaves a pregnant wife and ten children between the ages of 4 and 20, all of whom live at home.

The service was similar in that it was upbeat and definitely celebratory. The sanctuary was packed, with late-comers watching on a screen in the fellowship hall. I’m not sure the word death was even used as people talked about how inspirational Josh’s short life had been. The service went on for two and one-half hours, and I counted 14 mini-sermons. None of the people assigned to give a two-minute testimonial could contain themselves. I especially was moved by the words of his sister and his wife (who only spoke because Josh had asked her to before he died). But I confess, I was beginning to squirm and look at my watch.

The reception afterwards was noisy as people greeted one another, ate together, and laughed. Josh’s wife, children, and parents were all warm and grateful for our presence, their good cheer giving evidence of their belief that Josh now lives in the presence of Jesus. But it all seemed bittersweet to me. The way forward for Josh’s young family will be challenging, to say the least, and they will need (and have) many to walk alongside. Again, not an easy road.

And then I remember the service that took place last Thursday before the other two. It followed a surprise death. The previous weekend, we got one of those dreaded middle-of-the-night phone calls. It was a dear friend, Felix, calling from Bolivia telling us that his daughter Orfa (our god-daughter) was eight hours into a heart surgery that was supposed to have taken four hours. Felix was crying, asking us to pray. For the next three days, that’s what we did. We talked with Felix and his wife Clemi two or three times each day. Orfa died early Wednesday morning.

As is the custom (and law) in Bolivia, a memorial service was held in the church that very day (longer even then Josh’s service), and people were permitted to weep and publicly mourn, also a Bolivian custom, even among Christians. The burial service took place the next day, and Felix loaned his phone to someone who recorded it on WhatsApp. So, we were able to “be there” in real time. A Christian band accompanied people as they sang hymns. A few family members spoke over the grave, included Orfa’s husband. While there were no weeping and wailing, both sorrow and hope covered the event.

We were there 45 years ago when Orfa was born. We helped dedicate her to God in a church service. We have accompanied her (sometimes long distance) through her growing up years, rejoiced with the family when she received her doctorate in pharmacology, and were delighted to meet her husband, also a medical doctor. As young professionals, their future seemed bright.

Am I wrong to consider the deaths of Josh and Orfa as tragic? In no way can I believe that these deaths were God’s will, as some might say. The belief that anything that happens to a Christian is God’s will came into the church with Augustine in the 4^th century A.D., and this doctrine is debated by many as heresy. I would agree. We live in a world where spiritual battle is real and, because God gives people free will, sometimes evil triumphs. And sometimes God intervenes; we call it a miracle.

While not everything that happens is God’s will, we believe that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 12:28). Evil does not have the last word. Death does not have the last word. God does.

I don’t intend to get too theological here, but another thing I wonder is if maybe lament and mourning shouldn’t be part of our public memorials. While celebration and hope are real values, so are pain and sadness. Is it necessarily right that we rejoice in public but weep alone?

I wonder a lot of things, especially when my heart is heavy.