Four older women and me

Bess was the first one. I was just home on my second furlough from mission service in Bolivia. I was in my mid-thirties, a mother of young school-age kids, all of us feeling the awkwardness of being strangers in our own home country. Wondering if we belonged anywhere.

A friend told me about this woman who, at the age of 76, had just discovered that she was a poet. She had self-published two chapbooks of her poems, one of which was titled “Wise and Otherwise.” I loved that title.

My friend told me that this woman wanted to meet me as a sister poet. Still under the spell of reverse-culture-shock, wanting to keep to myself, I, nonetheless called this perfect stranger and asked if I could come over for a visit. Her yes was most enthusiastic.

Thus began my friendship with Bess Bulgin, a friendship that I’ve been grateful for ever since. Even though we were strangers, after that first visit it was as though we had known each other all our lives. Although mentally alive and vibrant, her aging body was beginning to betray her, so she was house-bound. Our weekly visits were at her house, in her cozy favorite room, full of books and memories from her exciting and very full life.

We talked a lot, back and forth, shared life stories and struggles, discussed relationships and the mysteries of knowing God. We read poetry to each other, of course. My friendship with Bess became the stabilizing anchor of that year at home in the US. I went back to Bolivia knowing how much I would miss our weekly times together. We exchanged a few letters, but then her health took a sudden turn for the worse. I never saw Bess again.

I met my second older mentor on another furlough home from the mission field. This was a strange furlough, not on the Mission Board’s schedule. After just one year into our fourth year of service, Hal became sick with a combination of typhoid, amoeba, and hepatitis. His Bolivian doctor didn’t know what to do with him, so, not wanting him to die on his watch, insisted he go back home to the US for treatment. The Board deemed it a medical emergency and had him flown home immediately. That left me and the kids to finish out their school year, pack up the house, and fly home to join him. It was a scary time.

It turned out to be an entire year of recuperation. His doctor took Hal off all medications, and outlined a regimen of rest, nutrition, and gradual exercise. My job was to take care of him (and the kids, of course).

Catherine Cattell had recently moved into Friendsview Manor (where I now live). I knew of her and her husband, Everett, by reputation only. They had served a life-time as missionaries in India and were widely recognized by Indians and Americans alike for their contributions. So I was naturally hesitant (introvert that I am) at imposing myself on her, but I called and asked if I could come over for a visit. The house we were renting was just a block from Friendsview. Again, her yes was most enthusiastic.

Our friendship was instant and, as with Bess, became a highlight of each week. We shared our vocations of mission work and writing. We both had faced the challenges of being mothers on the mission field, not an easy task. All this became regular topics of conversation and I learned much from her experiences and wisdom. We laughed a lot and prayed together. She was a life-line during that difficult time. And I sensed I served in that role for her, too.

Catherine died turning my following term of service in Bolivia.

Inez Smith was number three. Having temporarily retired from the mission field for further education, Hal and I found ourselves at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, California. We were both enrolled in Ph.D. programs in the School of World Mission, as crazy as that sounds.

Inez was a well-known figure in Fuller circles. Having served for years as executive secretary to long-term seminary president David A. Hubbard, she was now widowed and retired. But that didn’t slow her down. At the time Hal and I were there, she was president of the Fuller Women’s Auxiliary. One of the main contributions of the Auxiliary was raising funds for scholarships for women in doctoral degree programs. After being at Fuller for several years, I was thrilled to earn one of those prestigious (and very helpful) scholarships.

Inez had made it a custom to meet personally with each recipient. So one evening it was my turn. I managed to find her small house on Green Street by her famous large rose garden out in front. I was a little nervous about this meeting (being me), but she put me at ease. She served me tea in beautiful old-fashioned cups (with saucers, of course) and she asked me the usual questions. Somewhere in the conversation, we clicked. She asked me to come back so we could get to know one another better. I did.

At first my visits were occasional, but when Hal left for a five-month research trip to Bolivia, Inez told me I needed to come over one evening a week. So I did. She cooked dinner. Then we talked or watched movies. That year we both celebrated milestones—my 50^th birthday and her 80^th. Our friendship was a life-line and a great comfort during my time as a single wife. Inez has been gone several decades now.

Shortly after moving into this retirement community, I met Harriet Fowler, who became my next older “best friend.” I’ve written about our friendship in other blogs (May 2022, June 2023), so won’t repeat the details here. She died this year just short of her 105^th birthday. I still miss her.

None of these four older friends—Bess, Catherine, Inez, and Harriet—were mentors in an intentional sense. They didn’t deliberately set out to teach me stuff or guide me along the path of life. They befriended me. They were all around 30 years older than me, and because of the difference in age and life experience, I had more to gain from the relationships. And I did learn, more from their stories and examples than any formal lessons they might have taught.

One important thing all these older friends taught me was that it’s possible to be vibrant, alive, creative, caring, beautiful, and, at the same time—old. I remember thinking, shortly after I left Bess to go back to Bolivia, that someday far off in the future, I also wanted to be a beautiful old lady.

They all helped me face growing older as something to actually look forward to, with a sense of adventure and of hope that God would keep on using me.

Now, of course, it’s my turn to pass on this vision to those younger than myself. God grant me the privilege.