A criminal Christmas

 I spent one of the most memorable Christmases of my life under house arrest.

Hal and I were first term missionaries in Bolivia and ready to head off on a well-earned vacation on the Peruvian coast. We had our two toddlers with us and were looking forward to giving them their first time at the ocean, making sand castles, running in the surf, collecting shells—the whole bit. It was December, summer in South America. We were going to spend one night with our friends in the coastal city of Tacna, on route to the beach house we had rented.

Before crossing the border between Bolivia and Peru, Hal parked the car and began the legal red tape for entering the country. We noticed that the immigration agent who would process our documents was drunk, but he seemed to know what he was doing. After a few hours of going from one office to another, our travel permission was stamped and we were off.

The trip over the mountain pass and down to the coastal plains took the rest of the afternoon and we were tired when we reached Everett and Alda’s home. Everett suggested we exchange our money for Peruvian pesos that afternoon, so he and Hal headed off to the local bank. The bank clerk took our $250 traveler’s check, looked over our documents, then told Hal he would have to check in at the police station first.

Hal and Everett walked over to the police building. The police had been notified and were waiting. They immediately told Hal he was under arrest and made ready to lead him to a cell. Our crime—neglecting to declare our money at the border!—thanks to the drunk agent who apparently forget to inform us. Everett began reasoning with the officials and at one point actually got down on his knees and pleaded for them to place Hal under house arrest, promising to be a faithful jailor. It worked.

Back at our friends’ home, we noticed the security guard out in the street, keeping watch lest we should try to escape. We expected that we could resolve this snafu within a few days and head on to the beach. That was not to be. We remained under house arrest for six weeks. That included Christmas.

By God’s grace, we all found ways to cope with the situation and enjoyed our time together in the small house. We spent times in agonizing prayer, other times playing board games, with lots of good food and conversation. Even the kids seemed happy (not knowing what they were missing).

After about three weeks, city officials apparently decided we were not hardened criminals about to flee. The security guards in the street disappeared. We were given permission to visit one particular beach just outside the city limits. That meant we were able to celebrate Christmas day with a beach picnic in the summer sun of a Peruvian December. I wrote this poem:

Christmas, 1974
Tacna, Peru

Not snow, but foam
blankets these gentle slopes.
Shells and sand crabs
adorn the ground
and announce the season.
God’s glory spews skyward
in a sun-spangled spray
and gulls cry out
our carols today.
Squatting here before a
baloney-and-bread banquet,
it seems not incongruous
to celebrate the Babe
in this place,
to sit in the sand,
join hands
and sing out,
“Joy to the world,
the Lord is come!”

To make the rest of the story short, we were eventually pardoned and able to head back home. We never did make it to the beach cabin. But now, these many years later, the memory is a happy one. It reminds me that Christmas is more then snow and presents and being in familiar settings. We were with friends, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, we banqueted on baloney. It was truly one of my most memorable Christmases.

The old ones in the Christmas story

 The center of the Christmas story is a baby. All other characters circle around him—the young and somewhat bewildered parents, shepherds stunned from the angel choir, a merciful inn keeper, and the animals in the cave that may have intuited with their beastly brains that something unusual was happening.  

Other characters never make it into the creches we put up in our living rooms or out on our streets. These are people who were, in one sense, peripheral to the main events, who came before and after the night of the birth. They were old people. And while their roles may seem secondary, God chose and called these men and women to play an essential part in the story.

Two old men and two old women. Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth enter the stage well before the birth of the baby. Simeon and Anna don’t make their appearances until a week afterward.

Zechariah and Elizabeth were both from the priestly tribe of Levi, and Zechariah served as one of the priests at the temple in Jerusalem. We read in Luke’s gospel that “both of them were upright in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commandments and regulations blamelessly.” They both also carried a secret sorrow; they had been unable to have children. In a family-oriented culture, this sorrow burned within even into their old age. We read that “they were both well along in years.”

At a high point in the Jewish religion calendar, Zechariah was chosen to go into the temple alone and present the offering of incense to the Lord. It was a holy time, and many people waited outside the temple, praying for God’s forgiveness and blessing.

You know the story. While at the altar, the angel Gabriel suddenly appeared and scared Zechariah half out of his wits. After telling him to calm down, the angel’s message was even more frightening in its utter strangeness. Zechariah and Elizabeth would give birth to a baby who would grow up to become a mighty man of God, part of God’s plan of salvation for his people.

Zechariah’s incredulity was greater than his fear and he responded, “No way! We’re too old!” The angel didn’t bother addressing his doubts; he just struck him dumb. And so Zechariah remained until the birth of the baby John.

I wonder how he explained all this to Elizabeth. He was literate and undoubtedly wrote to her. It didn’t take long for Elizabeth to believe, what with the child growing in her womb. She was secluded for five months, probably due to her advanced age. It would have seemed a precarious pregnancy. But when her close relative, Mary, now pregnant with Jesus, came to visit Elizabeth, the old woman understood, not only about John, but about the child Mary was to bear. She was wise. She responded in praise. Her response greatly encouraged her young cousin who would need it in the days, months, and years to come.

Zechariah also finally got it. At the birth of their son, the couple defied cultural tradition by not naming the child after a father or grandfather. No one in the family was named John, but John it was, according to the angel’s instructions. Then the old man did a very wise thing: he praised and prophesied as the Spirit opened to him the significance of his son’s future ministry in preparing the way of the Lord.

I wonder how this old couple handled John’s strange ways and his leaving home to live as a poor man in the desert. But they were probably dead by the time John reached adulthood. They had fulfilled their role.

Now enter Simeon and Anna. Jesus had been born in a stable, received the visitation of astonished but worshipful shepherds, and now it was time for his parents to take him to the temple for circumcision, according to Jewish law. Eight days old. 

Simeon is described as righteous, anointed by the Holy Spirit. We don’t know his profession, just that he was “a man in Jerusalem.” He enjoyed an uncommon communion with the Spirit, receiving a promise that he wouldn’t die until he saw the Messiah. The Spirit urged him to go to the temple that very day, then revealed which baby was the Holy One. So Simeon did the unorthodox;  he approached the young couple, strangers to him, and took the baby in his arms and praised God. Under inspiration, he announced that the babe would grow up to be, not only the Messiah of Israel, but the Savior of the world. Heady words for Joseph and Mary, grappling with what all these events could mean. Then Simeon blessed them. I’m sure they needed to hear his words, walking them a little closer to understanding. Simeon was now ready to die in peace.

But the story continues. Anna was the oldest person in this Christmas story. Her husband died after only seven years of marriage and she was a widow for 84 years after that. That would make her over 100-years-old. (Some translations say she was a widow until she turned 84. Even that’s old in anyone’s book.) For all those years of her widowhood, her primary occupation was worshipping, fasting, and praying, so much so that some people thought she actually lived in the temple. That day, as soon as she saw the baby Jesus, she knew and “gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem.” That’s what a prophetess does. I just imagine Mary and Joseph, taking all this in.

Here's a poem commemorating Simeon and Anna.

Ancient Blessing
Luke 2:21-38; Psalm 92:12-15

Old people have a reputation
for wisdom, but that’s often
not the reality. Alzheimer’s,
dementia, or outright crankiness
can overcome personality in the aged.
In spite of that,
sometimes we are blessed
to know the green leaves
of an ancient tree, taste fruit
that sweetens with the years.
So with Simeon and Anna.
Faithful servants, approaching
death, both lingered on
in the hope of his coming.
Years of waiting met reward
in the courts of the temple.
Filled with joy, held by the child
they held in their arms,
they thanked God, blessed the babe
and his parents, and gave public
witness that has become
a permanent part of the story.
Thank God for the legacy
of such as Simeon and Anna. 

And thank God for using older people. Thank God that he’s not finished with any of us. Age is irrelevant in God’s story. Take heart. 

Peripheral people

 I remember a time years ago when I attended a social gathering for young adults in our church. I was my usual quiet, non-obtrusive self. At the end of the party, one of my friends looked at me and said, “Nancy, have you been here the whole time?” I don’t know why that memory is still so sharp.

In my teenage years, I dwelled on the periphery of whatever excitement was happening. I was always the last person chosen for the baseball team in PE class. In group assignments, I needed to gather my courage to speak up. I never raised my hand in class, although I usually knew the answer. I felt left out much of the time.

This was not the whole of my existence as a young person, and I do well to remember this. My family was warm and close; I always had a “best friend;” my church family accepted and encouraged me. And so on.

And as I matured, so did my feelings. I learned to focus more on others. I also developed a keen radar that detected when someone else was feeling peripheral and I tried to befriend that person. I still do that. 

Marriage to a good, loving man and then the children God gave us brought with it all a deep place of belonging.

Even so, that lonesome, overlooked feeling pops up every now and then. Even now.

Older people are especially vulnerable to the sense of being left out. Retirement and down-sizing don’t help. Nor do the aches and pains that limit our activities. Our culture itself seems to focus on the young and fit. I feel invisible at times in a grocery store or public gathering.

The cultural ignoring of the elderly is diminishing somewhat. We now constitute a larger voting block, so there are regular times then politicians do not ignore us. They court our favor with praise and promises. TV ads target the “golden years” more than they ever have. There’s money out there.

But that kind of attention does nothing to feed the soul or give a sense of belonging. It has little to do with us as people and more to do with being a growing segment of society. And being a social segment is not comforting.

One of the most painful peripheral places for me is large family gatherings, with brothers and sisters, in-laws, and all their adult children, grandchildren and the greats. All those beautiful kids whose names I can never remember. It’s a bright space of friendly noise, singing, and of course lots of great food. But the louder the noise level, the quieter I get. My introversion kicks in big time and I often just find a comfortable chair off to the side and try to look happy to be there. Pathetic, right?

Again, I do well to remember all the good spaces where I feel at home and accepted for who I am, regardless of age. And there are many. I belong to a Sunday school class that has become my church family. I serve as a volunteer editor on a well-known journal and my contribution is appreciated. I live in a retirement community where we residents are known and cared for; age discrimination is, of course, utterly absent, since we’re all older. And among my own grown kids and grandkids, the exchanges of love are real and warm. I have much to be thankful for.

And, most miraculous of all, God calls me his beloved daughter. My name is tattooed on the palm of his hand. Although God loves all his many many children, somehow we are all unique and uniquely treasured. Age is irrelevant. 

There are no peripheral people in the kingdom of God.

For flexible fingers and white chocolate—thanks!

 Several years ago, as a spiritual exercise, I chose seven values that I wanted to describe my character. All these traits are faith statements, something to grow toward. The first value on my list is gratitude. Some days I find it easy to be grateful. Other days I don’t. Gratitude when times are hard or I’m feeling especially tired is something good to aim for.

Today I’m both dizzy and grateful. It’s thanksgiving week. It seems ironic that we give only one day of the 365 to officially designate as a day of thanksgiving, but at least our culture does that much. I’m aiming for 365 unofficial thankful days, although without the turkey and cranberry sauce.

I made a short list this morning of some specific things I’m grateful for at this time.

I’m grateful….

--for a grandson who wants to include his grandparents in his life. Friday night we gathered with some of his friends at his house to begin our annual Lord of the Rings marathon. Last night he invited us to come with other friends to see the movie Bonhoeffer. All these young adults seemed to enjoy including us grandparents. He comes to the retirement home to eat lunch with us every week. I don’t take any of that for granted.

--for a husband with flexible fingers. Hal suffers from trigger finger (and he doesn’t even own a gun). It’s a strange and painful condition where his fingers curl in toward the palm and he has to force them to unbend. He is currently recovering from an operation in his left hand that is already correcting the condition. We believe in prayer for healing. We’re also thankful for advances in modern medicine that bring about this type of miraculous healing.

--for white chocolate and SWP coffee. I have a chronic condition called vestibular migraine and two of the food triggers that intensify the dizziness are chocolate and coffee. Can you imagine? Two of my favorite foods! But, and this is the thankful part, I’ve discovered the exceptions to the rule: white chocolate and SWP coffee! I’ve found a German white chocolate that is just as good as the real stuff. And, better yet, SWP (Swiss Water Processed) decaf coffee also tastes like the real thing, because it is real coffee. My early morning comfort drink.

--for a quirky orchid plant that won’t give up. My son gave it to me for some occasion earlier this year, a tall plant with lovely purple orchids. It bloomed for several months, then the flowers dried up and fell off. But I continued to water it once a week and kept it in the bedroom, out of sight because it looked so strange: broad leaves low in the pot, and three long stems (12-18 inches) fastened to sticks. No blooms. But a week ago I noticed eight buds at the end of the long stems. Today two flowers bloom and six buds are about to open. I’ve put it back in the living room. Beautiful. I’m sure there’s a good moral lesson in this. Maybe I’ll think of it tomorrow.

--for the expectation of a wonderful thanksgiving dinner with eleven family members. I’m hosting it, but I don’t have to cook, and I can’t adequately express how grateful I am for that. Our retirement community puts on a marvelous thanksgiving spread and encourages us to invite family. One of the many perks of living here.

--for God’s sovereignty over history—world history, national events, and my own small story. I’m stirring up my faith to rest in the fact that God knows what’s happening in our nation at this time, and that no matter how disappointed or nervous I feel, I can trust that the Spirit of God is on the move and will watch over all his people.

In our Sunday school class this week, the convener told of an exercise that I’m going to try this year. At the end of each day, I’m to write in my journal one specific thing I’m grateful for in the last 24 hours. I will try to do this for a year (or at least until the end of this year). But the thing is, I can’t repeat anything. It has to be something new each day. That sounds challenging, which is what an exercise is supposed to be. I anticipate it will cause me to dig and find more things to be grateful for, things or experiences or people I wouldn’t normally consider as blessings. I plan to read back over my list at the end of every month. (The plan is to read the list after a year—but each month sounds like more fun.)

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

What are you grateful for? Be specific!

The richest kid on the block

 This past week we residents in the retirement community gathered in the auditorium to hear the annual financial report. It felt good to know our living situation is on solid ground. But the report also included the yearly increase in our monthly resident fees. With the rising cost of living, it is right that the fees increase, but we’re always nervous about the amount.

 It wasn’t as high as it could have been but, even so, we’re going to have to be more careful about our spending. It’s expensive to live in a continuing care retirement community, but we’re aware that the money goes into long-term insurance and that when we run out of enough money to cover the full cost, we won’t be asked to leave. So, it’s worth it. Even so, we don’t want to run out of money. And, I confess, we do worry.

But we know we’re not poor. We live in a beautiful place with good friends and family near-by. We’re still learning and growing. In fact, I think we’re rich. 

And that reminds me of a story.

I was ten years old the first time I realized I was rich. That was the year I broke my piggy bank.

My parents viewed my intentions with some hesitancy. My father was a high school football coach, and years earlier he had invited several of his football players to my first birthday party. The team bought me the pig, each member making his own contribution to my future wealth. My dad set it on a shelf in my room, and down through the years I faithfully plunked in my pennies and nickels.

By my tenth year the pig was heavy. I was not nearly as sentimental as my parents. I wanted my money. So I smashed its head with a hammer.

Yes, I was rich. Twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents! And it was all mine. No other kid I knew was so wealthy.

I wanted to spend it, and I knew just the place, the local five-and-ten-cent store. Only this time I wasn’t going to just walk up and down the aisles, looking and dreaming. I was going to really buy stuff. I had no shopping lists, priorities, or needs in mind. My goal was to spend my money. All of it.

And I did. What a morning! I put all my coins in the bottom of a green plastic purse. My mom drove me to the store—and I got started. (I wonder now what my mother was thinking. I admire her for permitting me this fling, for not making me save my money or buy socks or give it to the missionaries. I do have a vague memory of her and the clerk in a powwow just before she left me to my glory. They both looked at me and giggled. I ignored them, having better things to do.)

I took my time, first doing a general survey of the store, walking up and down all the aisles, looking at puzzles, pencils, coloring books, barrettes, vases, hair curlers, ribbons, and, of course, boxes of candy and gum.

Then I started, picking up one single item at a time, bringing it to the counter, counting out the nickels and pennies, sealing the bargain, and stashing the loot. I then methodically repeated the procedure for my next purchase. So I advanced, item by item, all morning long, stopping when the only thing my last few pennies could buy was gum balls. I chose the red ones.

When my mom came to get me, I had the stuff in several big bags. I was anxious to get home and show off my treasures.

I bought stuff for myself, of course—comic books, candy bars, and one large bottle of Ben Hur cologne. I had also purchased presents for everyone, and I was so excited to have them get their gifts. For my little brother and sister there were soap bubbles, marbles, and crayons.

I saved the best for last. I had found the perfect gift for my parents. I proudly presented them with a set of tiny glasses, beautifully etched on the outside with golden grapes. I still remember their smiles of delight. In fact, they were so happy they laughed. 

Only years later did I learn I had given them whiskey glasses. 

Several years have passed since then. My husband and I have given most of our adult lives to cross-cultural missions. And while we wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else, it didn’t exactly put us in demand for interviews on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

But, by God’s grace, something of the magic of that day in my tenth summer still clings, wafting through my senses like Ben Hur cologne. We have a wealth of memories, kids grown up and living good lives, grandkids, and, now two great-grandbabies. And we live in this marvelous place. I feel full of the wealth of it all. 

And even though I occasionally worry about current finances, I know that my Father is generous with his gifts. I am secure in his goodness. This world is bigger than any five-and-ten-cent store, and better stocked. I’m a spendthrift at heart, and, yes, I’m still the richest kid on the block.

On being old and poor in spirit

 Our church is doing a sermon series on the Beatitudes. Several Sunday ago, the sermon on the first Beatitude impacted me. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3). The preacher, a university religion professor, described the person who is poor in spirit as a humble person, often desperate, who recognizes her need, who knows she is absolutely dependent on God to help her. It’s a person who understands his own smallness as compared to God’s grandeur. I think of people in situations of poverty and homelessness, of refugees and victims of war. I also think of persons suffering depression or mental illness. Maybe at times we all go through experiences that make us poor in spirit.

But it was after the sermon, in our time of silence and open worship, that the impact came home. My friend Jo stood and talked about those of us who are growing older as frequently being poor in spirit, especially as we deal with the fear of loosing competency. This fear is based on one of the realities of the aging process, and the fact that it may be normal doesn’t make it easier for the person experiencing it.

A friend who has been a successful life-long pastor recently shared that preaching and teaching are getting difficult and are now something he doesn’t enjoy so much. It takes much longer to prepare a message and he is now unsure of himself in his delivery. Another friend who was for years the superintendent of his denomination talked about how scattered, forgetful, and unorganized he now feels. Getting stuff done is a challenge he doesn’t feel up to anymore. In both cases, facing the loss of professional (and personal) competency has been hard.

During one period in my life, I worked as faculty secretary in a large seminary. Assigned to four professors, I prepared syllabi, obtained copyright permissions, typed letters, prepared visual aids, ran errands, helped students with their dissertations, and wrote the school newsletter, all at the same time I was beginning my own doctoral degree program. I feel exhausted just remembering, but at the time I thrived. I discovered I was good at multitasking and at getting things done efficiently. I excelled at time management, and managed to contain my job to the eight hours a day I was paid for. (The doctoral work happened in the early mornings and evenings.)

Not anymore. If I try to do two or three things at once, I get confused and end up doing nothing well. I can walk from one room to another and forget on the way what I was intending to do in the next room. I’m learning that it’s OK to focus on one thing at a time. For all the rest, I depend on the lists I make when I’m in my right mind. One big problem is that I often forget to read my list. At the end of the day, I can complain, “Oh no! I missed that meeting!” and then see that it was on the list all along. It seems I’ve lost administrative competency.

Even in prayer. I’ve felt for years that God called me as an intercessor and I used to spend a good amount of time in this endeavor. But any more when I sit down to pray, a half-an-hour later I wake up. There are times when I am energized to listen well and pray. But the other times are happening more frequently, the times when it’s almost too much effort. Is there such a thing as competency in prayer? (That sounds very unspiritual.) If there is, I think I’m losing it.

I used to spend hours, even whole days, investigating and writing, being creative. Now if I can get in two hours of creative writing a day, I thank God. But I wonder if and when that will disappear. 

We all face different areas in which the fear of losing competency makes us poor in spirit. So how does this transform into a blessing? How does it somehow put us in greater possession of the kingdom of heaven?

The preacher encouraged us to meditate on the Scriptures, seeing both the truth of our smallness and dependency, as well as of the grandeur of God. I would add that we could soak in the truths about who God says we are, no matter our age (for example, dearly beloved by our Father, friends of Jesus, chosen to bear fruit, etc. etc.)

We struggle to let go and accept age as a new phase of life, not a diminishment. Maybe not so much being less competent as being otherly-competent. (Pardon my freedom with the English language.) I have days when I accept this and feel contentment. But I’m not totally there yet. Times of discouragement still come when I compare what I used to do to what I can (or cannot) do now. When some well-meaning person asks me what I’ve accomplished today, I often can’t think of a good answer. I have to do battle with my feelings and remind myself of who God tells me I am and what I am worth to him.

Somehow the struggle itself is part of the blessing. As we admit our feelings and work through them in the light of God’s truth about us, we actually move towards a blessed dependency. That’s a kingdom task where eventually we find our place in God’s scheme of things.

 Actually, I’m working through this as I write, trying to figure it out. If multi-tasking is not in my future, I’m OK with that. I may be coming into a new way of praying. Maybe the two hours I write in the mornings will result in something beautiful and useful to others, more so than if I labored all day. I remember John Milton’s poem that ends with the line, “They also serve who only stand and wait.” (For me, it would be sit and wait.)

In any case, in God’s up-side-down kingdom, we who are aging, and who are often poor in spirit, are blessed.

I can live with that, even if I don’t understand it.

Election prayer

 I’m posting this blog a day early because tomorrow, Tuesday, national elections will absorb many of us. Who will have time to read a semi-silly blog on growing older? (Or to write it?) Besides there are things I want to say that work better before than after.

At the retirement community we don’t talk about it in public. It’s like that elephant in the room everyone smells but pretends they don’t. It’s policy. We’re instructed not to talk politics in community spaces, like the halls, the dining room, or the auditorium. We’re not to post partisan messages on our apartment doors or the public bulletin boards. Hush hush. But among our own tribe (we know who we are) and behind closed doors, it brings a certain relief to share our angers, fears, and hopes.

Right now, it’s the not-knowing that wracks our nerves. As aging people facing so many “normal” changes, another important Thing that we don’t know can be worrisome, to say the least. So we wait and try to figure out how to pray.

Tuesday evening down in our lobby, we’ll have a pre-election sing-a-long—hymns and folksongs. That might help and I intend to participate. A church I attend digitally in Minnesota is having an election night worship service which I also plan to attend. Other than that, I will avoid the television. I’m nervous enough anyway. I’ll probably isolate myself somewhere and work on puzzles.

It's been hard to know how to pray. I know what I believe, but I hesitate to tell God, “Knock so-n-so out of the race,” or “Let the other so-n-so win.” Can I presume to know the will of Sovereign God? Or can I even presume to concede that whoever wins is obviously God’s chosen? No. All of that is heresy. Lots of things happen that are not the will of a God who gives us free will and therein messes up world history (with a promise to fix it all in the end). 

I’ve looked through the prayer books I have—The Book of Common Prayer, The Oxford Book of Prayer, The Celtic Daily Prayer Book, and a few others. Nowhere can I find a prayer to pray before an election.

And then I remembered the Lord’s Prayer. Aha! I’ve learned to use this prayer for many specific occasions. It covers the ground and shows a way. It was, after all, the instructions Jesus gave when his disciples asked him to teach them to pray. It continues to teach us. So I used this prayer to craft a pre-election prayer for God’s people. It can also serve as a post-election prayer, something our nation will need a lot of. Here goes:

Our Father, who lives in heaven,

Hallowed be your name. However this election turns out, may your name be praised, honored, and lifted up throughout our land. No matter if we’re overjoyed or dismayed by the results, help us see that you are greater than our government, greater than our nation, the Lord of the whole world and all the starry universe. Hallowed be your name!

Your Kingdom come. You are the King. You are sovereign over all nations. Your authority is greater than that of presidents, senators, governors, the media, and even “we, the people.” You bring rain to dry fields, comfort to the mourning, homes to the refugees, wisdom to rulers. You cause miracles to happen and wars to cease. Your Kingdom come.

Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. We don’t presume to know your will in this election. But whatever the result, we do know that you will for reason, hope, and peace to prevail. We know that your will is for justice to come to the oppressed and downtrodden. We pray that you will raise up leaders, women and men who hunger and thirst after righteousness and justice. We pray for a place for the pure in heart and a welcome to the stranger. Your will be done.

Give us this day our daily bread. You know what we really need. Give food, clean water, and a place to live to the people of North Carolina. Grant peace and security to people seeking safety from hopeless and violent situations. Give honesty and clarity to our election process, both before and after. Give the wisdom and faith we so desperately need to move forward in these frightening times.

Forgive us our sins and as we forgive the sins of others. Spirit of reconciliation, raise up women and men with a heart for reconciliation. Give us confident humility so that we can build bridges to those other than us. Grant us the ability to say “I’m wrong” and “I’m sorry.” Give us the generosity of heart to say, “I forgive you.” Let the Spirit do this work in each one of us and throughout our nation.

Lead us not into trials too hard for us to bear.  After the election, raise up peacemakers whose words and actions can bring calm to ragged emotions and disappointed hopes. Quench the fires of hate and mistrust with the waters of your Spirit. Spare us the violence that would rip our nation apart. 

Deliver us from the Evil One. Thwart the strategies of satan. We come against the spirits of hatred, division, and violence. Free us from those who would sow deception and chaos. Deliver us from the evil that resides in our own hearts. Come, Spirit of God, deliver us.

To you alone belong the Kingdom, the power, and the glory. Forever. 

Amen.

On being married to an 80-year-old

 This past weekend, Hal turned 80. It was a milestone. The last milestone was the 50^th birthday, a sense that we were now in a new phase of life. Fifty was awesome. Eighty, breathtaking. This is higher ground indeed.

We’ve heard it said that growing older is gradual, passing through three stages: young old age (roughly from retirement to 80), middle old age (80-90), and really old old age (90 to whenever). The numbers vary with different experts on the subject. I’m not sure how helpful these categories are, other than to say we both felt rather smug about being in the young/old category.

Hal and I used to ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” We asked it upon retirement, and then again on entering the retirement community. Now, as far as Hal goes, we don’t have to ask it anymore. He’s old. Clear and simple. (Actually, none of this is clear or simple.)

On the other hand, I’m still young, in my 70s. But I have entered a new category—that of being married to an 80-year-old. Will I have to make some changes? Do I treat him differently? Are we now an unbalanced couple? Will we topple if I don’t hold up my end?

(Let me interject here the fact that many of you have already passed the 80 milestone and are probably thinking, “Why is she making such a big deal of this? It’s nothing. No major change at all.” If you’re thinking that, I respect your perspective, but, please, just humor me. I’ll get there, too, in time.)

We celebrated, thanks largely to the efforts of our son. All of it surprised Hal. That always makes it fun. On Friday, David took us to the local small airport, where a friend was waiting to take us up for a ride in his little prop plane. For about 40 minutes we looked down on our town, the surrounding fields, the mountains, and the big river before descending back to the airport. Mid-trip, Jon, the pilot, turned the controls over to Hal who wasn’t quite sure he wanted them. I, in the back seat, was sure I didn’t want him to have them. But he eased into the task and had fun learning about the different gages to pay attention to as he turned the plan in different directions, lost and gained altitude, and really did fly the plane. It was a great birthday surprise! Something one doesn’t imagine an old man doing.

Saturday morning, we opened the door to our apartment to see it decorated with an elaborate birthday poster complete with Hal’s baby photos. Later our neighbors on the floor gathered to sing Happy Birthday and clap, hoot, and holler.

On Saturday noon we arrived at David’s home, expecting the usual family lunch and small celebration. But it turned out to be regular birthday party, with friends, family, balloons, songs, and a feast worthy of 80 years! We practiced all the time-honored rituals: a birthday apple pie (our tradition) with eight candles that Hal blew out. The Happy Birthday song, of course, and lots of photos. Now that I look back, we forgot to ask Hal to make a wish. We’ll have to do that part tonight. Different people shared memories of Hal, most of them funny. Then Hal told stories of his time in Guatemala; the night he was attacked by vampire bats was a favorite.

Saturday night Hal told me how affirmed he felt and how downright happy. A good celebration, worthy of a milestone.

Now it’s Monday morning and back to normal life. I find myself married to an 80-year-old man. But, of course, it doesn’t feel any different than the mornings that went before. He doesn’t seem radically changed. We’re still both growing older, slowly and not by leaps and milestones. I’m glad for gradual. We’re still enjoying this phase of life which has its joys as well as its challenges.

We’ve stopped asking, “Are we old yet,” because it seems like an irrelevant question. We’re alive and well. God is good. We’ll take one day at a time for as long as we have.

(But hurrah for celebrations!)

On googling my name: my secret identities

 The search for one’s identity is developmentally a task for young adults. It includes such vital concerns as profession, marriage and family, and, basically, what a person will dedicate his/her life to. Time, relationships, successes and failures, and maturity are supposed to lead one to a solid sense of self. By the time old age sets in the person knows clearly who they are and what their place is in the general scheme of things.

Sound good? Well….

We all know it isn’t true. An older person is often as confused about it all as a youngster (meaning a 40-year-old). When we retire from our profession, it can feel like we’ve lost our basic identity. Purpose can fly out the window. Changes in family dynamics can leave us wondering who we are in relation to others. And downsizing can mean getting rid of precious stuff that helps define us. Too many changes!

Is this an exaggeration? Perhaps for some more settled folks, it is, but for many it’s a phase of growing older that’s painfully real. It’s that search for identity that goes deeper than what we do (or have done) or what we own (or used to own before we gave it away).

Now I’m going to switch from serious to silly (which is part of who I am). Several years ago I decided to see what the Internet had to say about me. I googled my name. The search reminded me of how common my name is. I discovered way too many sites to read them all, and most of them were not about me. It was hard to find me in all the Nancy Thomases scattered throughout the universe.

I did another search this week, just to see if things had changed. Some of the old Nancy Thomases were still around, with many new entries. I actually found myself, my real self, here and there, mostly with reference to a poetry book. But, for the most part, I am well hidden in the World Wide Web.

My search revealed that Nancy Thomas is a prodigious author. Along with the poetry, other books by Nancy Thomas include The Great American Afghan; The Great Tiki Drink Book; When Love Is Not Enough: A Guide to Parenting Children with Reactive Attachment Disorder; Infectious Diseases of Wild Birds; and Dandelions on My Pillow, Butcher Knife Beneath: The true story of an amazing family that lived with and loved kids that killed. I had no idea I was that versatile.

Searching the Internet is an interesting path to discovering identity. If someone met me, remembered my name, and then tried to find out more about me on the Internet, here’s what he might learn:

--that I am one of the leading authorities on parenting emotionally disturbed children.

--that I am a nationally-known contemporary folk-artist who paints, does ceramic figurines, sculpts, does hooked rugs and pins and stained glass. My birds are especially appreciated. My work can be viewed in the Nancy Thomas Gallery in Norfolk, Virginia. (You ought to come. I’m really good.)

--that I am a taxi driver in Milton, Vermont.

--that for many years I was the editorial voice of the most widely circulated knitting magazines, including Vogue Knitting and Family Circle Easy Knitting. (You ought to see my collection of silly Christmas socks.)

--that although I hold a degree in electronics and engineering, I am a story-teller at heart and believe that “writing is a door into a world of possibilities.”

--that I have been a non-dieting fat woman since 1976 and am one of the founders of the FAT LIP Readers Theater.

--that I own and run the Duncanville Feed Store in Texas.

--that I am a violinist with the National Symphony Orchestra; a gynecologist in Louisiana; a dermatologist in North Carolina; a licensed professor of jiu-jitsu; and an actress who most recently starred in the movie, “Assisted Loving,” about romance in a retirement home.

You would also discover that a wild iris is named after me. The “Nancy Thomas” is a bearded iris that is golden apricot in color, with a tangerine beard, and a slight fragrance.

There’s a lot more than what I’ve recorded above, but as they say (whoever “they” are), “enough is enough.”

Did you ever dream I was so versatile and accomplished? I’m certainly a multi-tasker.

Does all this help me come closer to solidifying my sense of identity? No, of course not. It does confirm my suspicion that I’m a somewhat silly person.

Actually, I’m now far enough down the road of retirement that I don’t struggle with identity issues. I try not to focus so much on who I am, but rather on who my neighbors are.

Both of my names, Nancy and Jane, are common. They both mean “grace.” I don’t think my parents knew that when they named me; Nancy and Jane were favorite aunts and cousins on both sides of the family. But they did indeed name me “Grace Grace,” God’s double-whammy grace child. That’s who I am. My unique name/person is etched on the palm of God’s hand, and God needs no search engine to find me.

God doesn’t need one to find you either.

The old woman and the mouse

 An old widow named Helen lives in a small cottage in a small village in England. This is her hometown and she has moved back after 60 years living in Australia. She lives alone with her memories. She knows no one in the village and no one knows her.

She walks down the hill and into town once a week to buy a few vegetables, a meat pie, yogurt, and a pastry for a treat, all she can carry back home. Sometimes she stands in her living room and looks out the curtains, watching her neighbors. She has developed a strange habit of poking about in people’s discarded garbage, to see if there is anything interesting she can bring home. Just a strange old woman.

Helen is the protagonist of Sipsworth, a novel by Simon Van Booy (2024), a story of an old woman and a mouse. It has insights about aging that are worth reflecting on.

As the story opens, Helen has pretty much given up on life and is waiting for death.

“Returning after sixty years, Helen had felt her particular circumstances special: just as she had once been singled out for happiness, she was now an object of despair. But then after so many consecutive months alone, she came to the realization that such feelings were simply the conditions of old age and largely the same for everybody. Truly, there was no escape. Those who in life had held back in matters of love would end up in bitterness. While the people like her, who had filled the corners of each day, found themselves marooned on a scatter of memories….”

“She isn’t taking any medicine, nor does she need and creams, powders, tonics, or lozenges. The only real proof of her advanced age are a chronic, persistent feeling of defeat, aching limbs, and the power of invisibility to anyone between the ages of ten and fifty.”

One night things change for Helen. She watches from her window as a neighbor hauls some boxes out to the curb to be carted away as garbage in the morning. She waits until he leaves and all is quiet in the neighborhood, then she sneaks across the street for a peek. Among the assembled items she finds an old fish tank filled with plastic water toys and a few boxes. One of the toys reminds her of something her son once owned. So, with a great deal of effort, she lifts and carries the tank back to her house and deposits it on her living room floor. She then goes upstairs to take a bath, worn out by the activity.

Once recovered from her adventure, she discovers a mouse in a box in the bottom of the tank. It shocks her; she has no desire to share her home with a rodent. But over the next two weeks, the woman and the mouse make a mutual connection. She names him Sipsworth. Her new responsibility to care for the critter forces her into the village to meet people—the clerk at Ace Hardware, the librarian (for a book on caring for mice), a vet, and, eventually, medical personnel in the local hospital as Sipsworth has an emergency that needs surgery. The book highlights the need all mammals (including humans) have for relationship and the possibility for change at any age.

But something else in the story spoke to me. In the beginning we have the picture of a solitary old lady, set in her ways, living in her memories, and developing some strange habits. It’s a stereotype of a typical old person and, although I felt sympathy, I perceived her as pathetic. But as the story nears its climax, the nurse in the hospital recognizes her name, Helen Cartwright, and realizes that she was once the Head of Pediatric Cardiology of the Sydney General Hospital and inventor of the Cartwright Aortic Stem Valve, used to save the lives of hundreds of people. She was famous in her day.

This, of course, changes the way people now see this strange old woman. And it certainly changed the way I had been reading the story. I was surprised, but I noticed there were hints all through the story that things were not as they seemed.

I’ve experienced being treated as an “old person” in the doctor’s office and the grocery line. I’ve experienced being invisible in other social settings. I’ve wanted to say, “There’s more to me than my wrinkles and walking stick!” But, of course, I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.

And I take joy in the fact that where I’m living now, I’m surrounded by friends and people who take the trouble to know one another. Age doesn’t matter, since we’re all old!

But more than wanting people to see me as a person rather than as a stage in life, I’m asking myself how I see other people, especially other older people I don’t know. I’m realizing that I often look at them with the same stereotypical perspective, especially if they “look” old and grumpy and mussed up. I don’t feel compelled to get to know them. They aren’t attractive.

(How I perceive young women with purple hair and noses rings is much the same problem.)

I feel a sense of conviction. Helen looked old and grumpy and mussed up. And I think I do too at times. Learning how to see people as God sees them isn’t automatic. It’s hard. It’s something to be aware of and to work at.

A person’s age and how they look don’t define them. People are full of surprises. Especially old people. I don’t want to miss out on any of it.

A baby, a book, and playing with words

 I know I’m a bit old for this, but I gave birth last week. So far the baby is not doing much more than sleeping, but she’s about to wake up.

Her name is The Language of Light: poems of wit, whimsy, and (maybe) wisdom.

That’s right. The baby is a book. A new poetry book and I’m pretty excited about it.

Having a book published is very much like having a baby. First comes conception when a seed is planted and gets fertilized. And then come the work and the long wait. This period of labor took about two years and involved a certain amount of pain. But now it’s over. And she’s lovely. I can’t wait for you to meet her. (I’d even say I’ll sell her to you, but that’s taking a metaphor too far.)

This book is a little different than my previous collections of poetry. It’s not mystical, heavy, or complex. (Actually, neither were the others.) It’s light in the sense of laughter. It’s a recognition that humor produces a certain lightness of spirit. It lifts us up and gives a more gracious perspective of reality. Humor can also turn stuff on its head, helping us see people/problems/culture (especially our own culture) from a different viewpoint.

But it’s not just laughs I hope to achieve. I also use the word light in the sense of illumination. Often laughter precedes insight. I hope some of the poems in the book do that.

You can decide for yourself. I’m having a book launch this coming Friday at 3:00 in the auditorium of the Retirement Community. I’ll be reading poems from the book. These events always give me the jitters beforehand. I ask myself silly questions: Will anyone come? Will they like the poems? Or will they throw lettuce? (You would never do that, would you?)

More than anything, I think the book is playful. I love language. I especially love the English language. And I love playing with words. So I hope the event will let us all participate in some lightness and play.

Rather than share some of my poems in this blog, I’m going to post a poem my granddaughter Gwen wrote a year ago.

Grandma’s Poems

A small collection of Grandma’s poems
lay scattered over my bed.
As I soaked in the rich creativity
I happened upon a small poem.
It was a silly play on words
and I could hear her laughter as I read it.
At the bottom in her
curvy haphazard handwriting
were the words,

“Play. Just play.”

Advice from her I will
hold with all seriousness.
Play is no joke
for genius is born from it.
I have the proof right here,
scattered over my bed.

 

[Note: speaking of Gwen and babies, my granddaughter recently gave birth to a real baby and is now learning the joys of motherhood. She’s finding that playing with little Ariah is even more fun than playing with words.]

 

Grandma goes camping

 Hal and I went on our last tent-camping trip just before the pandemic hit. We were five-years younger than we are now and beginning to feel the physical challenges of “roughing it.” In fact, we came home one day earlier than we had intended. That was then.

The camping trip I went on last week was not anywhere near wilderness camping. I attended a women’s retreat at a Christian campground. Only mildly primitive. But, even so….

The grounds were rustic, something a group of middle-school kids would relish. I’m years removed from middle-school, and “relish” is not a word I would use about last week. I’m speaking of the physical realities, not the spiritual experience. I had to take my old sleeping bag out of storage. It had been a while and I had not remembered how restrictive sleeping bags are. I’m a restless sleeper these nights, so as I turned over, parts of the bag turned with me and other parts stayed put. I ended up in a twisted tunnel of bedding and had to pull and tug a bit to get comfortable. This happened multiple times throughout the night.

The simple wooden bunkbeds were arranged in rows in cabins. Five of us slept in my cabin, which meant none of us had to occupy a top bunk. (In that case, I would have gone right home.) It also meant little privacy, which one can live with for a limited time. But the bathroom was housed in a separate building which presented a problem. As you all know, older bladders shrink, along with other internal organs, which can mean multiple trips to the bathroom. But one can also adapt to that situation if it’s for a limited time. I just kept my slippers, robe, and flashlight close to the bed. However, those forays out into the night made it harder to get back to sleep. (Stop, grumbling, Nancy, I told myself over and over. It could be worse. You’ll live.)

I didn’t sleep at all the second night which was especially problematical since the following day was the all-day fast out in the wilderness. Actually, I had been looking forward to it. I fast at home sometimes, usually for 24 hours. This was a longer fast. We were all sent out to find private spaces in the forest or along the river. We were given a back pack with a notebook of spiritual teachings and prompts for reflection and writing, and a supply of water and sports-drinks. We also carried a folding camp chair.

I knew it would turn out to be a warm day, so I dressed lightly. First mistake. The morning was cold. I had chosen a large field with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. But the tall trees to the side kept the sun from reaching the field and I began to shiver. Then shake. My dizziness increased and I did not feel spiritual at all. I finally got up and went seeking another spot, finally finding a lovely place in the forest with sun coming through the trees and a view of the river. But two hours had passed in the meantime.

Our pack included sports drinks, which I usually don’t consume, but I thought that extra electrolytes would help me, so I drank both bottles, noting how much they tasted like colonoscopy preparation.

I made it through the day, fighting my lack of sleep and my dizziness the whole time. When we gathered at the meeting room at the end of the day, our leaders led us through some debriefing exercises. They went on longer than I had hoped for; I was anticipating a small nourishing meal to end the day. Then our leader told us our fast would end at breakfast the next day. Slight let-down. But sleep awaited.

And I did sleep well. After breakfast the next morning, I discovered why the sports-drinks had tasted like colonoscopy prep. They were colonoscopy prep. Or very near to the real thing. I experienced painless but uncontrollable diarrhea all morning long, meaning I could not participate fully in the teaching. I did manage to sit in the back of the room by the door in case I needed to dash out. The staff was understanding, even did an extra load of laundry for me. But I was exhausted.

OK. So much for this tale of woe!

In spite of the challenges, by the end of the week I had no doubts that the Holy Spirit had touched and refreshed me. I was meant to be at that retreat. I wondered why at different points. Most of the teaching and the experiences the staff led us in I had been experiencing all my life. It wasn’t new stuff. But I came to realize that certain spiritual practices never get old, that for the rest of my life I still need to seek healing for past hurts and wounds, to let the Spirit reveal areas of sin in my life that need confessing, show me people and events that I still need to forgive. This is all deep stuff and the Spirit ministered to me in all these areas.

Even during that long, difficult day of fasting. At one point near the end of the day, a phrase popped out of one of the readings and I felt God giving it to me, something to carry with me into the future. The phrase was Live the glory! I’m looking forward to understanding what that means. Near the end of the afternoon, we were told to open the packet of letters written to us by family and friends. Hal had collected them in the weeks before the camp. The letters were like light coming through the leaves, warming and blessing me. Through the letters, I received a second word from God: Write the glory! An affirmation of my life’s calling. Yes.

The blessing and refreshing touched all of us at the retreat, regardless of age. It’s good to remember that.

However, I need to consider the physical challenges the next time I have a retreat or camping opportunity. Hal and I are still hanging on to our little two-person tent, the camping stove and dishes, the blow-up mattresses, the sleeping bags, and other valuable paraphernalia. Sunday evening as I was telling him about my experience at the retreat, I added, I think it’s time to give away all that stuff to whichever grandkid wants it.

In fact, maybe we could exchange our camping equipment for a few nights at a resort hotel. That sort of camping I can still do.

Late bloomers

 It’s almost October, the time when flowers fade and leaves fall. But I’m amazed at the wealth of flowers still blooming here at the retirement center. It seems unseasonable, but I’m not complaining.

On the fifth floor where I live, we have a communal balcony. Three of my neighbors—Marlene, Phyllis, and Sarah—have voluntarily created and now maintain a spectacular garden of potted flowers. The geraniums, marigolds, daisies, petunias, and others make this a wonderful place to sit and read a book or visit with friends. Hummingbirds regularly flit about the feeder.

Downstairs a terrace off the main dining room is my favorite place to eat when the weather cooperates (as it is so generously doing these weeks). But more than the weather, the boxes and pots of flowers add to the beauty. Again, a resident volunteer, Mary Sue, regularly waters and prunes these flowers.

The path down in the canyon is shaded and most of the wildflowers have died, but I still find blooms that make me stop and smile.

Our community garden has enjoyed an abundant summer season, outdoing itself in flowers and veggies, even a few fruit trees and berry bushes. Hal and I are not seasoned gardeners, and I was again surprised when plants actually did come up out of the ground and then grew. And grew and grew. We know we need to learn better how and when to prune. I loved the abundance, but the jungle-like appearance of our plot made me embarrassed. No matter. The flowers are still outdoing themselves.

Some would say that for us older folks our season of blooming is past. That we’re slowly pushing our walkers into the fall of life, with winter just ahead. And yet—I’ve never seen so many beautiful blossoms concentrated in one place. I’m talking about the people who live here. Funny people. People with rich stories to tell. People with colorful personalities and interesting lives. People who are facing the reality of growing older with courage and humor. What a garden!

And I’m a part of it. I’ve just recently realized that while I’ve never before faced the physical challenges I’m currently struggling with, the quality of my life has never been more rich, creative, colorful, or beautiful than it is right now. I feel this way most days (not all days, of course).

As a teenager, I was a late bloomer, a fact that caused me grief but got resolved over time.

And here I am in a retirement center, once again a late bloomer. Living among a bunch of funny bright blooming idiots. But we’re not crazy. We’re just having fun and enjoying our garden.

 

[Note: I’m posting this essay early this week because I leave tomorrow for a week-long retreat. Part of our discipline will be giving up use of all electronic devices. No computers, cell phones, iPads, etc. I think I’ll survive. Actually, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll report back next week.]