Bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights: Easter is coming

 This is Holy Week, that time when the Christian church remembers its foundations in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. We have many ways of remembering and celebrating this season.

Here in the retirement community, the Market Place has announced a special Holy Week sale, and highlights three items at good prices: bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights. An interesting combination.

The Market Place is a small convenience and variety store, run by residents and stocked with practical stuff like toilet paper, toothpaste, aspirins, and Snickers bars. It comes in handy when I realize at the last moment that I need a birthday card.

The list of Easter specials—bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights—reminds me of those tests that have you read a list (or look at pictures—an apple, a banana, and a pencil, for example) and say which item doesn’t fit. With the Easter sale list, that’s easy. The bunnies don’t fit. Both the emergency lights and the chocolate are helpful in facing danger and trauma. The bunnies, not so much.

This reminds me of the delightful customs of Easter I grew up with. I remember my first Easter egg hunt, mostly because I did it wrong and got in trouble. I was three-years-old and my parents brought me to a community hunt. The little kids, the one and two-year-olds, were supposed to go first through the gate and into the garden. But as soon as the gate opened, I ran in, ahead of everyone. I wasn’t really greedy, just excited. (I don’t actually remember my motives. I’m guessing.) My parents had to rush in, pick me up, and carry me back in front of everyone. I remember it and feel a stab of shame even now, although I don’t think it’s scarred me for life.

All the other Easter egg hunts in my childhood were positive. We three kids anticipated it, received our baskets with excitement, and ran around in the yard like rabbits, looking under every leaf and bush. I do remember some disappointment when the loot was mostly hardboiled eggs, with one small chocolate bunny that turned out to be hollow in the middle. But, other than that, it was the highlight of Easter. (My folks weren’t that into church in those days.)

We carried on the custom with our kids. One of the most fun parts was the afternoon we spent together coloring the eggs, dipping them into bowls of colored water and painting faces or stripes on them. Of course, that killed the myth of the Easter Bunny, but that was fine with us. We still had fun hiding the eggs and the kids finding them. With a few surprise chocolate rabbits thrown in.

Here on our floor in the retirement community, residents have decorated their apartment entrances for the Easter season. Lots of rabbits, chicks, and eggs. It’s cheery and spring-like, if not particularly holy.

Aside from the colorful cultural customs of Easter, and running deeper, the events of Holy Week so many years ago continue to be relevant. Many of us are following the footsteps of Jesus day by day on his journey to the cross, and then, the resurrection. The devotional app I’m following calls the whole season of Lent one of a “bright sadness.” Sorrow and joy mingle in our reflections. This is the bedrock of our faith.

May the Spirit be with you as you walk slowly through this week.

Even if you are accompanied by bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights.

Seasoned traveler

In 2019, after a trip to Bolivia to celebrate the 100^th anniversary of the Bolivian Friends Church, Hal and I decided that we would take no more long international trips. We needed to face the fact that our aging bodies were no longer up to the challenges of 24-hour flight schedules, heavy suitcases, long lines, connecting flights in strange airports, customs, and all the other stresses of travel that we once considered an adventure.

Then last year we received an invitation to travel to Panama for the 20^th anniversary celebration of an educational program we helped found and worked in for 14 years, up to our retirement. All the graduates of the program (some 50 Latin American Christian leaders, now with their PhD in hand), faculty, and staff (past and present) were invited. We love these people and have invested a good part of our lives in them. Being together again after ten years and celebrating God’s goodness—well, it tempted us to give up our no-more-travel decision and we committed to the trip. (I wrote about all this in an earlier blog—February 20.)

We then wrestled with the physical reality of Hal’s back problems, problems that would make the trip challenging at best. We wondered if we might need to cancel the trip, but we decided to go ahead. Hal continued with his physical therapy and we bought prescription pain pills, just in case.

The morning of the flight, our bags were packed and waiting by the door. At 2:15 a.m., the alarm went off. Hal, already up, sat on the side of the bed and told me of the pain in his stomach. We knew what that meant—the onset of diverticulitis, a condition Hal faces several times a year. We’ve learned what to do to avoid a trip to the ER: rest, drink lots of water, use Metamucil. This usually leads to healing. We also know what not to do: get on an airplane.

With sinking hearts, we considered our options: cancel both our tickets or have me travel alone. Our son, who was driving us to the airport, offered to take Hal’s ticket and accompany me on the trip. Both Hal and David were concerned about me traveling alone with my chronic dizziness. We finally discerned that it was important that I go and represent both of us in the celebration, that Hal would be well taken-care of here. We felt peace. So I quickly repacked my bag (I didn’t need to take Hal’s underwear and PJs along), kissed my husband goodbye, and left with David, an hour later than we had planned.

The trip proved to be insightful on what it means to travel as an aging person. Once in the Portland Airport, after saying goodbye to David, I began feeling the excitement of the trip. The pre-boarding process was familiar and a sense of independence was rising up. I enjoyed it. With a new twist. I discovered at the ticket counter that I could pre-board as a “disabled person.” The label bothered me, but I thought, “Why not?” Since I have this weird physical challenge, why not milk it for any benefit I can get?

So when the announcement was made for those in wheelchairs or with canes to come forward to pre-board, I joined the line with a bit of uneasiness. I made my walking stick obviously visible. But the boarding official didn’t ask for a letter from my doctor or any kind of proof of my condition. She believed me. So I boarded before families with small children or active military personnel. The first on the plane! For the whole trip. That certainly made the process easier, much less stressful. The overhead bins were all empty, and no noisy passengers jostled, finding their seats and storing their luggage.

David had insisted on making arrangements for a wheelchair to meet me in Houston. The very thought jolted me, but I acquiesced. Actually, I was met by a little passenger “train” for various of us that tooted down the airport halls at a good pace. The place for my connecting flight was only five minutes from where I disembarked. I could have walked it with no problems, but the ride was fun.

And so it went for the whole trip, there and back. People seemed more than willing to assist me, whether I needed it or not. It was one of the easiest travel experiences I’ve had. Ever.

The celebration itself more than met my expectations and gave evidence that I was meant to be there. I was with people I loved; it felt a little like coming home. Lots of hugs, some tears, deep conversations, times of prayer, and the sharing of stories. Each graduate had space in the program to present whatever was on her/his heart.

Our worship together was anything but academic. And it was not an academic celebration, although I had never been in a room with so many PhDs. That part was not at all overwhelming. What overwhelmed was the sense of gratitude. We were people celebrating the acts of God on our behalf. We were celebrating the community we had become. It all provided me with a blessed sense of closure.

One interesting aspect of the adventure was the concern my family was experiencing. They were very worried over how I would manage the trip alone. Lots of texts passed back and forth. At one point, I didn’t text for several hours for various reasons—getting through customs, late arrival at the hotel, the opening reception, getting connected to the Internet, etc. When I finally was able to connect the next morning, I found this long chain of conversations, all worried about me, wondering what to do, who to contact, etc. It made me chuckle and I felt like saying, “Lighten up, you guys. I’m a grown-up. I’ve done this before.” I didn’t say that, of course.

On the morning I was to fly home, I woke up just in time (thanks be to God) to get dressed, close the suitcase, and hurry down to the lobby to catch the shuttle to the airport. No time to text home. In fact, I had no time or connection to text until I finally got to Houston. In the meantime, Hal had contacted the program administrator in Panama to have her investigate to see if I had checked out of the hotel and boarded the plane. I felt embarrassed by the fuss.

Looking back, I recognize that, while a little exaggerated, the concerns of my family were legitimate. I hadn’t traveled independently for quite a few years, and I was a different person. A dizzy person in the process of growing older. And, to be honest, how much better that my family be concerned then if they didn’t care one way or the other.

I wonder how much my reaction comes from denial of the fact that I’m aging. “I’m too young for a wheelchair! I’m not a ‘disabled person’! This is NOT a cane; it’s walking stick!” And so on. And while I am on the younger side of old, that won’t last. There just may be a wheelchair in my future. Face up to it, Nancy!

I also acknowledge the role prayer played in all of this. I was humbled and blessed to learn how much my congregation, as well as my family, had been praying for me. That surely made a difference in how easy the plane trip was and how meaningful and satisfying the celebration. Thanks be to God.

So now we have once again have decided that long international trips are no longer an option. It’s a fairly firm decision (how’s that for an oxymoron?), at least until the next enticing invitation.

The Nursery Tree Effect

 I’ve invited a guest-blogger this week. Gary Fawver and I have several things in common: we’re both residents of this retirement community, we both participate in the same writers group (one that has been ongoing for about 15 years), we both love green things, and we’re both experiencing the challenge of growing older.

Twice Gary has been asked to give a talk to residents here about trees, once in 1979 and again in 2016. In 1979, Gary was 41 years old and the director of Tilikum, a camp in the Pacific Northwest. By 2016 he and his wife Susan had become residents of this community.  Thirty -seven years separate those talks! Gary recently let me read his notes. I have his permission to share them with you in this blog. Here is the essence of what he said.

June 1979

Something a visitor to Tilikum becomes immediately aware of are the trees—both those growing naturally and the cultivated fruit trees. Trees are everywhere. They come in different kinds, shapes, and sizes, yet they are all trees. A unique creation from the hand of God.

The Scriptures are full of trees, from the lovely green tree planted by streams of water (Psalm 1, Jeremiah 17:7-8), to the picture of the Christian as a branch clinging to the Vine of Christ and bearing fruit (John 15), and the description of a believer as one who is rooted in Jesus (Colossians 2:6-7). Trees provide a metaphor of human development and the process of maturity, both spiritually and physically.

There are three particular mature (old growth) trees at Tilikum that I’d like to tell you about: White Oak, Douglas Fir, and Big Leaf Maple. They are 300-500 years old. If they could talk, what stories they would tell of all the things they’ve seen and heard! Once they were young and impressionable, easily bent. Other trees came and went, but these grew strong and tall. As they grew, they bore their seeds and parented many young trees of their kind, providing shade from the hot summer sun. Animals and birds found refuge, comfort and nourishment in their limbs and in the protection of their trunks. Hard times—fires, storms, disease—took their toll on them and on other trees, yet these three survived.

You here at Friendsview are in my story of these trees. You are like trees in an old growth forest, with some of the same characteristics, challenges, and splendor of my old tree friends. And yet, in God’s timing, those trees must fall in death. One such giant fell yesterday. Her name was Marie Haines.

March 30, 2016

My talk at Friendsview was 37 years ago. Who would have thought that Susan and I would be residents in 2016! Yet here we are.

Since that message in 1979, the Big Leaf Maple tree has fallen. It was my favorite. Of the three trees, it was the most child friendly. One could climb into it easily, or several campers could crouch into a natural impression at its base to stay out of the rain. At various times there were swinging ropes and platforms placed in its branches. In its hollow trunk was a honeybee hive. We could put a stethoscope against the bark and hear the hum of all the bee wings.

We old folks are similar to trees, you know—trees living in an old growth forest community. We are all unique creations of God—incredibly different from each other and yet humans, all of us. We can tell lots of stories about what we have seen, heard, and done. Some of us have parented young trees after our kind. And, as with the trees, there have been hard times—accidents and illnesses that may have left us scarred. Personal or family tragedies that left irreparable damage.

There’s more. A recent trip through an old growth got me thinking about what are called “nursery trees”(also called “nurse logs”). When an ancient tree falls, seeds germinate, take root, and grow out of the body of that tree, using its nutrients. Even in its death, the tree continues nourishing the life of the forest.

Perhaps this can be one of the greatest prayers of those of us who reside in this retirement community, a prayer that we be productive nursery trees in our death as well as in our living.

It’s obvious how many of us throughout our lives have given refuge, comfort, nourishment, security, and care to those who have been nearest us—our spouse, children, friends and through our jobs as teachers, counselors, ministers, entrepreneurs, and so on. But only in our death and the years that follow will our real contribution as a nursery tree be recognized.

Missionary doctor and author Paul Brand wrote this after showing his children and grandchildren the nursery trees of the Olympic National Forest: “My active life is mostly behind me. Soon I will no longer occupy this earthly home. But I pray that my life and the principles God has helped me to live by will continue to influence young lives. When we die, we do not only leave seed; we also leave an effect on the soil in which future children will grow and future spiritual seed will be nourished.”

We see what I call the Nursery Tree Effect in many folks who have left our community, even since I spoke here 37 years ago. I think we see that Marie Haines’ legacy has been carried out in her daughter Ellen Martin.

And so I, Gary Fawver, continue to ask myself: How am I shaping and giving nourishment to the new generations of “great trees”? What effect am I leaving on the soil in which my family and friends will be nourished? What principles is God helping me live by, principles that will continue to influence young lives long after I’m gone?

Hear what the prophet says: “Blessed is the person who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes, its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8)

The tree or the insect: differing views of old age

 I love it when the Bible presents differing views of a single subject, sometimes so different they seem contradictory. These can often be solved by understanding the cultural-historical context. Other times the different views become resolved as a paradox, two apparently opposites that prove to both be true. That’s the playground of the poet.

Take old age. The Hebrew culture of the Old Testament revered the elders among them. The Patriarchs—the grandfathers of the faith—became the ground from which succeeding generations arose to build the Hebrew faith. Not that daily experience in Israelite families was all roses and respect; growing old has always been hard and families complicated. But in general, respect was the rule of the day.

Several biblical passages especially interest me. The first, from Psalm 92, I’ve taken as a theme for this blog site: “The righteous will flourish like a palm tree [I mistakenly wrote “psalm tree”]; they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will still bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” This refers to a “righteous” old person which, hopefully, describes many of us. Semi-righteous, at least. I don’t look good in the color green, but even so, I love this description and would love to grow into it.

The seeming contradiction is found in Ecclesiastes 12 where the cynical teacher recites a series of wonderfully creative metaphors describing the horrors of old age. It’s skillful and terrifying poetry. First, the sun, moon, and stars black out—blindness. Then the “keepers of the house” tremble—the trunk of the body? The skeleton? The legs? I’m not sure which body part is referenced here, but when it starts to tremble that’s bad news. “The grinders cease because they are few”—toothlessness! (False teeth help.) The songs of birds grow faint—time for hearing aids. After “the grasshopper drags itself along” for a time, the old person dies. What a dim view of the adventure of aging!

Take Your Choice
Ecclesiastes 12:1-8; Psalm 92:12-14

Who am I to believe?
The psalmist has one view of old age,
the teacher, another. Poets both.

The sweet psalmist sings for joy
and flourishes like a cherry tree in spring.
Fresh, green, productive,
ever strong and full of the Holy Spirit
right up to the end, something
to look forward to. Peaceful sleep
followed by unending bliss.
It makes one want to grow old.

The teacher, on the other hand
(why is there always another hand?),
calls the final stage of life
the days of trouble.
I find no pleasure in them,
he grumbles. Rightly so.
Blind, deaf, toothless, and full of fear,
the old lady drags herself
along the floor of the nursing home
like a grasshopper with a broken wing.
Meaningless. The teacher again
uses his favorite word.

So which is it—
the blooming tree or the injured insect?
I choose the tree
(but I have my suspicions).

These conflicting viewpoints are both true. The psalmist gives the positive picture of faith, what can happen to one who follows God all her life (although some of it may be reserved for after her death). It underscores the truth that whatever happens to us, we are surrounded and carried by the love of God. All things will work together for the best.

The teacher brings us back to reality. Faithful followers of Christ or not, old age is hard and inevitably brings with it illness, diminishment, loss, and death. It’s important that we look this reality straight in the face. Believing that Heaven is around the corner is important, but so is our situation here and now. We need courage to walk this path.

The challenge is to hold onto both a faith-filled picture of old age and an open-eyed realism. Not either/or. Both/and. That can be tricky, even when we know which side will ultimately win.

St. Paul brings together realism and faith when he writes, “Though outwardly we are wasting away (Ecclesiastes), yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day (Psalms)” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Another Paul, French poet Paul Claudel, puts it this way: “Eighty years old… No eyes left, no teeth, no legs, no wind! And when all is said and done, how astonishingly well one does without them!”

Absolutely astonishing.