Journey through time—faith, hope, love

 As a child I memorized 1 Corinthians 13, the great love chapter. Then in high school and college I studied it as literature. “Now there abides faith, hope and love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.”

I’ve always been a wonderer.  I wondered what the difference was between faith and hope. And what made love greater. And how to measure how much of each I might have. I still don’t have it all worked out, but I’ve gained some insight.

I’m learning to see faith, hope, and love as companions on a journey through time. A sort of spiritual time capsule. And these days I’m trying to understand them through the lens of aging.

Faith—a look to the past. Hope—a perspective on the future. Love—to be lived out here and now.

Faith: I see faith as focused on the past and on all the ways God has shown his faithfulness. Certainly, in my own life, I remember God bringing me through dark times into spacious places, walking with me through dim valleys on twisting paths, but keeping me safe. And I see God doing that through the Scriptures—to his people and to individuals such as Moses, David, and the Apostles of the New Testament. We have a testimony about God’s lovingkindness and faithfulness through the years. Our understanding of who God is and how he treats us gives us faith for facing our trials today.

A backward look of faith can actually heal our past. Here’s an example. In kindergarten I was bullied by two huge first-graders. It happened on the brief walk to and from school, which my parents taught me to do on my own. These two girls made fun of me and threatened me. One afternoon they jumped out from behind a tree, brandished sticks like weapons, and chased me to the corner. I ran home in a panic, but dared not tell my parents. They had told me what would happen if I ever said anything about it.

The memory stayed with me, dragging that feeling of panic into the present whenever I thought of it or saw people walking toward me on the sidewalk. That changed when I learned about using my imagination to walk with Jesus into that memory and see him there with me, protecting me, talking with me, and bringing me safely home. It was actually an exercise in reality as Jesus really was with me. But now I could see him, and the fear left. Faith in Jesus’ presence healed that part of my past.

Our memories seem to play an increasing role as we age. How good to be able to reach back in time and touch them with imaginative faith.

Hope: Hope looks to the future. It is fed by faith in all God has done for us in the past and in the scriptural stories of God’s dealings with his people. It senses that, as he has been in the past, so will he be in all our tomorrows. As the psalmist says, “His lovingkindness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever” (Psalm 23).

The fears natural to the aging process call out for hope. The fear of dementia is perhaps the greatest. A poll taken in 2012 indicates that Alzheimer’s is the disease American’s most fear, edging out even cancer (November 11, 2012, Marist Poll). Anti-ageism activist Ashton Applewhite (that’s a lot of As) says that “Our ageist society pathologizes natural transitions, and our consumer society sells us remedies to ‘fix’ them, like hormone replacement therapy, erectile dysfunction drugs, and facelifts. Our ‘hypercognitive’ culture prioritizes brain function above all ….” All the information in our context bombards us, telling us our fears are valid.

Other natural concerns include loss, potential loneliness, alienation from society, and wondering which body part will give out next. We absolutely need hope. A hope that gives us a new perspective on aging that comes from faith in who God is and how he works in our lives. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11). That promise was made to the people of Israel, but I believe it shows the nature of God and can be applied to us, even as we age. Ultimately that hope reaches to a time when we will “dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Love: Love is primarily a present tense verb. For the here and now. Among the actual people we live with, worship with, and meet in the street. As faith moves forward in time to effect today and hope circles back to encourage us now, we become free to love. Love is an outward focus.

I’m thinking first of my husband. Neither of us are as “beautiful” as we used to, nor as energetic. We’ve grown used to each other. Yet I find, thanks be to God, that this is my easiest love-assignment. More now than when we were young. Just as I find it natural to love my grown kids, grandkids, and the greats.

It’s all the others I need help with. I’m thinking of the cranky lady who lives down the hall and always has something to complain about. I need help to listen with patience and try to see her as God sees her. I need help being kind to the grocery store clerk who’s had a hard day and treats me as a typical tiresome “old lady.” I need help respecting the doctor who tells me there’s nothing wrong; “It’s typical with people your age.” I need help loving certain political leaders in our country. I need help even praying for those I see as oppressing immigrants and minorities.

I need to more frequently sit in the presence of God and let faith and hope stir up love.

Faith and hope help me to love my aging self. I’m learning to look in the mirror and see white hair, wrinkles, and sagging muscles, then say, “Wow! What’s not to love?” I’ve learned an audacious prayer that goes, “Lord, help me accept the truth about myself, now matter how beautiful it is.”

The more I grow in my relationship with God, the more I can lean into the Great Commandment to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37-39).

This is timeless. It doesn’t matter what age we are.

Faith, hope, love—but the greatest of these is love.

The Big Thing--remembering my father

 When I was in junior high school, a Big Thing happened in the high school across the street. Really Big. The football team, the Ramona Bulldogs, won the California State Championship. At the time, I didn’t know anything about leagues or levels or any such official classifications. I realize now that we had to have been in a league of small high schools. The smallest. All I knew then was that we were #1 in the state. The best! The winners!

Ramona was definitely a football town with the Friday night games the biggest event of the week. Even for away games, people filled buses and cars to get there and yell.

The thing is—my dad was the coach. He was actually famous. His picture graced the front page of the Ramona Sentinel more than that of the president of the United States, whose name I don’t even remember.

The night the mighty Bulldogs growled, clawed, and scrabbled their way to the championship went down in history. At the noisy conclusion of the game, the team carried my dad off the field on their shoulders. Everyone was yelling and stomping and throwing their hats in the air. Pretty impressive for an adolescent daughter. I just sat in the bleachers, feeling warm and happy. I knew Dad was pleased.

The thing is—I never liked football all that much. I thought it silly how all those big boys in their stupid outfits ran around bumping into each other, then throwing other big boys on the ground and jumping on top of them. The rules didn’t make sense and sometimes people really did get hurt.

The thing is—my dad knew I thought this way, but he never seemed to hold it against me. 

He was also the Senior class English teacher. He was a writer and he liked literature even more than he liked football. He admired classical Greek culture and he told me once his job in the high school was a good Greek job. He loved the old Greeks plays and epics and he admired the Greeks for beginning the Olympic Games. He said the motto of the Greeks during their Golden Age was “a sound mind in a healthy body.” He reasoned that when he combined sports with literature, he was like the Greeks. A real Renaissance Man.

As was required of high school teachers in California, he took classes during the summer for professional enhancement. Instead of coaching or sports classes, he studied literature. He favored the University of Arizona as his sister lived in Phoenix. One summer he drove across the country to Massachusetts to study Shakespeare at Harvard.

I took Senior English from my dad. I remember as a class we read through “Romeo and Julliet” out loud. He made it come alive. Even the football players in the class became lovers of Shakespeare.

Actually, he was mostly like himself. And he let me be like myself, even though I was not Greek-like, nor did I enjoy football. For my 16^th birthday, he gifted me with a poetry book and wrote on the flyleaf, “To Nancy, for being Nancy. Love, Dad.”

So, I felt OK about the football team carrying him off the field. I would have liked it better if a bunch of writers could have carried him on their shoulders for writing the Great American Novel (a phrase he sometimes used). That never happened.

On Father’s Day I have no problem celebrating my memories of Dad. I recognize that many of my friends and colleagues have to work hard at forgiveness, at facing and bringing peace to their memories of fathers that were not so loving or appreciative. I feel privileged and blessed.

I’m grateful.

 

Limitations and substitutions

I printed out my old camping-trip-list and began to gather stuff, making little piles on the kitchen floor. The list is detailed and lengthy, so the process took time. First, the big stuff—ground pad, tent, self-inflating mattresses, sleeping bags, camping stove with its pot and pan, and so on. Then the little, but vital, stuff—insect repellant, collapsible bucket for washing dishes, flash lights, hand soap, mirror, and at least 30 other items that made me glad we were driving to our spot, not hiking in.

Then, of course, food. I carefully planned yummy but low-effort meals and made the grocery lists—macaroni and cheese from a box, clam chowder from a can, granola, canned evaporated milk, bacon, coffee, apples, and little sealed cups of chocolate pudding. I like to rough it. I had started buying the food.

In faith (or foolishness) we had reserved three nights at Silver Falls State Park. Before the pandemic we enjoyed tent camping, exploring sites throughout Oregon and going as far as the redwoods in northern California. But as we reached retirement years, we noticed that sleeping on the ground, even on our 3-inch inflatable mattresses, was getting harder. We were pretty stiff getting up and getting dressed, and it was taking longer to sum up the courage for the hike of the day. We no longer enjoyed putting up and taking down the tent. (We didn’t have the self-pop-up kind, but the pounding-stakes-in-the-ground contraption.) Our hikes were getting shorter.

We had been wondering if it was time to give up tent camping, but we really weren’t ready to do that. We had found so much joy being surrounded by trees, hearing the rain on our tent at night, finding new trails and splendiferous vistas. There’s nothing quite like that first cup of coffee sitting by the camp fire.

So, we decided to do an experiment. Hence the reservation. We figured if we pulled it off, we’d still have a year or two to keep camping. If the experience left us with such painful backs and aching limbs that we cut it short by one night, it might be a clue to let it all go. We could then make a list of our camping stuff and show it to the grandkids.

Unfortunately, we didn’t even make it to the campsite. Just a few days before the trip—all the gear still on the kitchen floor—we had to cancel. Hal’s back was so painful and my dizziness so pronounced, we knew we couldn’t do it. We canceled just in time to get our deposit back.

That was last week. Learning the weather at Silver Falls was beautiful didn’t help. So we asked ourselves what we could do the make the week special anyway. We chose to go to a movie (“Sight”—I highly recommend it) in the afternoon, then drive back to town, buy a bowl of chili and the free senior drink at Wendy’s, then go down to the river landing to eat it and watch the evening sky. Then go home to our comfortable bed and indoor toilet.

We wrestle with the limitations of age and the life-style changes they demand. Physical limitations such as giving up tent camping, not being able to play my guitar as easily because of arthritis in my hands, no more running on the beach with my dizzy head. I haven’t ridden my bike since the last tumble. (Fortunately, it was a gentle fall; I was peddling very slowly. But still.)

Then there are the economic limitations—realizing we may have to give up driving sooner than we had hoped; the prospect of moving from our two-room apartment to a studio in our retirement community. There are probably no cruises in our future (to Hal, a source of relief). Even mental limitations challenge—I forget appointments unless I write them down in two places, then remember to look at the calendar. I can no longer multitask.

Limitations are inevitable as we age. But as I was thinking about it this morning, I decided this was too negative a focus—for this blog and for my life in general. I will not let myself be diminished by the limitations of aging! I will re-direct my energies, find substitutes, develop new passions!

That is so positive. I feel it this morning. But I know myself well enough to realize I will have difficult days when I decide this is all a bunch of hooie and give up all over again. I guess this finding of new passions (or, at least, new interests) needs to be intentional and beyond fluctuating emotions. I’m obviously not writing as one who has the dilemma of facing limitations all figured out. And I never want this blog to sink into a wise-advice-from-a-successful-old-person kind of site. For one thing, I’m not all that old. For another, I’m not all that successful. Or wise. (I’ll settle for funny.)

So Hal and I talked this morning about things we could substitute for camping and biking if, in truth, we need to give them up. We discussed short hikes in beautiful places, more picnics in parks (in our camping chairs rather than a blanket on the grass), country drives. Instead of exotic cruises we can explore the incredible beauty of the Pacific Northwest, go to more museums, frequent the local cultural center more regularly. And be intentional about it all. This week (or next) we hope to visit the Mt. Angel Abbey.

Lovely plans give me hope that giving up stuff does not signify the end. We need to be realistic and courageous. But I’ll confess, I’ve made another reservation for a camp site in Silver Falls State Park, this time in September. Surely we’ll be strong and energetic by then.

    Surely. 

A psalm for growing old

 “David sang to the Lord… when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies.” 2 Samuel 22:1; Psalm 18

My enemies were like the waves of a stormy ocean.
They threatened to overwhelm me:

--my failing body
--the death of loved ones
--a downsizing that seemed to diminish
--loss of my place of service and contribution
--going from limelight to invisibility
--losing my home, my job, my place in line
--not knowing where I fit in my family
--fear of losing my memory, even my personality
--the ever-present approach of death.

But you, O Lord, drew me out of the deep waters,
lifted me from the chaos, lit the darkness,
opened the snares of death that threatened.
You rescued me from the fear
of illness, obscurity, dependence, and loss.

Thank you for getting so angry at the attacks against me
that you thundered, quaked, and stormed!
You terrified them all even as you held me in gentle hands.

The wall of stigma, of being white-headed, wrinkled,
stooped and stupid—look! I just leaped over that wall!
Where did all this juice come from?

Instead of a nursing home, you set me in a spacious place
of beauty. You opened the windows of my heart.
You enlarged my imagination and the scope of my understanding.
You gave me eyes to see. You are my Lamp.

You, O Lord, are my Rock,

--a solid place to stand
--a space of belonging
--a room with a view
--security
--safety
--hope.

The difficulties remain.
I’m growing older, stiffer, less energetic.
I use a walking stick that someday will become a cane,
then a walker and a wheel chair.
One day I may decide to just stay in bed.
Yet you lift me high! You give me courage and hope.
I will not despair.

I will bless you, my Rock, my Lamp, my Redeemer!
I will sing! I will give thanks until the day of my death,
the day of my deliverance, my beginning.

Bless the Lord, O my soul! Let all that is within me
bless his holy name!

(Note: This prayer is based on 2 Samuel 22, also Psalm 18, a psalm David wrote near the end of his life.)