Old books, timeless treasures

 In Sunday school class earlier this week, we talked about the value of reading the devotional classics. Different class members shared writers and books that had been formational in their own growth in the Christian faith. It was rich.

Some definitions are in order: Devotional classics are books that speak to the heart, that have the formation of holy habits and personal transformation as their aim. Devotional classics refer to books whose value has been affirmed over time. In other words, these are old books. Maybe beyond old or new, they are works that are timeless in their worth.

Examples that come to mind are the “old” guys and girls: St. Francis of Assisi, Brother Lawrence, Julian of Norwich, George Fox, John Wesley—the list is long. Some of the “newer” devotional classics include 20^th century writers such as C.S. Lewis, Dag Hammarskjold, Thomas Merton, and Henri Nouwen.

A classic that influenced me many years ago was Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle. I first approached this book, not as devotional reading, but as class preparation. I was scheduled to teach a class on spirituality to Latin American church leaders. Since the classic Spanish mystics of the 16^th and 17^th centuries are foundational to current Latin American spirituality, I needed to include them as background to the course. So I found myself reading Teresa, John of the Cross, and Ignatius of Loyola

Teresa was a Carmelite nun and mystic who became influential as a monastic reformer. She was known for her devotion to Jesus and her mystical prayer life. She was often called on to instruct young nuns in the life of faith. Her life story is long and dramatic and her reforms brought deep changes to the Catholic monastic movement.

I got another view into this woman through the poetry of humorist Phyllis McGinley. Apparently Teresa had a feisty aspect to her personality. Here’s McGinley’s poem:

Conversation in Avila

Teresa was God’s familiar. She often spoke
To Him informally,
As if together they shared some heavenly joke.
Once, watching stormily
Her heart’s ambitions wither to odds and ends,
With all to start anew,
She cried, “If this is the way You treat Your friends,
No wonder You have so few!”

There is no perfect record standing by
Of God’s reply.

Interior Castle is considered Teresa’s best work. The castle is an extended metaphor for a person’s intimate relationship with Jesus. The castle is within the person. It’s a mysterious, medieval, and quite asymmetrical structure composed of many large rooms or “mansions.” The seven mansions represent ascending levels of spiritual intimacy. The person progresses to a new room only after having attained to the maturity level of the previous room. It can all be slow going.

I was fascinated by the disciplines and experiences in each room, beginning with silent listening, contemplative prayer, and visions. This is good stuff, I thought. But as the pilgrim progressed through the different rooms, her experiences seemed to get stranger, even extreme. She went through dreams, swoons, ecstasies, mortifications, raptures, and trances, some of them seeming to last for days. Darkness and pain become part of the spiritual cleansing. I had to ask myself, is this the sort of thing I want to experience? No, I decided.

In the sixth room, Jesus tells his beloved daughter that they have reached a level of profound commitment. They are now “novios,” engaged to be spiritually married. I began to worry, wondering what extremes I’d find in the last mansion, the place of mystical marriage.

Teresa surprised me. It wasn’t at all what I expected. Jesus, in essence, tells his beloved, “My bride, we are now united. You have no more need of raptures and trances and swoons. That’s behind you. Now we will leave the castle and go out into the streets of the city where people I love are suffering and dying. We’ll go together. And you will serve the people and tell them how much I love them.”

Wow. I cried as I read that last chapter. The book become more than class preparation. It was a devotional classic in every sense of the term. It said to me that intimacy with Jesus comes before any service or ministry out in the world. And it is the relationship with Jesus that empowers and makes that service fruitful. While God doesn’t seem to be asking me to go through all the stuff Teresa experienced in her castle, the principle still stands. Thank you, Teresa.

Concerning the value of the classics, C.S. Lewis once wrote that “It is a good rule, after reading a new book, never to allow yourself another new one till you have read an old one in between.” Lewis, himself a scholar of medieval literature, was referring to more than the devotional classics, but he included them.

I’m currently re-reading Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, and finding it tough going. I remember how it impacted me as a young woman, but it’s been many years and I am no longer young. So I’m taking it slow, reading a couple of chapters, then switching to a contemporary (and much easier) book, and coming back for another dip into Dostoevsky. I’m not sure that’s what C.S. Lewis had in mind, but I intend to keep reading.

Old books—they’re sort of like us. We’re all growing older. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could feel we’d reached a high level of maturity and passed the test of time. I know older people who, indeed, have earned the respect of those who follow them and have become almost legendary. Probably not many of us will win the distinction of becoming a classic; most of us would not want that title anyway.

I will keep on reading seasoned old books, along with the new. I won’t be too concerned with becoming a human devotional classic. I’ll let myself be content with my grandson’s recent assessment: “You’re a really cool grandma!”

That’s classic enough for me.

Liturgy for missing someone

 A good friend died yesterday. This is a common experience here in the retirement community. But it doesn’t seem at all common, ordinary, or even acceptable when it happens to someone we love. And even though as Christians we know that this beloved person is rejoicing in God’s presence, our joy and gratitude are tempered with sorrow. It’s as though something bright, beautiful, and good has gone out of our lives. We—I—miss her.

I didn’t have a long-time friendship with Marcile. I admired her from a distance and then, a few years ago, I invited her to share a meal and we enjoyed our conversation so much we decided to keep it up. We shared many meals in the dining room and good conversations in her apartment. We talked about our families, our marriages, our struggles, growing older, and the books we were reading. She loved to read. We found mutual joy in our friendship. Words I would use to describe Marcile are gentleness, kindness, compassion, and encouragement.

We learn, somewhat, to accept death as a part of life. Belief in God’s grace in giving eternal life helps. Life goes on, and so do we. Yet I find that with some people, I continue to carry a certain sadness with me. They played such an important role in my life that I don’t get over missing them. I don’t call it sorrow, but rather a gentle, wistful sense of gratitude. Bill, Anita, Arthur, Mom, Dad—thank you, thank you, thank you.

Of course, the “bright, beautiful, and good” has not disappeared from my life. God promises that his goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life. Jesus preached from the passage in Isaiah where God promises his people that he will “comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning….” (Isaiah 61; Luke 4)

I love Douglas McKelvey’s book of liturgical prayers, Every Moment Holy (vol. 3), for times of death, grief, and hope. The “Liturgy for Missing Someone” focuses on the redemptive, transforming aspects of grief that God works out in our lives. I quote part of this prayer:

 

A Liturgy for Missing Someone

O Father,

You created our hearts for unbroken fellowship.
Yet the constraints of time and place, and the
stuttering rhythms of life in a fallen world dictate
that all fellowships in these days will at times be broken
or incomplete. We acknowledge, O Lord, that it is
a right and a good thing to miss deeply those whom
we love but with whom we cannot be physically present….

Therefore we praise you even for our sadness,
knowing that the sorrows we steward in this life
will in time be redeemed….

Use even this sadness to carve out spaces in our souls
where still greater repositories of holy affection
might be held, unto the end that we might better love,
in times of absence and in times of presence alike.
We now entrust all to your keeping.

May our reunion be joyous, whether in this life
of in the life to come.
How we look forward, O Lord, to the day
when all our fellowships will be restored,
eternal and unbroken.

Amen.

(From Every Moment Holy, Vol. III, Douglas McKelvey)

Goodbye, Marcile. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yikes! I forgot!

I had two ideas for what I was going to write about this morning. I was developing them in my head all week, complete with introductions, illustrations, and snappy conclusions. Then yesterday, just in case, I looked back through my previous blogs and, sure enough, I had already written and posted both of them.

I had forgotten. I’m glad I checked, although chances are you would have also already forgotten them.

Growing older and memory loss is almost a cliché. Memory jokes about old people abound. For example,

“My memory is so bad.”
      “How bad is it?”
      “How bad is what?”

Not only is my short-term memory bad, but so is my short-term memory.

As you get older, three things happen. The first is your memory goes and I can’t remember the other two.

OK. Feel free to groan. Three times. But memory loss in the elderly is not just a funny stereotype. It’s a common reality, affecting all of us to a certain extent.

With Hal, it’s mostly his glasses, although his wallet and car keys also have a way of wandering off. Typically we’re out the door and half-way down the hall when he remembers what he forgot and has to go back, leaving me nervous and fretful about being late.

I can’t fret too much though because lately I’ve been misplacing my apartment key and the fob that lets me into this building. It’s not that we don’t have designated places to put important stuff. We do. It’s just that we keep forgetting to put the stuff there.

It helps to laugh. All this is funny.

Except when it isn’t.

It’s not funny when I forget appointments and obligations. It’s not funny when my memory lapses affect other people. Or when the consequences impact my own life.

I love my doctor. After six years consulting various specialists, trying to find out what was wrong with my head, I found her. On our first visit she named the monster and gave me hope we could find a way back to stability. As the “head” of the headache clinic of Oregon’s largest research hospital, she is in demand. So our consultations come roughly every three to four months, often via Zoom. But that’s enough to consider the effects of the latest experimental medication and plan out the next steps. She always gives me a huge dose of hope.

You’ve probably figured out where this is going. Our latest meeting was scheduled for last week, on Zoom. The date was well marked on the wall calendar and in my phone. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. I was pre-checked in. That morning I said to Hal, “Help me remember to get online at 1:00.”

It was a busy day. I remembered my appointment. But at 4:00. My heart fell when I looked at my watch and realized what had happened.

I’m still reacting to my breach of courtesy and responsibility. Chagrin. Regret. Embarrassment.

I made contact with the office, offered my apology, and managed to get an appointment this week with a nurse practitioner. The earliest I could schedule a time with my doctor was in March 2025. Seven months away. Like I said, she’s a busy lady. (By that time she’ll probably have forgotten who I am.)

Yes, there are strategies to help us remember—calendars, notes placed around the house, perhaps an irritating alarm on the phone, etc. There are things I can do and I am determined to double down on my remembering strategies. But right now, I’m frankly discouraged.

We read in the Scriptures that God cherishes us so much that he writes our names on the palms of his hand. That’s a metaphor, certainly not a strategy to help God remember who we are. But I wonder if that’s something I could do. Write “Doctor. 1:00” on my hand and hope I don’t wash it off.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me. Have mercy on us all.

(Have I written about this before?)

Beyond limitations

 This was a disappointing weekend. We had scheduled a retreat at the Prayer Lookout. Solitude with a view of the Pacific Ocean. But we’re learning to hold all trips and plans lightly these days. Hal came down with stomach problems and we had to cancel at the last minute. Our aging physical bodies are limiting our adventures.

In another, more serious, set of limitations, just this last week a dear friend here in the retirement community moved from her independent-living apartment to a room in the health center. She’s now on hospice care. She’s accepting her new limitations with grace, but it’s hard. She now takes more naps and reads less books. And waits.

On the national level, we watched the painful process as President Biden gave in to the pressure to not seek reelection, to accept that the limitations of age would impact the presidency, should he win the election. We were relieved when he finally gave up the race, but we identified with the pain of his process.

We could identify because we retired from a professional life in which we actively contributed and were recognized. We were, to a certain extent, sought after. That’s all behind us now. In my good days, I accept that and feel glad to be free of the hassle. On my not-so-good- days, I can feel forgotten, devalued, etc., etc., etc. I struggle to accept the professional limitations of retirement.

I also, like so many of us, struggle with my health; my vestibular migraines seem to be getting worse. I tell myself that this is probably a temporary condition. In the meantime, dizziness and fatigue plague me every day.  Hal’s challenges are even more pronounced. We joke about making quite a pair. At least we can still joke. But facing our physical limitations is a major task in this growing-older phase of life.

These are middle-of-the-night thoughts.

Early morning, on the other hand, is the most positive time of day for me. I tend to see my challenges in a different light.

The other morning, out of the silence came the realization that I could consider my limitations as an exchange. I recognized that, even as my dizziness increases, my creative expressions are growing. I’m writing more, reading more good books, experimenting with art, having more long talks with friends. I have more time to pray (although having the time doesn’t mean I do it well). It almost seems as if limitations in a few areas of my life have actually resulted in expansion in other areas. Maybe in areas of more ultimate importance.    

In a fit of early morning optimism, I wrote this poem:

Exchange

OK. I get it. I’m old.
My feet hurt. The second toe
on each foot whines like a two-year-old
even though it’s approaching 80.
Stop it! I demand. Do they listen,
those toes? You guess. I won’t say.
My arthritic fingers still insist
on opening jars and drawing pictures.
I let them.
The twirling stuff inside my head
dares me to walk the winding path
through the trees. I take the dare.
I open the door.

This betrayal is not the whole story.
Not the theme nor the purpose
and nowhere near the final chapter.
No!

Every day I watch with wonder

as the sun rises over the far trees.
I close my eyes, let the first rays hit my face.
Brightness pulses through my lids,
lights up my brain. I’m more alive
than I’ve ever been. Yes, I’m saying.
Yes to the day. Yes to the light.
Yes to the gifts that keep growing—
my marvelous mind, the colors
and music in my imagination,
all the poems that ever were
and those that are yet to be.

Yes! I am saying. Yes yes yes.

If I stumble forward,
it's toward the light.

Yes.