Celebrating life

 Saturday a week ago, I celebrated a joyful wedding as my grandson Aren married his Anna. Saturday, two days ago, I celebrated another major event—the memorial service of a dear friend. The two celebrations were similar in many ways, but also very different.

Actually, in the last few weeks, we’ve worked our way emotionally through the deaths of two good friends. Strangely, both their services were on Saturday at 10:00. So Hal attended Linda’s service and I went to the one for Deloris. Each of the two memorial services genuinely celebrated a life well lived.

But still, it wasn’t the same as a wedding. We’ll continue to enjoy our grandchildren for years, God willing, participating in their joys, celebrating the birth of their babies (again, God willing), supporting them in their trials (inevitable), and relishing all we see God doing in and through their lives. With Linda and Deloris, we said goodbye. I will miss Linda’s sense of humor and her constant reminders to pray for our grandchildren. I can hardly imagine being without Deloris’ encouragement, her telling us how blessed her life has been, even as she was suffering pain that increased to the day of her death. Linda was about two years younger than me; Deloris, ten years older. Their life celebrations were joyful and sorrowful at the same time.

I find the difference between the terms memorial service and funeral interesting. Google tells me that the basic difference is the presence of the body in a funeral. In the memorial service, the physicality expresses itself in the photos of the person who has died.

When I was growing up, my parents didn’t take us kids to funerals. I think now that they probably should have. Seeing the body might have been traumatic, but so is death and children need to learn to accept it.

Or maybe not. Do we ever come to accept death? I’m not sure I do. Yes, I know it’s inevitable. It’s part of life, as some experts tell us. And that’s probably true. But the shock and the sense of void tell me it’s not entirely acceptable. St. Paul calls death the last enemy that will be defeated when the kingdom of God comes in its fulness.

The adjective, funereal, is defined as glum, morbid, sorrowful, and other such words. In literature the word is used for more than funerals. Uriah Heap had a funereal face. Dark and stormy nights are sometimes referred to as funereal.

Even so, funerals can be meaningful times, punctuated with joy if the deceased was a Christian. In Latin America, where I lived for many years, people usually commemorate their dead with funerals, preceded by a wake with the body present. Whole families, including children, gather to express their grief, sometimes loudly. It makes death real and probably helps the mourners move forward.

And, of course, faith in that good place the dead in Christ go to comforts. The stronger our belief, the greater the comfort. But comfort sometimes comes gradually and grief can take a long time.

In any event, I’m glad for the preponderance of memorial services these days.

In both memorial services Hal and I attended on Saturday, the grown children of the deceased gave testimonials about their mother. Both were beautiful tributes. In Deloris’ service, her youngest son ended his tribute by quoting from the ending of CS Lewis’ The Last Battle, the final book in his Chronicles of Narnia. Its words bring me great joy and anticipation:

And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before. 

Amen.

 

Life marches on, with celebration!

 On Saturday, June 7, we celebrated the wedding of our grandson Aren to his beloved Anna. The bride was beautiful, the groom could not stop smiling, the worship was rich, and the joy in the whole gathering was palpable. Too many superlatives? Not really. As the grandma, I am totally objective. There’s never been a wedding like this one!

The whole event began on Friday with the rehearsal at the venue (an old picturesque barn 45 minutes outside of Newberg). The rehearsal was followed by a lunch for the wedding party back in Newberg on the campus of George Fox University. It was large as the wedding party included 10 bridesmaids and 10 groomsmen. Aren and Anna have a lot of close friends! It was an open-mic time and many people shared about their experiences with the bride and groom and gave advice, some wise, some funny. Then we all gathered around Aren and Anna to pray.

On Saturday we rode with our son and daughter-in-law (Aren’s parents) to the wedding, arriving at 2:30 to help with last minute stuff. The wedding was at 3:30, outdoors in the heat (we were all given fans). The very meaningful ceremony was followed by a time of visiting and fellowship in the barn with platters of meats, cheeses, crackers, nuts and fruit. The word abundance comes to mind. The dinner began at 6:00, followed by more speeches and prayers. And finally, let the dancing begin! The music was lively; they even danced to “Splish, Splash, I Was Takin’ a Bath” (from my high school years).

Anna’s extended family and friends had come in from Chicago and Wisconsin, plus there were guests from Ruanda, Moracco, France, Bulgaria, and Mexico. Like I mentioned, Aren and Anna have lots of friends.

Hal and I left early (after 7 hours of celebration!) and so missed the send-off. But we left with joyful hearts. We know God’s blessing is on this couple who plan to live and serve in North Africa.

I felt honored as Aren and Anna had asked me to write and read the wedding blessing. “Make it as long as you want, Grandma!” Aren had told me. I did, however, use some restraint. I got to read the blessing at the beginning of the ceremony. I’m going to end this blog with the blessing: 

Marriage Blessing
Aren Thomas and Anna Town
June 7, 2025

Aren and Anna,

We, your family and friends who love you, gather with you today to witness your vows, affirm the path you’ve chosen, and get really really happy as we see your joy in each other.

Growing up in two different continents, you met on a third continent. Your friendship has been global from the beginning, and it’s about to become more so. Your two different streams are becoming one new river of faith that will go out into the world.

You bring together certain differences. In some ways it seems like hyper-activity marrying serenity. You’re creating a unique blend of adventure and common sense, of idealism and practicality. That blending is your strength.

Today we bless you with our prayers for the following:

n -- A growing commitment to open communication with each other; a wise use of words to explore, reveal, challenge, solve problems, make laugh, heal, and bless.

n  --Beauty in the places you go—places with mountains, rivers, deserts, wild flowers, and beasts you’ve never seen before. And beauty in the people you’ll meet in those places—people who will become friends.

n -- A combination of exciting adventures and the deep peace of being under God’s protection—both at the same time.

n  --Creativity by the bucketful—new paintings, recipes, pottery mugs and critters; new ideas and new ways of handling old tasks.

n  --Humor in the people you meet, in the strange things people say without meaning to, in your own mistakes, in each other, and in all the stuff life brings your way (even the hard stuff).

n -- Great food—the discovery of new dishes around the world, and in your own home—cooking it and serving it to others; a ministry of hospitality.

n  --Children—your own, God willing, and those you meet wherever you go. Kids to be silly with, tell stories to, listen to, build Lego fortresses and dragons in the sand with, to love and care for.

n  --Businesses built, restaurants opened, workers trained, people transformed because you loved and accompanied them.

n  --With all the moving and the possibility of living in different places, a sense of permanence and stability that comes from your relationship with each other and with God.

n  --Growth in grace and in knowing Jesus.

Two streams converging into a river in God’s kingdom. May you always hear the voice of the One who walks by your side as he says, “I will be with you always, even to the ends of the earth.”

We bless you on this, your wedding day.

                            With Aren's sisters

                            Parents of the groom

                                Happy couple

                                Happy grandparents

What Harold Fry taught me about growing older

 It’s interesting to me how many contemporary novels and movies feature old people as protagonists. Within the last year I’ve read Noah’s Compass (Anne Tyler), How to Age Disgracefully (Grace Pooley), and Miss Benson’s Beetle (Rachel Joyce), among others. Even more movies, including romances, focus on the elderly. Almost always, the lead characters are portrayed as quirky but people of value and wisdom—however disguised (think of A Man Called Ove/Otto, Fredick Backman).

I’ve just been spending time with Harold Fry and I think his adventures are rubbing off on me. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2012), another novel by Rachel Joyce, features an older man who takes off on an adventure that is entirely out of keeping with his personality and previous experience. Harold is newly retired from a job that had grown so unsatisfactory that he left with no one even noticing. Now at home with his nagging wife, he hardly knows what to do with himself. Sound familiar? At one point in the story, he looks back over his life:

He had made a mess of being a husband, father, and friend. He had even made a mess of being a son. It wasn’t simply that he had betrayed Queenie, and that his parents did not want him. It wasn’t simply that he had made a mess of everything with his wife and son. It was rather that he had passed through his life and left no impression. He meant nothing.

Early in the story Harold receives a letter from an old friend he hasn’t heard from in years. Queenie writes to tell him that she is dying of cancer and just wants to say goodbye. That’s all. It’s a short letter, really just a note. It touches Harold and he tries to write a reply saying he’s sorry, but he struggles with the writing. He walks down to the mailbox to post the few sentences he finally came up with, but he can’t drop it in the box. So he walks to a mailbox down the street. And on the to next, etc., etc. Harold Fry never turns around to go back home. Somewhere along the way he gets the strong impression that he needs to walk to Queenie’s nursing home and give her the message in person. He’s convinced that as long as he keeps walking, Queenie won’t die. Harold lives on the southern coast of England; Queenie’s hospice home is some 700 miles away in the north of the country.

Harold would have been the first to admit that there were elements to his plan that were not finely tuned. He had no walking boots or compass, let alone a map or change of clothes. The least planned part of the journey, however, was the journey itself. He hadn’t known he was going to walk until he started.

The book is the story of his pilgrimage, the challenges he faces, the people he meets along the way, and what happens at the end. Without going into the details of the plot (read the book for yourself), I want to reflect on what I learned from this story, things Harold told me about older people without intending to, which is just like him.

--An ordinary person, even an older one, can take on an extraordinary task, even without the assurance of success. That speaks to my condition, as the Quakers say. I’ve taken on a project of writing poetry through every book of the Bible, a task that will probably take the rest of my life. It seems huge.

--It’s hard and success is not assured. Harold’s story ends strangely (but I’m not telling how). Mine may, too. Not all my poems will be good, in fact maybe most of them won’t. No matter. It’s definitely little by little, advancing everyday. If Harold kept on, so can I.

--Our bodies get in the way. Of course. Harold isn’t prepared for the blisters, the muscle aches, and the fatigue as he starts out. It gets better as he progresses, but he stays old to the very end. Sometimes fatigue and various aches and pains make me less than productive and I’m tempted to give up and just be retired—read novels, take naps, etc., etc. The challenges are real.

--Remembering is one of the tasks of old age. Somehow the walking helps Harold bring up the difficult things of the past and slowly begin to understand and face them. In a way, he’s coming to know himself. An important task for all of us.

--Harold accumulates some stuff along the way, stuff he considers necessary for survival. But at one point he realizes he’s carrying too much. So he gets rid of most of it and decides to let the needs of each day be met however that may be. He feels free again and picks up his pace. Yes to that. An ongoing process, but worth the trouble.

--This whole adventure is counter to the introverted mousey person he had been all his life. Yet the people he meets along the way begin to change him. He slowly comes out of isolation and finds community. It surprises and changes him. I need to remember that, especially as I enter different levels of care in the future. I see the temptation to isolation as fairly common. Being in life-giving community sometimes requires an effort.

--As Harold interacts with a variety of people, mainly by listening to their stories, he discovers that there are no boring ordinary people. What people carry inside—their past, their pain, their secret joys—makes each one a mysterious package to be opened. “Harold thought of the people he had already met and passed. Their stories had surprised and moved him, and none had left him untouched. Already the world had more people in it for whom he cared.” Remember that, Nancy. Here in this retirement community, there are no ordinary people; listen to the stories.

Here is one of my favorite passages:

… Harold walked with these strangers and listened. He judged no one, although as the days wore on, he couldn’t remember if the tax inspector wore no shoes or had a parrot on his shoulder. It no longer mattered. He had learned that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other; and a life might appear ordinary simply because the person living it had been doing so for a long time. Harold could no longer pass a stranger without acknowledging the truth that everyone was the same, and also unique; and that this was the dilemma of being human.

He walked so surely it was as if all his life he had been waiting to get up from his chair.

--Harold finds that learning and discovering have no age limits. Once he stops looking down and feeling the pain of walking, he begins to look around. He discovers the beauties of the English countryside. “Once more, it surprised him how much was at his feet, if only he had known to look.” No matter our age, the world still invites us to explore and learn.

--Gradually, and without realizing it, Harold becomes new, while still being true to the essential person he is. Transformation happens. And not only of himself, but of his relationships. Back home, Maurine, Harold’s wife, had been going through her own time of reflection and change (but I won’t elaborate on how that turns out). We’re never too old to experience change and renewal.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry does not aim to teach lessons or help us with self-improvement as we grow older. It tells a story, and does it well. But the characters are genuine, and so we implicitly learn as we enter into the lives of these ordinary unique people.

Sometimes the adventures we go on are through the pages of a good book.

    Now I think I’ll go out and take a walk.

A strange phenomenon

 Recently I tuned in to a TV documentary. It was a series that explored strange phenomena, anything from UFOs to Brazilian insects or ancient civilizations. This particular week’s topic was the phenomenon of old ladies.

Who are they? Where did they come from? How long have they existed? What threat do they pose to contemporary life?

Images flashed across the TV screen, scenes of the clichéd aproned mid-western grandmother, apple pie in hand; the fashionable silver-haired Broadway babe; and various crones from around the world, care-worn and grim-faced. Old ladies all.

The show’s moderator was an earnest yet engaging professorial type in a casual sweater and tie, fairly old himself. He introduced the expert from Harvard University. Dr. Hershberger, dean of the department of gerontology, is currently leading a team of researchers doing an in-depth investigation of the relationship between the percentage of old ladies in a given society and the amount of street violence in that same context. The expert was poised on the cusp of a serious comment …

when I woke up.

I chuckled and wondered what that was all about.

It reminds me of a quote by Dorothy Sayers: “Time and trouble will tame an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncontrollable by any earthly force.”

I guess we can be pretty scary creatures.

I wonder what, if anything, my subconscious was trying to tell me with that dream. I don’t personally feel like I’m a scary person and I can’t imagine me starting a street riot. I barely have the energy to participate in a protest march for a cause I believe in.

I do sometimes scare myself, like when I’m walking downtown and catch my reflection in a store window. So old! That white hair! That can’t be me! But it is.

I worry myself more than frighten myself. If I get so tired today, what will I be like in ten years? What happens when our pension runs out? When will I lose my balance and fall? (That almost seems inevitable.) What if my grandkids get bored and don’t come to see me anymore? And on and on.

Old age is definitely a phenomenon, although not likely one to be featured on a program of strange and exotic creatures. We're all too common. We’re everywhere!

Maybe the heart of this dream is the realization that I sometimes seem strange and exotic to myself. Weird might be a better word. I never planned on being old. As a young person, I knew that would never happen to me. I knew I would die someday, but the road to death was blurry. Unthinkable. That’s why a glance at my reflection now disorients me.

I think I need to reorient my perspective and laugh. I may frighten myself at times and worry myself, but I can also make myself laugh. After all, that was a pretty preposterous dream.

I will remind myself that I’m am a beloved daughter of my heavenly Father. I am also beloved by the people I love and that some of them even think I’m beautiful. (Imagine that!) I will remind myself that I can still make a contribution to the welfare and happiness of others. I can write poems, pray for my grandchildren, teach a class (occasionally), encourage others, edit a journal of stories, vote in the elections, and play Mexican Train.

Maybe we are sort of strange (depending on who’s looking at us). Maybe some academics do study us—our habits, relationships, medications, sleep patterns, emotions, and so on. Maybe some people see us as a phenomenon of nature rather than as regular persons. And maybe we are scary to some people.

Actually, the scary part sounds like fun!

The very worse grandma ever

As I write this, preparations are under way for our grandson’s wedding. It’s an exciting time, a time for dreaming of the future, but also a time for remembering the past. And getting a bit sentimental about it.

We’ve enjoyed each stage in our grandkids’ growing up years, from the thrill of the newborn babies and our shock at becoming grandparents, to the cute little-kid stage, the challenges of adolescence, then watching each one mature into an adult. And of course our relationships changed as they grew older.

This morning I’m remembering our grandkids as cute little-kids. We loved being with them, relishing their adoration of Grandpa and Grandma. For the most part, this was easy and fun. It was their parents’ turn to do the hard stuff, especially the disciplining.

“For the most part,” I write. From time to time we volunteered (or were asked) to care for the kids while their parents traveled for some reason or other. (Sometimes it was to have time off, away from their kids!) That was when it got harder for us. Our grandkids were all normal, active, sometimes mischievous kids who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity to get away with behavior their parents might not allow.

I remember one time 15 years ago when our daughter asked Hal and me to spend a week taking care of our three grandchildren, ages 2, 5, and 8. Their parents were leading a group of middle-schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.

I approached the week with both fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules and household routines their parents followed and determined to lovingly but firmly carry these out.

All this preparation helped. But I was again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially little children. They can be tough critters.

One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box, trips to the park, and on and on and on.  Not to mention the special needs of our two-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeated every demand until he knew without a doubt he held our full attention.

I simply did not have the energy to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the 8 and 5-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt like the world’s worse grandma.

But eventually my mature self kicked in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.

Many highlights brightened the week, like the morning Paige and I spent outdoors building a fairy house. Her idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house.

At one point, Paige turned to me, totally serious, and said, “I have to tell you something, Grandma. Fairies aren’t real.”

“Oh?” I responded, waiting for what would come next.

“But I think God could make some fairies if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he probably could,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”

Yes, Paige, I do wish that.

And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma.

The kids were glad to see their parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was encouraged when Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”

All that makes me smile in memory. Our relationships are different now, appropriately so. Paige is a sophomore in Western Oregon University, majoring in theater, putting her imagination to good use. We drive over once a month to take her out to lunch. I delight in her wisdom as a young adult and in the person she’s becoming.

Our son is now a grandpa himself. We love watching our great-grandchildren as babies, knowing we will probably only have a peripheral role in their lives. Our grown kids get to be the grandparents; it’s their turn.

And that’s the way it should be.

Destination walk--Camassia Nature Preserve

 On Friday I took a break from my routine of writing, editing, keeping up the apartment, reading and etc. Hal and I got out of town and walked the trail at Camassia Nature Preserve.

Every month the retirement community organizes “destination walks,” hikes in one of the many wilderness areas or nature preserves that abound here in the Willamette Valley. These walks are for the hardier residents, those who exercise regularly and have a certain level of energy. And who like to spend time outdoors.

I confess I’m on the borderline of being in this group as I grapple with issues that tend to rob me of energy. But I want to belong to the hardy club and I love being outdoors and away from the ordinariness of every day. So Hal and I decided to try it. This was one of the easier of the walks, being a loop of only a mile. We thought I could manage that and were willing to give it a try. (Normally my dizziness kicks in after a quarter of a mile.)

We grabbed our walking sticks and a small backpack with water and my notebook, then joined the group of about 15 people in front of the bus. Since we were among the last to sign up, there was no room on the bus, and we went with our friends in their car. The park was about an hour’s drive away.

Camassia Nature Preserve is a 26-acre natural area located on the outskirts of West Linn, part of greater Portland. It’s managed by The Nature Conservancy, a non-profit international environmental organization. Its name comes from the common camas, a purple wildflower of the lily family that blooms throughout the northwest in the spring. We were there just past the peak season when we were told that the purple blooms covered the meadow in regal splendor. Even though the flowers now only bloomed here and there in patches, they were beautiful.

 

They weren’t alone. We saw abundant buttercups, fringecups, thimbleberry blossoms, wild roses, and many small blooms I couldn’t name. The area is home to more than 300 types of plant species.

The one-mile loop is a narrow trail that winds through forest and brushland. From the viewpoint we looked down on the 205 freeway with the Willamette River and Oregon City off in the distance. Other than that view, we were in the silence of nature, away from the city. Several trails spur off the loop, one leading to a longer trail through a wilderness area. I’d love to come back and walk that trail.

A large part of the destination walk is the community of walkers and the friendships that develop. Some walk faster than others, which is to be expected. I’m not in the slowest group, but definitely more toward that end. But every one looks out for everyone else, and a designated walker brings up the end of the line. In this case it was the fitness director of the retirement community. I’m slow, not just because of my dizziness, but because I like to stop and look around me—or down at the side of the path where the tiniest flowers grow.

 

                                    Camas and buttercups

                                    Thimbleberry blossom

Viewpoint--Mt. Hood

Madrona tree

    I feel proud of myself for going on this walk. I confess I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately, partly because of lack of sleep and little energy (another subject). Motivation to get out and mingle is at low ebb and I’ve spent many days in my apartment, reading, watching movies, looking out the window and playing computer solitaire (another confession). Even in the middle of a slump, I know it’s temporary, that I’ll come out of it given time and a dash of discipline.

I also know that one way to be proactive, even when I don’t feel like it, is to get out in nature. Trees are the best listeners and therapists I know. The wind in the leaves gives such good advice. Wildflowers encourage me. And walking a trail with friends is a sure prescription for a healthy spirit.

I think I’ll join the June destination walk to the Willamette Mission State Park. You come, too!

Still open to dazzle

 None of us want to become obsolete, although it does seem at times that life is passing us by. New discoveries, new songs, new fashions, new ways of being in the world surround us. And our kids and grandkids get it. Take an obvious example—technology. I love what my computer does for me and I’ve explored the Internet, to a certain extent. But when something goes wrong or when I need help to find something out there in cyberspace, I have to call on my grandson. Because he knows. I don’t.

And I’m glad for it. Those of us with grown kids and grandkids want them to be able to surpass us. We want them to travel down roads we didn’t know existed. We gladly pass the torch to the next generation and ask them for help when we need it. We’re glad for all that, aren’t we? At least most of the time.

My kids have gone beyond me in many areas, including spiritually. The image of the old wise elder going on before, showing the way, is maybe sort of true. But not completely. Both my son and my daughter are experiencing spiritual discovery and growth that almost seem exponential. Some of the grandkids are following the same path. It delights us, their parents. It also makes us somewhat nostalgic.

I remember in our young adult years, and even up into middle age, all that we were discovering and experiencing about the work of the Holy Spirit, spiritual gifts, ministries of healing, and so on. We believed in miracles and prayed huge fantastic prayers. We became lost in the wonder of worship. It was beyond exciting.

Oh, we came down for air often. Life on the spiritual heights is not sustainable for long periods of time. But the mountain of new spiritual experience was there and we were believers.

We did, indeed, suffer a few extremes that needed tempering. I remember a book a small group of us were reading about the ministry of exorcism, new territory for us. I believe the title of the book was Pigs in the Parlor, and it focused on demonic activity even in local churches. It taught us our authority in Christ and how to cast out demons.

Sound scary? It was. But we took it all to heart and began to practice, first of all on each other. We discovered new freedom from fears and traumas from the past. But I think we took the whole thing too far. For a time, we were finding and casting out demons everywhere.

For me, it all came to a stop one afternoon on the Bolivian altiplano. We were participating in a small church gathering of rural believers. The teacher, a local pastor and good friend of ours, was giving an early afternoon sermon. A little old lady, sitting on the ground in the front row, had gone to sleep. A normal thing for an older person to do after lunch. But Pastor Germán wasn’t going to put up with it. So, in a loud voice that startled the poor lady awake, he cast out the demon of sleep.

At that moment something popped in my brain. “This is ridiculous!” I said to myself. And it was. That dear woman was no more demon possessed than the blanket she sat on. From that point on, Hal and I began to pull back and apply some rationality and common sense to all that we had been learning and experiencing.

Now in my latter years, I find that I still believe in a God who heals. I even believe in the ages-old Christian ministry of exorcism when that’s appropriate and necessary. I still believe in miracles, but I prefer the more hidden everyday kind, the ones you miss unless you’re very attentive.

But our kids are on a different path of discovery and I think they’re traveling with more wisdom than we had. And, like I said, it all makes me a little nostalgic. Excitement is fun, if you have the energy for it.

A few months ago, I was preparing for a doctor’s appointment. My doctor had been experimenting with different drugs to help alleviate the condition I had been suffering [see last week’s blog]. I wrote this “Pre-Appointment Prayer,” wrestling with some of my faith/healing/miracles questions.

Pre-Appointment Prayer

I used to think miracle meant
water to wine,
weather control on a massive scale,
taking tea on the lake without benefit of a boat.
In order to be legitimate,
miracle had to thunder, blaze,
astonish and dumbfound.
Nothing short of amazing would do.

Now my imagination has simmered down
and my prayers for healing
are less demanding. I’m willing
for miracle to mean the discovery
of a medication that helps.
I’m OK with a lightening
of the symptoms without knowing
the causes. Mild miracles might
be within faith’s grasp these days.

In other words, I’m willing to settle.
But, and please hear this,
I’m open to dazzle.

Willing to settle but open to miracle. That’s me these days. I wonder if my tempered spirituality is a sign of a wise old age. Or is it a signal that I need a new out-pouring of the Holy Spirit? Or maybe both?

I do know that I’m not willing to settle for obsolete. Maybe it’s time to follow my kids.

On being a medical experiment

 With the help of Google Maps, we found our way to the large medical complex in a neighboring city. Our destination—the cancer center of the medical research university that is overseeing my treatment for vestibular migraine. No, I don’t have cancer, but having to get my infusion in the cancer center impressed me with a sense of gravity.

This was the latest chapter in the medical experiments I’m undergoing to find, if not a cure, some relief from the dizziness and head pressure that have been pestering me for about ten years. That seems like a long time, but hope holds steady. Having a sympathetic doctor willing to try anything helps.

I entered the center, checked in, and a nurse led me to a long open room set up with what looked like large dental chairs. About 15 of them. She told me to pick my chair, so I chose one facing a window with a view of trees. Trees always comfort me and give me courage. This experiment would not be via pills or injections, but rather an IV infusion directly into the blood stream. 

But let me back up. Several years back when I began complaining about my dizziness, my primary care physician began putting me through a series of tests and referring me to numerous specialists. Over a period of three years, I had an MRI, CT scan, x-rays of my carotid arteries, sleep apnea test, and other tests I can’t remember. Specialists included a neurologist; ear, nose, and throat guy; audiologist, allergist; sleep doctor; and physical therapist. The physical therapist was the most helpful; she told me that although she couldn’t do anything about the dizziness, she could give me good balance strategies. It worked; I have yet to fall. But each of these tests and specialists came to the same conclusion—we find nothing wrong with you.

At the end of this period, my PCP told me, “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong and there’s nothing more I can do to help you.” She gave up. I secretly wondered if she and all the other specialists had come to the conclusion that there really was nothing wrong with me, that I was a highly imaginative hypochondriac. I began wondering that myself.

So I changed health-care plans and found a new doctor in a university research hospital, a neurologist who specializes in headaches and dizziness. (I had had no idea such a doctor existed.) Having access to all my medical records, she was able to diagnose me during our first virtual consultation. This was during the height of the pandemic; I didn’t get to meet her in person for a year. 

It felt wonderful to have a doctor who believed me and took my symptoms seriously. And it felt wonderful to finally have a name for this thing—vestibular migraine. (I had had no idea that such a condition existed.) She told me that there was as of yet no known cure for this type of migraine, but that researchers and drug companies were working on it. Would I like to become part of the experimentation? My treatments and their results would be entered into a research database and, hopefully, we would find something that would help me. Yes! I absolutely would like to participate. I was tired of being passive. And maybe I could help other people.

So began my new life as a medical experiment. That was three years ago and I’m still contributing to that database. The first treatment was several months of vitamin and mineral therapy; I really wanted that one to work, but I perceived no improvement. That has been followed by 11 different drug experiments, each one taking several months. The second drug, Lamotrigine, actually helped reduce the intensity of the symptoms and I continue taking a small dose every morning. But it’s not enough, so the experiments continue. The actual drug list is impressive and (to me) funny. Here it is (please free to skim this sentence): Rizatriptan, Lamotrigine, Verapamil, Amigriptyline, Gabepentin, Memantine, Cyproheptadine, Meclizine, Emgality, Amiovig, and Eptinezamab. Are you as impressed as I am? Most of these are not primarily aimed at migraines but are sometimes found helpful. For example, the Lamotrigine I’m still on is used mainly for epilepsy and bi-polar syndrome. 

The last three drugs are relatively new and used exclusively for migraine sufferers. This last year I have been on extensive experiments with Emgality and Aimovig. I’m proud of myself as they both required that I give myself a monthly injection in the stomach, something I never thought I’d be able to do. But I learned to do it without trauma. 

The good news is that none of these scary sounding drugs had any adverse effects. The bad new is that they had no good effects either. After each experiment, I had to say that I felt no change for the better. In fact, my condition seems to be getting more intense with time.

So now, there I was in the cancer hospital, sitting in the huge chair, looking out at the trees, and wondering if this next experiment was going to be the ONE. The IV infusion took half an hour, then I sat there another hour to make sure there were no adverse reactions. And then Hal and I drove home. That was two weeks ago. This infusion will last for three months, and then I am to repeat it. So far—no reactions. But no change either. The nurse said that it might take time to see if this would prove to be helpful. (Where have I heard that before?)

In my last office visit I asked my beloved doctor what advances the research was making. Such an honest woman, she responded that because my condition is relatively rare, it has a low priority ranking. Most investigation is focused on diseases like cancer or Alzheimer’s. That makes sense, although it’s not personally encouraging. No advances have been made, she told me.

Still, I’m glad she wants to experiment. We will find something that helps you, she says. She gives me hope.

But my hope is becoming more tempered by realism. After so many experiments, I’m not so expectant that with this new infusion my life will turn around and I’ll be able to skip into old age without getting dizzy. I don’t think I’m becoming cynical. Realistic might be a better word. But it may be that one day I’ll just decide to stop the experiments.

And, of course, I take note of all the good people, with chronic conditions much worse than mine, who carry them until they die. 

So I’ve decided to just keep saying thank you. Not for my migraines. Not for the drugs that don’t work. I not thankful for any of that. But just thank you. Just thank you.

Thank you thank you thank you. Over and over. Yes yes yes to whatever you permit. Repeat  repeat repeat.

I’m no kind of holy experiment to God. God doesn’t need research to discover what’s best for me. I’m his beloved daughter.

We’ll see what happens in the next few months. I wouldn’t mind putting all this dizzy stuff behind me.

But in the meantime, I have more than enough to be thankful for.

Thank you thank you thank you.

Too much chicken gumbo

 I admit it. I don’t like to cook. I did okay when the kids were at home, but now that I’m retired, I really would rather leave this part of life behind. But I live in an independent-living apartment here in the retirement community, complete with a kitchen. We eat most of our meals in the apartment. That means a certain amount of cooking. Hal fixes breakfast, while I try to figure out lunch and dinner. We go downstairs to eat in the community dining room as often as we can.

One way I cope with cooking here at home is every few weeks to fix a big pot of soup or a large casserole, then freeze portions for future meals. A few weeks ago, I cooked a large pot of modified chicken gumbo soup (modified because I substitute corn for okra, not being an okra fan). It’s pretty tasty. I fixed enough for six meals, which is probably two too many, but the freezer looks well stocked.

The following night I dreamed I made a kettle-full of chicken gumbo, enough for 20 people. It was for a church potluck. After I lugged the kettle to the church, I discovered the event had been cancelled. So there I was, with ten gumbo meals. Did I want all that? No. In fact I totally lost my taste for chicken gumbo. So much so that I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth.

The dream was not really about chicken gumbo. And it was not a message from God. My sub-conscious was drudging up a fear it thought I should face. Dreams do that sometimes. This one was about me as a writer.

I’ve been writing magazine columns and blogs for over 40 years. I’ve generally been well received. When I read back over all this stuff (and there’s a lot!), I actually like most of it and don’t want it to die. So I got an idea. I would gather the best reflections and stories and see if I could publish a collection.

After the initial enthusiasm for the project, my inner hidden critic sat up and smirked. “You were younger when you wrote all that,” he reminded me. “Your fans are all dead. No one knows you now. No living person could possibly be interested. Besides, you’re not that great a writer.”

The critic even gets biblical, quoting Ecclesiastes: “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh” (12:12). “Give it up, Nancy,” he continues to goad. “Be retired. Really retired. Read books. Watch movies. Just sit there and relax.” These are genuine temptations.

What the dream tells me is that I suspect (fear) that I’ve made too much literary chicken gumbo. And left in the okra.

Self-doubt is a temptation for many writers and artists, not just us introverts. I’ve dealt with this all my life.

But it’s not just writers, artists, and musicians. I think it’s a common temptation of the elderly to look back and doubt the value of their life’s work. Perhaps not all the time, and probably not all older people struggle with this. But I’ve observed that it’s fairly common. “Was it all worth it? What have I actually done with my life? Am I leaving behind a legacy worth passing on? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone?”

Some observations: 1) Becoming a mature person is a life-time prospect; it doesn’t stop when we become 70. 2) Part of maturity is coming to terms with our past, knowing that in spite of the inevitable mistakes and unmet goals, God can take what we’ve offered to him and bless it for his ongoing purposes. 3) Our ultimate value comes from being God’s beloved sons and daughters. 4) Our legacy is in God’s hands.

I’m writing to myself here, reminding myself of what I thought I already knew. I need a lot of reminders. 

Even after I’m dead. Hal and I arranged to have this engraved on our memorial plaque: “May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish, Thou, the work of our hands” (Psalm 92:17).

I think I’ll go ahead and publish that collection of past reflections and stories.

In the meantime, I’d be glad to share my chicken gumbo with you. I’ve lots of it.

“Let’s do lunch, Mom.”—The elderly and their families, Part 2

 In my previous blog, I quoted geriatrician Louise Aronson giving the “recipe” for a good old age: “good genes, good luck, enough money, and one good kid, usually a daughter.” I told the story of me trying to be a good daughter to my elderly parents.

I now find myself in the elderly role with grown kids, grandkids, and a few tiny greats. I have the blessing of two “good kids.” Proximity helps. My son David lives in the same town and my daughter Kristin lives in a town a couple of hours down the freeway. Hal and I live here in the retirement community. Part of our decision to move into the community at a relatively young/old age (early 70s) was specifically for our kids, not wanting them to have to take care of us when we got to the place of not being able to care for ourselves. I’ll admit that the options of fighting through to a glorious independence on my own or living semi-independently in a grandparent suite in the back of a kid’s big house both make me wistful at times. I wonder if we made the right decision.  But, yes, we did.

I also wondered when we moved here how our relationships with our family would change. Would this move free them up to ignore us and get on with their lives? Would they no longer feel the need to concern themselves with our challenges and struggles? This situation really does happen to some.

But, thanks be to God, it did not happen to us. Our relationship with our kids, their spouses, and our grandkids, is growing. It’s different, having taken on more of the hues of friendship, although we’ll always be parents. They’re all glad to know Hal and I are well taken care of. There’s sense of freedom, now that obligation and duty are out of the way. While still with its challenges, relationship is a choice.

In the future, the role of my kids will be more important and they will participate in decisions about changes in healthcare, for example when we need to move to a new level of assisted living. That’s a major decision and a huge change in life-style; family involvement is crucial. I hope we’re smart enough to give up driving at an appropriate time, but if we’re not, I’m sure they’ll be instrumental in persuading us to take that step.

I don’t take any of this for granted, knowing our blessing is not the experience of many of my friends. I’ve noticed in this community there are all sorts of ways the elderly and their families relate. Families and human relationships are complex.

My friend Mary (not her real name) is today moving from her apartment in my independent-living neighborhood down to an assisted living unit. Her decision surprised me, as it seemed so sudden. But it makes sense, following her recent health challenges. I remember when she moved here a few years ago. I remember her sons carrying in furniture and boxes. And I remember their frequent visits since then and the concern and love they always expressed. Mary tells me her sons were instrumental in helping her make this decision. They’ve been here this past week, packing boxes, not letting her do anything. And they’re here today, moving all her stuff downstairs to her new room. Seeing this makes me happy; Mary deserves it.

Not everyone gets what they deserve. Some of my friends have “good kids” that live far away. They keep up relationships through phone calls, photos, and vacation visits. Still, it’s not the same as living close. Several people in my neighborhood have left the community to move closer to family. It’s that important.

Some people have kids that live within reasonable distance but whose lives are so busy they rarely see their parents. I notice that some in our neighborhood hardly ever get visits.

And then there are those who are estranged from their kids for one reason or another. This is the hardest to deal with. How people respond to this heartache depends partly on personality. One neighbor is bitter about her daughter’s neglect, blaming her daughter and taking on the role of victim. Her complaints make it hard for people to be with her. I constantly need to pray for compassion and patience. 

Another neighbor, although saddened by her son’s neglect, doesn’t let it rule her life. Her optimism and out-going personality draw people to her and she abounds in friendships. But the sadness and longing for reconciliation are still strong.

One resident literally has no family. No living brother and sisters, apparently no cousins. She never had kids. She has no living blood relative. Janice is a quiet woman and often just keeps to her room. Yet she communicates such a sense of peace and well-being. Her room is decorated with her paintings and crafts, plus numerous pictures of cats, one of her passions. She has a few close friends here in the community and they regularly share meals. Another young friend from her past has adopted Janice as an aunt. She’s making a family on her own.

Being part of a family is a need that doesn’t diminish as we age. In our neighborhood here in the retirement community, we’ve cultivated caring relationships and have learned to call each other family. We have a buddy system for checking up on each other. It’s not perfect, but what family is?

I’ve just read a novel by Jennifer Ryan called The Kitchen Front, based on a real BBC radio program in England during World War II. The program presented recipes using only the war-rations housewives received. In a cooking contest the BBC held, the four contestants started out as fierce competitors but through unusual circumstances ended up as friends. They learned to consider themselves family. One of the women, Gwendoline, remarks at the end of the contest, “One thing I’ve learned through this is that family is incredibly precious. Other things may change us, but we start and end life with our family, whether it’s the one we’re born with or one of our own making. It means that you love and are loved, whoever you are…. And you know that you’re not on your own.”

I love the phrase, “the [family] we’re born with or one of our own making.” I recognize as family many people not related to me by blood, most of them closer to me than many of my relatives. I sense the need to be forming this kind of family here in the retirement community. I feel drawn to reach out to those with less-then-perfect family situations and include them in my circle of love.

We all need family, whatever our age. The family we’re born with. Or one of our own making. Or, in a best-case scenario, both.