Too old for amazement?

 Usually I know by Monday what I’m going to blog about and I have it ready to post on Tuesday morning. Usually, but not always. Yesterday I had all these ideas I was juggling—old feet, diets, old hair, and hope—but I kept dropping the balls. So I left it to this morning and, sure enough, a text message from my daughter told me what I needed to write about.

She has just returned from a retreat on the Holy Spirit—which was amazing, she tells me. And she is currently in a professional conference on her area of service (visual impairment), and she reports that it is also amazing. Our son just reported on an amazing trip to Mexico, and he’s enthusiastic about an upcoming trip to Guatemala. God is doing such good things in both their lives that amazement is the right word. We see God answering our prayers for our kids above and beyond what we imagined.

But this morning as I read her message, I felt the contrast between the amazement that seems to define their lives and the sheer ordinariness of my life at the moment. It’s not that I’m jealous of my kids; it’s just that the contrast is interesting.

Not that I’m opposed to ordinariness. Quite the opposite. I think of the spirituality of Brother Lawrence—sensing God in the ordinary. Some of my favorite books have ordinary in their titles: The Sacred Ordinary, Ordinary Grace, etc., etc. I’ve defined my life mission as “seeing and expressing the grace of God found in the ordinariness of life.” That’s what my poetry is all about. Living here in the retirement community, peace and ordinariness are to be the tone of my lifestyle.

But when is ordinary just too ordinary?

Am I too old for amazement?

Amazement is an interesting word. In Old English the verb form meant “to confuse, stupefy, bewilder.” The earliest use in modern English (12^th-13^th century) meant “to stun, confound, bewilder, put into confusion.” But over time the meaning has shifted to what we mean today when we say, “I was amazed!” We mean, “I was filled with wonder or astonishment.” The negative has become positive.

I remember times as a youth or young adult (which means any age under 60) when I was filled with a joyful wonder that made me lift my arms, jump up, run around, and hug strangers. And I had the bodily energy to do all that. That wasn’t my normal life, of course, but times of a heavenly fire in my bones added that spark that made life exciting.

Any more, a fire in my bones sounds painful. Mild arthritis is hard enough to handle.

I do experience moments of amazement in worship. But if the music is too loud, the congregation too bodily enthusiastic, I get dizzy, and all I want is to escape to some quiet place. More and more I appreciate silent worship that lets my body relax. Of course, if I get too relaxed, I go to sleep. Oh well.

I experience wonder when I walk in the woods, stand by the ocean, or gaze into the heart of a rose. It’s a quiet wonder and I’m not sure it reaches the level of amazement. But maybe that doesn’t matter.

I’m thinking now of some recent grace sightings that have filled me with gentle wonder: the delighted look on my friend’s face when she turned around and saw me; the sight of my one-year-old great grandson discovering his first puddle; a poem that moved my spirit, made me say “Yes!;” the taste of an orange; Vivaldi’s “Summer Season;” soft sheets; a picnic with just Hal and me, splurging on hamburgers. All grace.

Still, I admit to a longing for more. I wouldn’t mind being so filled with wonder I tremble with joy for days afterward. Could my body take it? I hope so. Maybe. Or do I have to wait until heaven?

In the meantime (which is more kind than mean), I’ll forego the fire in my bones for a candle in the window. And a gentle amazement.