The dark part of the forest

 I usually know ahead of time what I’m going to blog about, but I began this day with a blank page and a blank mind. All of it reflecting a blank emotional state. Not so black as despair, but neither with a bright degree of hope. I’m comforted in knowing that the Psalms reflect lament almost as much as they do praise.

The thing is—I’m sick of being sick. And I’m not even gravely ill. But several chronic conditions continue to deplete my energy, making any kind of activity cumbersome. I figure I have around two hours a day to express my creativity, then I resort to books, movies, and naps. To some people that might sound like the good life. But not to me.

I’m in process of giving up a leadership role that has brought me delight, as well as an avenue of service. My body is telling me I need to let it pass to someone else, and I’ve chosen to listen, but not without a sense of grief. And I wonder what I’m to let go of next.

My purpose for writing on this blogsite is to explore ways to face the challenges of aging with courage and humor. I include myself in this purpose which is why I use the word explore. My way of working through issues and challenges is through writing. Today my courage is low and I’m not finding anything to laugh about. But I sense that I need to write from the valley as well as from the mountain top.

About 30 years ago, when I was a mere 51 years old, I wrote a poem about my fears of growing older. (At the time, I didn’t realize how young I still was!) I find it still relevant in certain seasons. I borrow from the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale and the phrase “coming unglued.”

Coming of Age

“It's all right,” he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

Grim, no? And a bit strange (like me).

Psalm 31 combines both lament and praise, going back and forth, showing the cyclic nature of our inward life. Mine at least. In lament, David expresses his anguish honestly.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.  (Psalm 31:9-10)

I detect themes of old age, chronic illness, and despair. But David knows where to take it. He cries out to the Lord in complete honestly. Later in the same psalm he writes, you heard my cry for mercy, and he ends the psalm with words to us: Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.

I’ll do that today. I’ll take heart, even as I’m in the middle of the forest of age, going deeper every day. I may meet up with a wicked witch and an enticing gingerbread house. But probably not. I expect I’ll find light for the path, a light that grows brighter and brighter until the day when all is light, beauty, glory, and grace. And I may even have fun on the way.

I’m feeling better already.

Loving the house of the Lord

 Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

That verse warmed me the other morning as I read it, curled up in my chair by the window. Then I asked myself where, exactly, is the Lord’s house. Surely it’s a metaphor for something other than a building. What?

As I thought about it, I realized that the phrase appears numerous times in the Scripture, with various meanings. It’s hard to pinpoint a location or describe its architecture. In one sense, God inhabits the whole earth and the expanse of the heavens. On the other hand, God’s house is used to refer to places where his people gather, be that tabernacle, temple, or local meeting house. “Let us go to the house of the Lord,” is a familiar call to get up on Sunday mornings and go to church.

It then occurred to me that, in a more intimate sense, my body is the house of the Lord. Paul calls it “the temple of the Holy Spirit.” My physical body. Now that thought intrigues me, because my body is no longer young and full of energetic promise. Is it still God’s house, the place where his glory dwells? Am I to love it as such?

Here’s the poem:

Loving the House of the Lord
Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

The Lord owns everything.
He is landlord of the earth.
He inhabits the Sahara Desert,
the Amazon rainforests.
He’s the original man-on-the-moon.
His glory shines scatter-shot
among the stars.
I’m awestruck, but it’s hard
to wrap my emotions around it all
on a regular basis.
My affections are limited.

He is Lord of the places
where his people gather
to sing, learn, eat
and sometimes squabble.
His houses have steeples, altars
and doors that open. And close.
I confess that sometimes
I don’t want to go
to the particular house of the Lord
just down the street.
How can I pretend to love it?

I’m told that my body
is God’s temple.
That if I abide in him
and he abides in me,
glorious possibilities
present themselves.
Come into my heart, Lord Jesus,
I sang as a child. And he did.
Somehow God found enough space
to make himself at home.

And I’m to love his house,
my body. My aging body.
Wrinkles, sags, neuropathy and all.
I’m to love my flesh, my spirit,
my mind, my emotions—
all of which are in some state
of rebellion. Spirit willing, flesh weak
on a daily basis.

Rather than fight it,
I’m to love it.
Treat it with affection.
Drink lots of water,
sleep long and well,
exercise, eat vegetables,
play outside, hug a tree,
hug myself. Laugh out loud.
Say Thank you more often.
Smile when I look in the mirror.
Tell myself, This is where God dwells.

Teach me how, Lord.
And let the glory descend.

Lord, I love the house where you live,
the place where your glory dwells.  Psalm 26:8

Some really good stuff

 I’ve been spending time cleaning up my files. Sounds grim but I actually enjoying sorting, organizing, and, especially, tossing outdated papers, realizing that I don’t really need all those photo-copied handouts for a class I once taught and might again someday, but in all honesty, probably won’t. It feels good to throw it out.

I find that information that was once important no longer is: those recipes that I thought I’d try out but never did, letters from former students that no one else will ever want to read, summaries of books I once liked, a stack of publicity fliers for a book I wrote several years ago, song sheets, beautiful bird pictures, and on it goes. It might be initially hard to part with the bird pictures, but if I grit my teeth and just do it, I end up feeling better. It’s all part of downsizing, of trying to make life less complicated for my kids when someday it all goes to them to make the what-to-do-with-all-this decisions.

Most of my files are moderately well organized and alphabetized. They make sense to me and I can usually find what I need. But my intuitive brain can only handle so much logic and alphabetized organization. So I’ve developed some special folders for those items I don’t know how to categorize. It could be a good quote I heard on the evening news, a funny poem I found in the newspaper (often anonymous), a Reader’s Digest story—items that made me laugh, touched my spirit, inspired me to do some research, or broadened my perspective on a subject I was interested in. Items I don’t want to forget and lose, but just didn’t know where to file.

So here’s my system: I have files folders with the following titles: Stuff, More Stuff, Good Stuff, Really Good Stuff 1, Really Good Stuff 2, and Stuff To Think About. I realize that probably wouldn’t work for everyone, but it does for me. It lets my whimsical side tease my rational well-organized side, and the two end up getting along better together.

Every once in a while, I take out one of my Stuff folders and just go through it. I find ideas for poems or articles, illustrations for talks, funny memories, great ideas—in short, scads of snippets and tidbits. I love snippets and tidbits. So I’m going to share some of what I found today in one folder, the one simply labeled “Stuff.” 

*Here’s a news item that appeared in April of 1997 (sent to me in an email from a friend):

“Earlier this year, the dazed crew of a Japanese trawler was plucked out of the Sea of Japan clinging to the wreckage of their sunken ship. Their rescue, however, was followed by immediate imprisonment once authorities questioned the sailors on their ship’s loss. To a man they claimed that a cow, falling out of a clear blue sky, had struck the trawler amidships, shattering its hull and sinking the vessel within minutes.

“They remained in prison for several weeks, until the Russian Air Force reluctantly informed Japanese authorities that the crew of one of its cargo planes had apparently stolen a cow wandering at the edge of a Siberian airfield, forced the cow into the plane’s hold and hastily taken off for home.

“Unprepared for live cargo, the Russian crew was ill-equipped to manage a now rampaging cow within its hold. To save the aircraft and themselves, they shoved the animal out of the cargo hold as they crossed the Sea of Japan at an altitude of 30,000 feet.”

Not so good for the cow, but the confession freed the innocent Japanese prisoners. 

*I found a one-page book review for a volume called Oxymoronica: Paradoxical Wit and Wisdom from History’s Greatest Wordsmiths by Mardy Grothe. It looked good, so I just ordered the book on Kindle and am enjoying it now. A few of the choice oxymorons from the introduction: “The best cure for insomnia is to get lots of sleep” (W.C. Fields); “I am deeply superficial” (Ava Gardner); “Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else” (Margaret Mead).

*Here’s a gift idea: give someone an empty jar and say, “Here. I’m giving you space.”

*Some conversation starters (if you’re desperate):
--Coca-Cola was originally green.
--Barbie’s measurements if she were life size: 39-23-33.
--Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
--A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, and no one knows why.
--It is possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs.
--The youngest pope was 11 years old.
--The phrase “rule of thumb” is derived from an old English law which stated that you couldn’t beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.
--An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.

*Here’s how poet William Stafford answered the question, “What do you do about writer’s block?” He answered, “I lower my standards.”

*A definition of the manger: “a feeding trough large enough to contain the Bread of Life.”

That’s probably enough stuff for one day. I’m afraid I haven’t reduced the volume of my Stuff file today. What would I throw away? When I’m too old to laugh (which will be never, I hope), I’ll just let my great grandchildren deal with it.