AI is older than it seems

 I confess to using AI (artificial intelligence) and finding it helpful. I’m at a basic level, using only the free ChatGPT and I have no ambitions of getting more complex. I’m nervous about the future and the rumors I hear of this technology “taking over the world,” although that sounds like exaggeration. But it’s been helpful in finding out more about my medical condition, possible healthy diets, and which publications are accepting poetry submissions. Stuff like that.

But I get angry when it reads my email and tells me how to answer, when it offers to rewrite my blog and make it funnier, when it intimates that it’s a better poet than I am.

Recently when I asked AI to solve a computer problem, it comforted me in my distress, promising that there was a solution and I just needed to have faith. It sounded like a pastor. A human pastor. I found myself feeling better and then had to remind myself that it was a machine. I’m resisting having a personal relationship with AI. 

I’m committed to not using AI in my writing. I won’t ask it to improve a blog reflection or edit a poem. Even if I find myself rewriting a messy first draft numerous times, it’s my creativity at stake. For me, it’s an issue of integrity and honesty.

Recently I was reminded that something artificial offering to do my work for me is not a new phenomenon. It didn’t begin with AI. The temptation to find a substitute for the hard labor of personal creativity is older than I am, whether it’s preaching someone else’s sermon, having someone ghost-write a book for me, cheating on a term paper, or, in general, taking credit for work someone else did.

The following example is 30-years-old, coming from the time I was studying in seminary. It involves writing letters. Most of us are old enough to remember this now largely forgotten art. Even though letter-writing is almost obsolete, this story serves as an example of the same thing that AI offers us today.

The envelope pricked my curiosity. “Cut your letter-writing task down to size,” it announced. “A new tool for busy pastors!” The glossy full-color brochure showed a firm masculine hand signing a letter, the whole scene bathed in a warm light. It looked promising.

I’m a sucker for books or courses dedicated to helping people write. I know that putting the right words on paper or in the computer is hard work, and anything that helps me understand the process and move with it, instead of against it, I appreciate. This brochure promised to link ministry with writing and make it all easier—a good idea.

But as I read through the brochure and accompanying propaganda, my curiosity gradually gave way to incredulity.

This Christian communications company was offering a set of “Over 300 letters!” in a “leather-like” binder, so that the busy pastor no longer need “waste valuable time and energy agonizing over words and phrases.” Each ready-to-use letter was guaranteed to be “sensitive, thoughtful and effective.” Occasional alternative phrases would allow the pastor to pick the one “that sounds most like you.”

The collection of canned letters covered “virtually every situation you can face in the church.” Rather than stumble under the burdens of ministry, the brochure promised that, “You’ll breeze through situations like these and hundreds more!” and proceeded to list a sampling. Some of the situations the pastor would be able to breeze through included

--kindly asking a neighbor not to park in the church parking lot
--supporting members going through a separation or divorce  
--declining a job applicant for a staff position
--informing a contributor that their check was returned by the bank for insufficient funds
--saying good-bye to a congregation.

A sample letter included with the brochure was on the topic, “Condolence on Death of a Newborn.” “Dear Name,” it began. “While I tried to be of comfort to you at the funeral, I now feel impelled to add a few more personal words….”

At that point I felt impelled to stop reading. I was both sad and angry.

In the following weeks, the brochure continued to trouble me.

It may be that behind that product were some well-meaning, creative people who really wanted to help ministers wade through the clutter, details, and accumulation of things that never get done. Communications to church members are probably among those things. And writing does not come easily or naturally to most people.

The idea appeals to some of our middle-class cultural values. The words “fast,” “effective,” “risk-free,” “fully satisfied,” “in a fraction of the time,” and “productive” illustrate the value of minimum effort for maximum output—so the pastor can spend her time in more important ways. Certainly a minister of God has better things to do than “agonize over words and phrases.”

The words “personal” and “sensitive” also crop up to demonstrate other values, values with which any Christian should agree. The problem is, of course, that there is nothing genuinely personal, thoughtful, or sensitive about these letters. There’s nothing genuine about them at all. Rather they are carefully crafted to give the appearance of being personal and caring, so that the congregation will “deeply appreciate and remember for years” this ministry.

I’m bothered by two things. The first is the focus on appearance and impression. We live in a culture that builds a large share of its economy on products that promise to make us seem tanner, smoother, slimmer, blonder, wiser, wittier, and more in control of our lives than we really are. As the church in the midst of this culture, we also struggle with the temptation to compromise integrity, to settle for a form of godliness that denies its power. Effective communication and efficiency in meeting goals can crowd out compassion or integrity. It’s as though it’s more important to convey a strong impression of love rather than make the effort to walk and talk and laugh and cry with people, to “rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.”

I’m also bothered by the assumption that “agonizing over words and phrases” is a waste of time. Pain is not efficient. Struggling to identify with hurting people, to help bear their burdens can be messy. It takes time. Words don’t always flow when we’re crying.

But what other kind of words dare we offer a young couple who has lost a child?

And now AI is offering us the same “service.”

God help us be wise in choosing what is useful and rejecting what compromises integrity and compassion.

 

[ Parts of this reflection first appeared in “Quaker Life,” April 1998, and will be part of a soon-to-be-published collection of essays called “The Richest Kid on the Block.”]

Does God Have Bones?

“Does God have bones?”
David asked me that today, Lord,
and I couldn’t answer him.
Well—do you?
Have bones I mean.
His question was serious, you know.
He wants to know who and how you are.
And where, too.
And if you’re like us.
I don’t always know.

Bones?
You did have bones once, didn’t you?
Bones and muscles and fingernails
that collected dirt, feet that tired
from miles on dusty roads
and hands that bloodied
from driven nails.
You became like us, didn’t you?

Thank you for reminding me.
Now I know the answer.
Tomorrow I’ll tell David again
that old old story
that even a child can understand.
About a God who filled his lungs
with earth air, tasted bread,
listened to cricket song at night,
held other four-year-olds
on his lap and personally
answered their questions.
About a God who loves so much
he put on bones
and more, much more.

Tomorrow I’ll tell him.

[Note: This poem was first published in the collection “Of Deity and Bones,” 1983.] 

Doing the hard stuff

 People who give advice to older people (and there are dozens of these advice-givers!) all say that in order to keep our brains healthy and functioning, we need to take on challenging tasks. Here in the retirement community, the staff makes available crossword puzzles, sudoku, and other games that can be challenging, along with all sorts of educational programs.

And not just our minds, we also need to challenge our bodies to keep them flexible, strong, and out of trouble for as long as possible.

And we need to stretch and engage in new activities. That’s the formula: New+Hard. Or at least hard enough. For our minds and for our bodies.

I’m taking this seriously and adopting two hard tasks, activities that are causing me to stretch. Also causing me to doubt myself, to wonder if I’m crazy. I probably am, but I accepted that about me long ago.

I’ll start with the physical. With my vestibular migraine condition, any physical activity makes me dizzy. So for the last half-year I have stopped exercising, except for walking outdoors, which I do slowly and with frequent stops. But that’s not enough. While exercise makes me dizzy, it doesn’t harm me. And the rest of my body wants me to do more. I’m worried that I’m deteriorating, which only means growing old faster. So I’m making some changes, doing some new stuff.

I’ve joined a class called “Sit and Be Fit.” It sounds embarrassingly easy, so I’ve resisted. But I think it will be a good way to gently work my way back into regular exercise. I’ve discovered that it’s actually somewhat challenging. I’m moving my arms and legs, swiveling my neck, and even stretching my fingers. Plus, it’s with a fun group of people. That’s part of a good exercise program. It’s good, but not too challenging.

I’ve joined another exercise group that is challenging. I’m in a beginning Tai Chi class. I always admired people who do Tai Chi. Slow and graceful, it seems like underwater dancing and meditation rolled into one. But can I do it? I’m not sure I’m physically graceful enough.

Doubts aside, I’ve joined the beginner’s class and we’re learning the “mother forms”—how to raise and lower our arms, how to move around an imaginary beach ball, how to move to the side and back, how to coordinate arms and legs and breathing as we slowly walk forward. Coordination, balance, and movement. And breathing in at the right time, breathing out at the right time. I’m border-line dyslexic and mix up things like right/left and anything involved in bodily coordination, so I’m finding this challenging. I’m trying to squelch any embarrassment at how I look to others as I awkwardly try to follow the leader. I’m hoping that with enough repetitions, my body memory will kick in and I’ll start having fun.

This is my new bodily challenge and I plan to stick with it. (But check with me in a month.)

(Aside: I met my friend Marshall last week and told him I was trying Tai Chi. He smiled and told me he much preferred Chai Tea. Now I tend to mix up the terms, but it helps to laugh when you’re doing hard stuff.)

Now for the mind. I read that one good exercise for the mind is learning a new language. I love languages and have had the chance to learn several, including biblical Greek and Hebrew back in my seminary days. I was pretty good at it, but then jobs, and kids, and real life kicked in and I did not keep up my biblical language skills. The cliché, “If you don’t use it, you lose it,” is usually true.

I certainly lost my Hebrew skills, but I retained enough Greek to use the exegetical tools in Bible study. But at a very basic level. For a long time, I’ve wished I had kept it up to the level I could again read the New Testament in Greek. It seemed too ambitious a dream and I’ve let it go.

Until now. I met a resident here in the retirement community who was (and is) a classical Greek scholar. We had a very enthusiastic conversation over lunch and I felt motivated to re-learn biblical Greek. It’s amazing what one fortuitous encounter can do.

It’s certainly a little-by-little project. I got out my Greek Bible, the lexicons, and grammar books, and arranged them on the shelf above my desk. I discovered an online resource in archives.com that gives me access to the same beginning Greek textbook I used in seminary. The familiarity helps. I’m going through the text lesson by lesson, starting with the Greek alphabet. Along with the text, I’m focusing on particular passages in the New Testament, re-learning to read them.

I hadn’t remembered how complicated Greek was, or how many irregular verbs existed. I’m impressed at what a smart young woman I must have been to have learned all that. Now it’s not so quick or easy. I struggle to memorize verb tenses and vocabulary words. At least now no professor is going to test me or push me to learn faster. I have to encourage myself with going slowly and enjoying the journey.

And I do enjoy it. I’m having fun. And hopefully stretching my mind and making new brain cells.

I’d better bring this to a close. It’s almost time for my Chai Tea class.

The Stones Talk It Over

 I didn’t post my usual blog yesterday, according to my plan to post every other week. But it just didn’t feel right. So I came up with a new plan. I’ll post my reflections on aging every other week, then on the “off week” I’ll post a poem. I’ve plenty to choose from. I may even give you a sneak preview of my upcoming poetry book, Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation.

So, here goes this week’s poem: 

The Stones Talk It Over
. . . if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out. —Luke 19:40

All was quiet
on the street
and in the city hall.
Why are they silent?
a small rock asked
a boulder.
Why don’t the people
praise God?
Don’t they see
what we do?
Doesn’t the light
from the northern skies
strike wonder,
ignite fire
in their bones
as it does in ours?

Beats me,
said the boulder.
Let’s sing.

 

[This scene is part of the Palm Sunday story when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the donkey and the crowds went wild, proclaiming him king. This angered the Pharisees and they told Jesus to make the crowd quiet down. Jesus replied, “I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” Maybe someday, in the “by-and-by,” we’ll get to hear the stones, along with the trees and the elephants, sing the Hallelujah Chorus. I can’t wait.]

A change of pace and a new book

 I have two announcements. 1) As part of my endeavor to simplify my life and lighten the load, I have decided to post to this blog every other week. I’ve been posting weekly for the last four years. I do it with a sense of ministry and joy, and I’m learning as I go. My purpose has been to explore ways of aging with courage and humor, and exploration is the right word. I’m finding the path even as I walk it. And I’ve been doing it with you. That will continue. I hope you’ll stick with me.

By the way, I invite you to check out my website, if you haven’t already (nancyjthomas.com). You can go directly to my blogs from there. The advantage is that it’s easier to comment if you should wish to. I invite comments and would love to have conversations around the subject of each blog. Think about it.

2) This is the exciting announcement. I have a new poetry book coming out later this year. It’s called Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. The poems center on the life, work, and words of Jesus. I’ve been working on some of them for years. Others are new.

Several years ago, I took on the challenge of meditating, praying, and writing poetry through all the books of the Bible. It hasn’t been an academic exercise and I certainly haven’t had publication in mind. It’s a devotional practice, a form of prayer.

Let me quote from the introduction to the book to give you some of its flavor:

This book of poems begins with a brief prophetic prologue from Isaiah, then covers the words and experiences of Jesus in the four Gospels and the first chapter of Acts. A short epilogue ends in Revelation. . . .

Essentially, the poems are my conversations with God based on Scripture. God graciously give me permission to say anything, get mad with him at times, ask any questions, take him to task, worship him, be amazed. Nothing offends. God can take it. Often the poem ends with an unanswered question and that’s OK. I can wait. We have a back-and-forth relationship. In addition, this way of reading, praying, and writing through the Bible is tremendous fun. . . .

As I ponder the whole story of Jesus, from the Old Testament prophecies, through his time in our neighborhood, and on to end of the story (and its real beginning), I am amazed and blessed. . . . I pray you will experience the same.

Right now I have the galley proofs in hand. That means the publisher (Wipf & Stock) has already type-set the book. I now get to do one last proofreading and then it’s ready to print.

Previously, before sending the completed manuscript to the publisher, I had a professional proofreader meticulously go over it. My friend, Susan Fawver, did the job beautifully, so my task now is not so hard. Nonetheless I’m finding some things in the type-setting to correct. There’s always a chance a typo will sneak in. So I’m reading it slowly out loud, not for the content, but for the nitty-gritty small stuff—consistency, matching the titles in the book to the titles in the table of contents, checking page numbers, re-reading all the Bible references, and so on. It’s hard work, but I’m motivated knowing that the end is in sight and I’ll be able to share the book with the world. With you.

In many ways, the whole process—from the conception of the idea, experiencing the initial excitement, then on to the hard labor—is like giving birth. At this point I’m anxious for the whole thing to be over. I can’t wait to introduce my new child to you.

Best friends—forever?

 Judy was my best friend in the second grade. It was mischief that first brought us together and a certain level of silliness. We stuck together at recess, sometimes chased boys, not wanting to catch them, just scare them a little. We told each other secrets—“cross my heart and hope to die.” In the third grade we became blood sisters. This was a semi-gruesome ritual where we each poked our arms with a needle, drawing a bead of blood; we then rubbed the spots together, thus mingling our blood and supposedly binding us for life.

Having a best friend was very important in Ramona Elementary School. Even the popular kids, those with lots of friends, had one special best friend. Moving up to middle school (called Junior High back then) it became more complicated. We squabbled a lot and switched best friends almost as much as we changed clothes. Jealousies, note passing in class, and all manner of adolescent pettiness make me blush (and smile) as I remember.

Elaine was my best friend in high school. I had other friends, but she was special. We were special to each other. It wasn’t mischief that drew us together, but our shared faith in God and our ideals. My concept of friendship was deepening. The secrets we shared were real—our fears, the stuff that made us happy, our dreams for the future.

We both lived out in the country, two miles from school and we walked those two miles every day. We picked out one meadow where we imagined that one day we’d both live in mansions, married to handsome husbands, and raising beautiful children, still side-by-side. Other days we imagined what our life would be like if we both went to Africa as missionaries. Always together, of course.

In my university years I was blessed with many close friendships. We didn’t bother anymore with the best-friend concept. I learned I could cultivate close relationships with several people and share those friendships, without jealousy or pettiness. I’ve kept in touch with some of those friends. In fact, I married one of them.

In our life together, both at home and abroad, Hal and I have been blessed with life-long friendships that are as close as family (without any blood-sister rituals). With some people, even though we’ve been separated by distance and time, if it happens that we get together it’s almost as though no time has passed; we pick right up where we left off.

With others I’m sad at having lost contact, in spite of how close we once were.

These days young people refer to their “bff” (best friends forever). I smile at the idealism and naivete of that term. I hope I’m not becoming cynical, but forever is a really long time.

I’ve been thinking about what makes some deep friendships endure over time and what causes some to gradually fade with time and distance. What makes for permanent life-long relationships? Why do some get lost along the way?

I’m not sure what makes the difference, but I’m realizing that both types are gifts from God.

I rejoice in the ongoing long-time friendships, loyalties that grow richer and sweeter with the passage of time. These are inexpressible treasures--people who knew us when, who know us now, and who will be there tomorrow (as long as we both shall live). People who accept the changes and grow with us and we with them. I thank God for these friendships.

But I can also cherish past friendships that are “lost” because, really, nothing that nourished us and made us better people is lost. There are friends God gives us briefly--for a week, a month, a year, a decade--and we're part of another life. We love another person and we're God's channel of grace (and they are God's channel to us) for a season. And when that time ends, we go our separate ways. These friendships are valuable too, temporarily permanent gifts of grace. We don't devalue them for their brevity, but accept God's gifts and his timing as they come. And as they go.

Now in the season of growing older, I find that friendships are as important to me as they ever were. I’m not referring to having an active social life and lots of casual relationships. Those have their place, but I still long for genuine friendships, for people I can laugh or cry with, share secrets with, even just be with in silence.

Here in the retirement center, I’ve found some delightful companions. Some of them are becoming close friends. It’s more risky now because we’re all growing older. Some of my new “best friends” have died, and the hole they leave behind hurts. Everything seems temporary because we can’t know when death will step in and interrupt a friendship. Yet maybe that’s why it’s more important to cherish and nurture what we have now. We need each other. We need genuine friendship. We need to learn to be “temporarily permanent.” It’s worth the risk.

And, if we walk hand-in-hand with the giver of all friendship, future reunions will be “actually permanent.” And very long-lasting.

Limitations, loss--and future gain

No one likes to be called a quitter. Nasty word, quitter. I’ve never seen myself as a quitter, although I do have some dark memories of times I just gave up. But mostly I pushed through the darkness and found a way.

That’s changing as I age, and I don’t like it. I would rather expand that be pulled back by limitations. But it seems that knowing and accepting our limitations is the new name of this game called growing older.

For some time now my body has been telling me to slow down. Chronic dizziness and fatigue have made some of the leadership roles I’ve loved seem more like burdens than joys. Recently I gave up leadership in a Sunday class I love; serving in the capacity of class coordinator was life-giving and I felt as though I were making a contribution. But when something that once was light starts becoming heavy, you know it’s time to let go and let other people step in. So I did. But not without a tinge of grief.

And now I’m in the process of finding someone else to edit the community journal I began some nine years ago. It’s become a way for people in this retirement community to tell their stories and I’ve loved being part of the group that puts this together once a quarter. But, again, my spirit tells me it’s time to let go.

Our plot in the community garden, my guitar and ambitions of becoming a classical guitarist (foolish, considering I have no music gene in my DNA)—these are other things I’m giving up. It’s time.

All of this makes me wonder if I’m losing my voice, along with my active roles. Will I now just melt into the background, become dimmer and dimmer until nobody even remembers my name?

Now that’s pathetic. It’s me at my worse, and I don’t always grovel at that level. Actually, I get hints that letting all this float up off my shoulders might in some way free my spirit to focus on the things that matter most. I hope that’s true.

I had a strange dream the other night. I still remember it, so that tells me to pay attention. In the dream Hal died (the worse part of the dream) and the rest of the dream focused on how I expressed my grief. In short, I went mute. I stopped talking. I lost language. With family members or in groups of people, I made myself melt into the background. In time, people seemed to accept it.

One night, still in my dream, I was with a small group of close friends and people were sharing their prayer requests. I sat and listened, mute as usual. But then as we went into a time of prayer, my tongue was loosed. I began praying for my friends, out loud, with wisdom and discernment. With compassion. It surprised everyone, myself included.

Then I woke up.

As I’ve been processing the dream, I’ve decided it was not prophetic. I’ve not been given a warning that Hal will soon die, although I know we’ll both die someday. And it’s not telling me that when all else fails, pray. No. I think it’s about facing loss and letting myself grieve the losses, even if that means a time of silence to sit with the absences. But there is something good on the other side, something I can do well and that will give meaning in this time of life.

I believe that. In fact, I do want to learn how to pray better and how to settle into more fruitful times of worship and intercession. I want to learn how to do silence and contemplation better (meaning more than five minutes at a stretch). I’m making time for this.

I now have more time for writing; I’ve still got poems to write, stories to tell, memories to mine. And I’m fulfilling my hope of refreshing my ability to read the New Testament in Greek. I’ve lost a lot since my seminary days, but it’s coming back little by little. And it’s lots of fun.

And then there’s people time, of course. More time for long conversations, for reading books and talking about them with other book-lovers, for just being with the people I love.

As often happens when I write this blog, I’m processing my situation and coming to a place of hope. Journeying from negative to positive. From grief to joy. I haven’t arrived yet, at least not consistently, but I feel better about it all. I hope you also find yourself encouraged.

Psalms of old age

 The last few years I have been meditating on and writing poems about the Psalms. It’s interesting how many I can apply to the challenges of growing old. David writes a lot about his enemies, cursing them and asking God to destroy them. Very Old Testament. I don’t have the same kind of enemies David did—evil men destroying his reputation, army rebellions, assassins on the hunt. But I do have enemies. In the following poems, based on particular psalms, I address the hardships of growing older. They can be real enemies. And we know that the last enemy is death.

Midnight Prayer
When I am afraid….  Psalm 56:3

My enemies are not David’s enemies—
warriors, rebellions, political maneuvers,
smear campaigns, assassination attempts—
but they are real nonetheless
and I, like David, find myself
afraid in the night.
The enemies of age are relentless—
the rebellion of body parts,
loss of purpose and a means
of contribution, being marginalized
not only by society
but in my own family,
the specter of dementia,
and the ever present threat of death.
Record my misery, O Lord!
List my tears in your scroll.
Remind me again and again
when I am afraid
to put my trust in you.

Thirsty
I thirst for you….  Psalm 63:1

I’m perpetually dehydrated.
Although I know the importance
for my health, somehow I can’t remember
those three tall glasses of water a day.
I wake up in the middle of the night parched.

How much more do I need to drink
deeply of your Spirit. My heart is dry,
my strength depleted.

Please, Lord,
make me thirsty for you.

Requirements
“Let your compassion come to me that I may live.” Psalm 119:77 

What do I need to thrive in my old age?
--I need to open my window in the morning and breathe in clean, cool air.
--I need nutritious food in reasonable amounts; think spinach, bananas, and hot fudge sundaes.
--I need regular exercise, chugging away in “Strong for Life,” and long walks in the forest.
--I need heart-friends who tell me secrets, make me laugh, and let me be silent.
--I need good books and someone to talk about them with.
--I need stuff to do that makes life better for someone else.
And under, around and including all this,
I need your compassion, Lord.

Hold Me Steady
Your word … stands firm…. Psalm 119:89

You, who set the earth on a firm foundation,
you, whose faithfulness is rock-solid,
tie me to the mast of your word.
Keep me upright through the storm
of old age.
When all I thought stable is washed overboard—
accomplishments, health, beauty,
my place in the family,
my place in the world—

your word tells me who I am.
Your precepts define my worth.
Though all life shifts,
I cling to your word.
Hold me steady, Lord.

A Light on My Path
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.” Psalm 119:105-112

Last year I attended a retreat
in a rough campground
set in an old growth forest.
The back-to-nature stuff seemed more suited
to the younger attendees than to those of my age,
although I savored the sound of the wind in the trees
and the nearby rushing river.
The bunk-house was spare, crowded, cold,
and, more important, lacked a bathroom.
Since I now have to get up
several times in the night, my small flashlight
turned out to be more important than the Bible.
A light on my path as I stumbled through the pines.

Sometimes real life seems rougher
than a primitive camp site—
the ground more uneven, the nights darker.
Your word is indispensable for survival.
My flashlight in the dark. My light in the forest.
Show me the way, Lord.

Celebrating libraries and poetry!

This is National Library Week and I, for one, am celebrating. Established in 1958 by the American Library Association, this is a time to visit, celebrate, and support the contribution libraries make to children, families, serious scholars, and book-lovers of all stripes.

I love libraries. In fact, browsing is my favorite sport. The public library is my favorite civic organization. I love it even better than the executive branch of government, the Supreme Court, and the national military all combined. Imagine that!

As if that were not enough, April is National Poetry Month. Did you know that? Organized in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, it aims to increase appreciation of poetry throughout society.

Actually, I didn’t know about National Poetry Month until I received an invitation from George Fox University to participate in an event to celebrate poetry, local poets in particular. We met in the university library (how appropriate!), in a large space that looked more like a lounge than a library. Very homey. I was one of three local poets invited to discuss poetry as part of a panel and then to read some of our poems. After that, an open mic encouraged people in the audience to come up and read one of their own poems.

Walking to the event, I told Hal I wasn’t sure if many people would show up. I said that even if we shared with ten people, it would be worth it. The space was set up for about 50 people, and I was surprised when the sponsors had to scrounge to bring in more chairs to accommodate the crowd.

We had such fun! For the panel part, the facilitator had a list of five questions and each of us three poets were to respond in turn. The first question was, “What was your first introduction to poetry?” That was easy—my mother and Mother Goose! And when I was two-years-old a great aunt gave me a copy of the poems of Robert Lewis Stevenson. Both books were large with lovely pictures, and my mom read with feeling. She read the same poems over and over and I found myself memorizing them, without even trying:

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!  (etc.)

********

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.  (etc.)

From those times I learned that poetry is play. Playing with words. It was even more fun than playing with dolls.

Speaking of poetry, I am spending a good part of this week in The Writers Cabin at Camp Tilikum, outside of Newberg. The brainchild of Richard Foster, it opened just last year. In fact, I was the first writer-in-residence. I used that occasion to put together a collection of poems on the life of Christ. It’s been a long-time project.

The book was recently accepted for publication by Wipf & Stock Publishers. This week at the cabin, I am dedicating the time to the final formatting of the book before I send it back to the publisher for typesetting. It’s arduous work, but the peace and quiet of the cabin will let me concentrate. Hopefully I’ll be able to write a few new poems as well.

The book is entitled Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. I hope it causes readers to have a fresh perspective on the words, deeds, and significance of the ongoing life of Jesus. It blesses me and I pray it does the same for you.

In the meantime, high praise for libraries and poetry! 

Note: I’m posting this blog early this week because I go the cabin this afternoon, and there is no Internet. Imagine that.

My personal rotational bulge

 In recent years scientists have been telling us that the earth is not a perfect sphere. Instead of a sphere, our planet is technically an oblate spheroid, which gives it a slightly pear shape. An egg might be a better image.

Centrifugal force, rotation, plus gravity are the causes. Because the planet has been spinning for so long, the top and bottom poles have slightly flattened, causing a bulge around the equator. It’s called a rotational bulge or an equatorial bulge. The diameter at the equator is 26 miles longer than the pole-to-pole diameter. That’s not much. In fact, it’s almost impossible to see from a space craft.

Actually the earth’s bottom pole is flatter than the top pole by some 42 miles, which helps give it the pear shape.

Lest you feel too badly about this imperfection, you need to know that the rotational bulges of Saturn and Jupiter are far worse.

In addition to the earth’s bulging mid-section, other “surface imperfections” contribute to the distortion—mountains, abysses, canyons in the bottom of the ocean, desserts, and forests. (I, for one, say “Thank God” for the imperfection of a forest!) At any rate, our planet is far from geometrically perfect.

I think I also suffer from rotational bulge, and it might be more noticeable than that of my favorite planet. I’m getting older and I’m chronically dizzy. Much of the time I feel like I’m spinning. I really do bulge at the middle, plus I must be flattening at my top and bottom poles. I’ve apparently lost several inches from my youthful height. And then there are all the cracks and crevices, the bushy forests, the dry deserts.

Am I now more of a pear or an egg? Neither option attracts.

Actually, in the fruit-basket this retirement community resembles, I’ve noticed quite a few pears just like me. I’ve also seen walking apples, papayas, mangos, and bunches of grapes. Some of my colleagues remain slim but now walk with a light stoop; they’re the bananas. Thrown together, we make a colorful, tasty, fragrant salad. Lovely it its own way.

Even so, I’m not particularly happy or accepting of my rotational bulge. I buy clothes that hide it, sort of. I try to remember to walk tall and suck in my tummy. I exercise and diet, sort of. But it’s not natural and I forget.

I have friends who seem to accept the bodily shapes of growing older. They don’t bother with loose clothes and, in the ugly current phrase, they “let it all hang out.” I admire these brave unselfconscious people and wish I were more relaxed about it all, as they are. Maybe I’ll get there as I talk myself into it. But I doubt I’ll ever be comfortable with letting it all hang out.

But, really, so what if I’ve become an oblate spheroid? As long as I can think, create a poem, be a good friend, and worship the Lord in the beauty of his holiness, I’ll just keep on rotating. Being who I am at this stage of life. Joining with all my delightfully fruity friends.

My unfaithful episcopagus

 My husband Hal was a precocious little boy. He learned to read early and he loved science. His parents had received from a friend an old set of Encyclopedia Britannica volumes and he discovered the section on human anatomy. It fascinated him. His sight-reading ability was not quite up to the level of anatomical vocabulary, but he did the best he could, coming to his own unique pronunciation of certain words.

At dinner one night, he informed his parents that the food they were eating was going down their episcopagus to get to their stomach. The word delighted them and they adopted it. For the next couple of years none of the members of the Thomas family had an esophagus. They each had an espicopagus (pronounced e-pis-co-PA-gus).

Years later I wrote a poetry book for my grandkids based on actual funny things they or their parents said when they were kids. Here’s the poem about their Grandpa’s hilarious mispronunciation:

MY FAITHFUL EPISCOPAGUS

Yes, of course, I love my lips!
My belly button gives me flips!
I like my feet,
my eyebrows are neat,
and my little toe is really sweet,
but the body part I like the best
is my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It’s hidden inside me, after my mouth,
behind my throat, but further south.
It’s long and round,
and without a sound
it carries my food, every pound,
‘til it lands in my tummy a while to rest.
Oh, my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It carries jelly beans, spinach and peas.
It transports mango sauce and cheese,
all of my lunch,
my breakfast and brunch,
the yummy granola I love to crunch.
There’s none to compare in all the west
to my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

Had enough?

I’ve had a different adventure recently involving my esophagus. For several years I’ve had trouble swallowing. I coughed and gagged frequently and had trouble sleeping with all the phlegm and other stuff coming up. I usually ended up spending the night in a recliner with my head raised.

This started during Covid and the medical people I could get to online misdiagnosed allergies, sinus problems, gastric reflux and other common maladies. They recommended a variety of over-the-counter remedies, none of which worked. I’m sure people began suspecting me of being a hypochondriac and chronic complainer.

Then late last year my primary-care-physician had me take a barium-swallow-test, and the two medical technicians found my problem five minutes into the test. They showed me the shadow on the X-ray and told me it was a large diverticulum (pouch) attached to the top of my esophagus. I had thought diverticuli developed only in the colon (where my husband harbors his), but no. They can also pop out on the esophagus. I was glad to finally have a name for what was happening in my body. I had an unfaithful episcopagus.

After the test, things happened relatively quickly (I’ll spare you the details), and at the end of January I had an operation on my esophagus. (To be medically precise, it was an Endoscopic Zenkers Diverticulectomy. Is that not impressive?!) The end result of it all is that I returned to normal. I can swallow again. The gaging is gone. I can sleep lying down all night long.

Normal is good.

It’s good to know that, even as we age, there are serious bodily ailments that can be fixed. In some areas of our lives, normal is possible.

I thank God for modern medical wonders, for non-invasive (though the mouth) procedures that were unthinkable even a decade ago.

I thank God for normal.

In addition to that-----

I’ll sing up high.
I’ll sing down low.
And all of my days
I’ll give high praise
for my faithful episcopagus!

illustration for the children's book

Super Salad Moments

My daughter Kristin has her own blog/newsletter, and I love her latest entry. It concerns the challenges of growing up in another culture and the adjustment difficulties in coming “home” to the US. Kristin, born in Bolivia, was 16 when we returned to the US.

She writes of a time when she and her college-roommate went on a double-date. She was paired with the young man who would one day be her husband. The foursome were all dressed up and heading for an elegant restaurant, a new experience for Kristin and something out of her comfort zone.

In situations like this, she had learned to watch and take her cues from her companions, cues such as which of the many forks and spoons to use when. Even so she was a bit nervous.

When they were finally ready to order, Kristin writes that the waitress “targeted” her first. To her relief she gave her order without a hitch. But then the waitress asked her, “Soup or salad?” Not used to that question, she answered simply, “No, thank you.”

But the waitress asked again, a little impatiently, “Soup or salad?”

Kristin repeated her answer that she really didn’t want any.

For a third time, “Soup or salad”?

Kristin, realizing that the waitress wasn’t going to let this go, said, “If I have to eat salad, can you at least make it a mini?”

At that point, her friends realized what was happening and began to chuckle. Not used to the soup or salad option, Kristin had misheard it as “super-salad.” And no way did she want a super-salad.

In Bolivia Kristin had learned from us never to eat salad in a restaurant as we couldn’t be sure the lettuce was prepared in clean water. The danger of infection was high. But soup, on the other hand, is a Bolivian specialty. We all love Bolivian soup.

So Kristin was glad to order soup. In retrospect she recognized this experience as a conflict between her two cultures. She’s had many. In her blog, she referred to these experiences as “super-salad moments.” I like that phrase.

I have my own super-salad moments.  I belong to two planets simultaneously. The planet of Old and the planet of Young.  On the outside I live in the culture of Old; seen as a color Old is yellow, not a vibrant yellow, but somewhat faded. On the other hand, I’m still Young on the inside, a lovely lively blue. Sometimes the two don’t get along. Sometimes they clash, like when I’m walking down the sidewalk, feeling chipper, and then see my reflection in a store window. It takes a second for me to realize that that white-haired lady with the slight stoop is me. Oh no!

Of course, I don’t always feel young and vital on the inside, especially if I’m struggling with illness. At the same time, I still have my imagination, creativity, and humor. I still worship and pray and marvel at beauty. I still cherish friendship and love a good conversation. I’m still young, in spite of it all.

The outside old (yellow) and the inside young (blue) don’t always get along—unless they blend and become green. Green is a great color.

Psalm 92 speaks of the one who follows God: “They will still bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” Paul tells us that, “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). That’s the blending of the old and the young. The challenge is accepting the limitations of growing older, yet still experiencing that inner renewal as a present (and future) reality. 

I know I’ll still have super-salad moments, lots of them. As Kermit the Frog once sang, “It’s not easy being green.”

It’s not easy.

But it’s good.

Note: If you want to read Kristin’s original blog, go to her webpage (kristingault.com), then click on the blog section.

 

My adventures with the slug

I’m ambivalent about the slug. I simultaneously respect and find repulsive this small garden-variety beast. But the slug and I have a shared history which I will share with you today. Lucky you.

This post will combine memory (an important task as we age) and confession (an important task at any age).

First, let me go back in time. I adopted the slug in a fit of whimsy during the time when my kids were small. We were all avid book-readers, well-supplied with popular picture-books for children. The Golden Book series was a favorite with me because I inherited it from my own childhood. Add to that Dr. Seuss, the Archbook series of Bible stories, Are You My Mother?, Mother Goose, the Little Bear books, Madeleine in Paris, Curious George, and a host of others, and our kids were off on the road to a good education.

Now enter the slug. As mentioned above it was out of pure whimsy that I began slipping slugs into the story books I read and re-read to the kids. Only now and then, in odd places, without skipping a beat, I would read, “As the prince slipped the glass slug on Cinderella’s foot….”  And Kristin would giggle and say, “Mom, it’s a slipper, not a slug!”

(Interestingly enough, years later when I tried it on my grandkids, it didn’t work. Instead of amusement, they got mad, as in, “Come on, Grandma! Read it right!” So much for whimsy.)

And then there was the time when David, on some Boy Scout hike, took on a dare to kiss a slug. Later he told me it was a scientific experiment, to see if kissing a slug really does make your lips go numb. It does.

The next time slugs enter my story, I’m in graduate school. To help support my addiction to education, I worked as research librarian in the same school. As such I was in charge of making sure all theses and dissertations passed the mustard in regards to margins, headings, grammar, and references. As if that were not fun enough, I also got to edit the school’s style manual.

To be perfectly honest, academic style manuals are not my favorite literary genre. And the manual I inherited needed extensive editing.

Again, my sense of whimsy clicked in. Partly in order not to go crazy with academic jargon and stylistic rules, I began subtly inserting slugs into the text. As long as it didn’t interfere with the manual’s purpose to give clear formatting instructions, I figured my slugs did no harm. They certainly made my work more fun. I’m sure my co-workers in the office occasionally wondered why I was at my desk giggling.

I inserted most of my slugs into the examples, not the actual instructions. “References Cited” provided rich opportunities. The school used the reference system of the American Association of Anthropology, and I selected my examples from various journals. Slipping a slug into a title was easy.  Samples:

Rumekkiart, David E., and James L. M. McClelland. 1986. Parallel Distributed Processing: Explorations in the Microstructure of Cognition among Slugs.

Rogers. E. 1963. The Hunting Group: Hunting Territory Complex among Mistassini Slugs.

Legge, Anthony J. and Peter A. Rowley-Conwy. 1987. “Slug Killing in Stone Age Syria.” Scientific American 257:88-95.

Gwyn, Douglas T. and Eugene P. Slug, eds. 1995. A Declaration on Peace: The World’s Renewal Has Begun

In the capitalization guide to theological terms, the “S” list contained the following words:

Satan
Savior
scriptural
Scripture
serpent, the
slug, the
Son of God
Spirit, the

(Although slugs deserve respect, you don’t have to capitalize them.) I found many other hiding places for my slugs. In fact, I managed to hide some 30 slugs in the manual.

For several weeks after the revised edition of the style manual was published, I held my breath, wondering if the Dean would call me into his office and fire me. Now, some years later, I admit to being disappointed that no one ever mentioned it or even noticed it. But, after all, who reads all the examples in style manuals? 

Lest you think there was an ethical problem with my “crime,” please note that this blog post is a true confession. Forgive me.

Some decades later Hal and I found ourselves in the middle of a new slug adventure. This time with a live slug.

It’s called kombucha tea, and the recipe asks for tea, sugar, water and a SCOBY. That stands for “Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast.” It was actually alive. We called it simply The Slug (upper case letters required). It floated in a gallon jug of tea, in a dark corner of our laundry room. And there in the darkness, it quietly procreated. Every few days I would siphon off a quart of the fermented kombucha tea, replenishing the brew with fresh sugared tea. Then Hal and I would actually drink the stuff. For our health, of course.

Our daughter-in-law, Debby, first got us on to this. (Our grandkids referred to their SCOBY as The Octopus.) The use of kombucha tea has been traced to ancient cultures in both China and Russia, and its health claims make it worth trying. It tastes just strange enough that you know it’s got to be good for you. Adding apple juice helps.

In spite of the many benefits of kombucha tea, we eventually gave it up.

There you have it. My adventures with the slug. Now that we’re here in the retirement community, I’m asking myself, “What will the next chapter bring? Where will I find a slug hiding around here?”

When I discover it, I’ll let you know. 

Note: The above nonsense has been adapted and expanded from an earlier post in my blog site “Mil gracias,” August 2011.

Another Note: I wrestled with whether or not to post this story. I’m agonizing over the war and wrestling with family tragedy as well. Humor seems somehow incongruous. Is it even appropriate in the middle of so much trauma? After reflection, I’m thinking that, maybe yes, now more than ever. What do you think?

 

On the death of a child

 I had planned to write a humorous post, but a tragedy in the extended family makes it hard to laugh or play today. Over the weekend the 20-year-old son of my daughter-in-law’s sister was killed in a motorcycle accident. We are related to this family through kinship ties and friendship. The parents are childhood friends of our son, and we are close to his grandparents.

The news has shocked us all, but especially Malachi’s parents and sisters. Our son David, on a teaching assignment in Bolivia, has cancelled the rest of his trip and is currently on a complicated airplane route home—five airports with three-hours layovers in four of them. But it’s that important that he be here to comfort and offer whatever help he can.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child, even an adult child. Our friends adopted this boy as a baby, receiving him into their arms at the Portland Airport, fresh from Africa. They accepted him into their family, loved him, and raised him to manhood. They suffered through all the common traumas involved with bringing up a child (and some uncommon ones, too), and delighted in his different developmental stages and steps forward.

And now this. A friend who lost a son in his 40s several years ago shared her sense of how unnatural it feels that your offspring should die before you do. It seems that way to me, too.

But like I say, I can hardly imagine the pain and loss. I’ve never experienced it, other than in my nightmares.

And now—how to comfort? How to pray? What to do that might make any difference? My kids are going to just be with them—and cook meals, do the laundry, things like that. But mainly to be there and cry alongside them. Maybe that’s the most helpful thing, I’m guessing.

Words fail me. Not even knowing how to pray, I’m turning to some written prayers of the church, some ancient, some more recent. As part of the Quaker Church, we don’t go in for liturgy, and maybe that’s our loss. I find that the deeply thought-out and crafted prayers by women and men who know God are very helpful. Many of them have passed the test of time and have encouraged, delighted, and comforted people like us for ages. They supply words when I am groping. Here are some I am using today:

From The Book of Common Prayer: Grant, O Lord, to all who are bereaved the spirit of faith and courage, that they may have strength to meet the days to come with steadfastness and patience; not sorrowing as those without hope, but in thankful remembrance of your great goodness, and in the joyful expectation of eternal life with those they love. And this we ask in the Name of Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.

From the Celtic Daily Prayer book:

This night and every night
seems infinite with questions,
and sleep as elusive
as answers.

Pain and longing are always present,
dulled only a little
by the distractions of the day.
I am weary; I am angry;
I am confused.

Circle me, Lord.
Keep despair and disillusion without.
Bring a glimmer of hope within.

Circle me, Lord;
keep nightmare without.
Bring moments of rest.

Circle me, Lord;
keep bitterness without.
Bring an occasional sense
of Your presence within.

From Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey

Remain with me, my God.
For you are not aloof from what I feel.
You also lost a child. Your sympathy is real.
Be near to me, O Christ, for you were also
crushed by every grief and afflicted with every affliction.
You were a man of sorrows. Somehow, in this,
I find a hope rekindled.
I am not alone in this. My God has gone before me,
into suffering, grief, death, loss, and separation.
Where I am, you have already been.
And you are with me in this now.
I would follow you, even in this.
Especially in this, I would follow you.

Lord, hear us when we pray. Amen