Pilgrims in old age

 Even when death is expected, it can arrive with a shock. The finality of it. The sense of loss. Even for those of us who believe that death is not the final chapter, it’s a door that shuts, leaving us on one side, our loved one on the other.

I recently learned of the death of a dear friend, Michael Graves. I’m holding it in my heart, and it weighs me down. It’s heavy. It leaves me emotionally breathless.

It was not unexpected. For the last several years Michael has been fighting a losing battle with dementia. It’s been hard to watch his personality slipping away, his sharp wit growing dull. Wondering when he’ll stop knowing who I am. (That part never happened, thank God.) And recently a stroke, along with his long-term diabetes, robbed him of his last defenses.

Yesterday Hal and I gathered with some of his long-time friends just to sit around talking, remembering, crying, laughing, praying. It helped to reaffirm our basic belief that Michael is now being welcomed into his heavenly home, into the arms of Jesus, and then embraced by a host of those who have gone before. It helped as we assured each other that the real Michael is back, whole, holy, and full of joy. It’s a vision I’ll hold onto this week and into the future.

He's been on a long pilgrimage and he’s now come home.

My memories are becoming full of Michael as I knew him best over the last 50 years. He brought together so many facets of being human. He was a gifted sought-out university professor of communications. He was an academic, writing scholarly papers, presenting them in conferences, and loving it. He was a very funny man, witty in conversation, sharp in come-backs. He was creative—writing poetry, playing his banjo and singing, acting, problem-solving. I remember fondly our weekly poetry group where the six of us critiqued and affirmed each other; he was good at both.

I remember Michael always in company with Darlene. We were saying yesterday that’s it’s almost impossible to say “Michael” by itself. It’s always “Michael and Darlene.” As couples, we spent many hours in deep conversations and prayer, as well as play. We’re all asking how we can best support Darlene now. She lives in another state and travel is difficult for all of us these days. Prayers and phone calls somehow don’t seem enough. We’ll have to trust God to show us. At a basic level, she has to walk this path alone. But, maybe at a more basic level, her community can walk it with her.

We feel consoled by the fact that, even as Michael’s mind was slipping away, he became increasingly sweeter, almost docile, to those around him, especially Darlene. Although in his life he had been, at times, a fiery passionate person (never docile!), an innate kindness and sensitivity came forth as dominant in his last years. An incredible blessing. I imagine Michael now as still kind and sensitive, but also more fiery, creative, and passionate than ever. A complete person.

The message in church yesterday centered on Psalm 84 and the idea of our pilgrimage toward knowing God. I’ve been connecting it to Michael’s death and to the experience of growing older in general. Here’s the section that speaks to me now:

   Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.
   As they pass through the Valley of Baca [suffering], they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools.
   They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.” (Psalm 84:5-7)

The idea of life as a pilgrimage runs throughout the Bible, as well as in Christian literature (note John Bunyon’s The Pilgrim’s Progress). The word pilgrimage includes the sense of journey or travel as well as the fact of a destination. It’s not a wandering in the wilderness, although it may feel like that at times. According to Psalm 84, it’s journey that passes through hard places like the Valley of Baca (the Valley of the Shadow of Death in Psalm 23). And it leads to a destination: “before God in Zion.” The City of Zion is one of the names for heaven. The point is more in the phrase “before God” than in the name of the place. God is the destination.

Although the whole of life is a pilgrimage, I’m seeing the stage of growing old as a pilgrimage in its own right. It’s a phase of life full of unknowns. The path goes through inevitable valleys of suffering and loss. Sometimes it feels like that’s the whole of it: losing a career; downsizing; the diminishment of the body as we wonder, “What will go wrong next?”; the ever-present possibility of dementia; and on and on. I wonder how the phrase, “They go from strength to strength,” fits in with growing older. Physically, I know I am going from weakness to weakness, and at times it distresses me. Where is this “place of springs”?

There are sign-posts along the way: the retirement party; social security and Medicare; moving to a retirement community; the increasing number of medical specialists and medications; the loss of companions through death; the loss of the ability to remember names (and what we did yesterday); and many more that all tell us, “You’re old now.”

Reading through Psalm 84 and letting it soak in, I’m seeing death as a sign-post. The final sign-post. It’s not the destination or the end of our journey. It’s perhaps the portal we pass through to reach the end of our pilgrimage. A sign-post that seems negative (the final enemy) but that leads to life.

Maybe all the other sign-posts in the pilgrimage of growing older have their secret positive side. Maybe in some real sense we can go from strength to strength, ever as our bodies and our social roles weaken. Maybe we occupy a privileged place in life’s journey, closer to the end of the pilgrimage. Closer to a new beginning.

I hope to see Michael again when I arrive.

Something to think about.

1976

1984

2013 ?

2023

The kindness of strangers

 My recent hospital adventure brought to mind a long-ago memory, a memory of the first time I was a hospital patient. I was three-years-old and having my tonsils removed.

Memory is a tricky thing. We can’t know if we’ve really got the details right, especially if the memory comes from childhood. But while I’m uncertain of the details, some of the images and feelings have the ring of truth. I know it happened.

In those days, all kids had their tonsils removed. It was like a rite of passage and most families complied. So I don’t know if it was illness that took my parents to the hospital or if it was just time to do what everyone did. Anyway I remember my mommy settling me in my room, helping me put on my jammies, and getting me into the bed. Hospital rules were strict with enforced visiting times. No overnight stays for parents. Mom kissed me, told me she’d see me tomorrow, and left.

Alone. I don’t know if the incident I remember was the night before the operation or the night after. The timing is hazy. I just know I woke up in the dark room, all alone and frightened. It was the middle of the night. I began to cry.

Then she was there. The Nurse. She stood over my bed, then bent down and patted me, speaking comforting words. The next thing I knew I was in her arms and she was giving me a tour of the hospital. I remember her walking down the halls, explaining things to me. And then we stopped before this big window and looked in on all these sleeping newborn babies. That part I remember well. All the time the Nurse was talking softly to me.

After a while (an hour? five minutes?), she carried me back to my room, put me back to bed, and I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, Mommy was there. I got to eat ice cream.

How much do the images in my memory reflect reality? How many have I fabricated over time? I don’t know. What I am convinced of is the fear and loneliness, the Nurse, being held and comforted, the window of babies, and the kindness of a stranger. I look back and I don’t feel the fear; I remember the love.

Fast-forward some forty years. Hal and I had been on a tour of Latin American graduate programs in mission, prior to setting up our own program in a university in Bolivia. We had just been in Medellín, Colombia and were in the airport in Bogotá, ready to fly home. I always carried enough cash to handle details like the ubiquitous airport tax, required before boarding the plane. Sitting there in the waiting room, I took out my wallet to extract the $20.00 needed. But my wallet was empty.

I experienced a moment of terror, which soon settled into mere panic. We had been robbed while still in Medellín. Hal had no cash on him. We had a credit card, so we tried the different shops in the mall to see if anyone could give us cash for credit. No luck. No mercy. Of course no one would accept a check. I even tried selling my watch. Didn’t work. We knew no one in Bogotá we could call on for help.

We knew we could not get on the plane without the cash. The United States was not currently popular in Latin America and there would be no mercy from officials.

We sat there in the waiting room praying and trying to figure it out, obviously distressed. A woman approached us, looking concerned. She sat beside us and said she had observed our distress. She asked us why, wanting to know if there was anything she could do. We explained our dilemma to this stranger. The woman then opened her pursed and proceeded to give us $20.00.

That is simply not done in a Latin American airport. Ever. We were stunned and, having no other option, accepted the money, with many expressions of gratitude. We took her address and I later sent her a thank you card, but I never received an answer. She remains a stranger to this day.

Mercy from God coming through strangers.

Those were two outstanding incidents, but I think of many other gentle expressions: a friendly cashier who asks how our day is going; a smile from a passerby on a busy street; a kind receptionist in an office; a patient waitress. I’m sure you can think of other examples.

I ask myself how friendly I am to people I come in contact with everyday. Hal and I follow Pete Grieg’s devotional app, “Lectio 365,” and part of the closing prayer is “Jesus, help me give myself away to others, being kind to everyone I meet.” The challenge is to remember that prayer throughout the day.

I’m impressed with one of the laws that God gave the new nation of Israel: “When an alien (stranger) lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33-24).

That’s strong. Would to God the leaders in our land followed God’s law of kindness to strangers and aliens (immigrants). Would to God I followed this precept more closely myself.

Lord, have mercy on us all.

Fragility and grace

 I told my daughter recently that I was ready for something new. A new vision, a surprise, an unexpected adventure. Even something as mundane as a new hobby. The human spirit longs for refreshment and renewal. Being older doesn’t change that.

But we need to be careful what we wish for.

I went on an unexpected adventure last week, and I’m still recovering. Extremely weird symptoms on Monday night, along with a high fever, prompted us to dial 911 (a first for us), and it proved we were smart to do so. Once in the ER, the staff tested my blood and urine, then told me they were admitting me to the hospital for an infection. I wondered why they didn’t just give me an injection and a prescription, then send me home. At the time, they didn’t use the term sepsis. They told me I seemed to have pneumonia and a UTI.  Hal and David, our son, looked worried, so I told them to lighten up. I’d probably be out the next day.

All the hospital beds in the ICU were occupied, which a nurse told me was typical on a holiday weekend. So I stayed in the ER for 21 hours. The bed (examining table) was wretched, but the staff was marvelous—kind, friendly, and helpful in keeping me informed. I managed to sleep part of the time and was woken at 11:00 pm to be wheeled up to the ICU where a room was finally open.

Again—wonderful nursing staff and attending doctors. Each nursing assistant apologized before sticking me with another needle. It was sort of comforting. At one point three different medications were flowing into my body through three different ports. (I can show you the holes if you like.)

But I kept asking myself, “Why am I here? Why all the fuss?” The medications were doing their job and, other than all the tubes and holes and blood-drawings, I felt fine. Sort of fine, at least. The next morning when David asked me how I was, I told him it felt like all my internal organs were happy, all getting along with each other. It was like a river of peace flowing through my body. I got to order my meals from the cafeteria. They were nourishing, but I felt more grateful than ever for the retirement home where I live and its gifted kitchen staff.

The next night the assistants woke me at 12:02 with “Happy New Year! We’re moving you to a new room in the regular ward.” I knew I was getting better. I enjoyed the ride down the hospital corridors; those people move fast.

I get the days mixed up, but soon I got the happy news I could go home, taking the rest of my antibiotics in pills. That was on Thursday.

The reason I’m giving all these details is that it really was a new adventure. The only hospital experience I’ve had was the births of two babies and having my tonsils removed at three-years-old. In fact, I thought being a hospital patient might be like a mini-retreat. A room to yourself, time to read novels, and meals served to you on a tray.

I no longer think that way.

When I got home and read the after-visit-summary, I learned that the primary diagnosis was “Severe Sepsis.” Listed under “diagnoses also included” were UTI and pneumonia. That sounds like a lot.

It was a lot. I’ve since learned how blessed and protected I was. We got to the hospital early enough in the onset of sepsis to have a good chance at successfully treating it. The staff was alert and swift in getting me on the right medications and admitting me. And everything worked as it was intended to work. With such a diagnosis, getting out of the hospital in three days seems also miraculous. Thanks to the prayers of so many people and to the grace of God.

Hal and I are more aware now of the fragility of life, especially in this stage of growing older. Advanced age is not a disease. It’s part of the seasons of life. Yet it does include increasing physical challenges and, for some, mental challenges. We are more aware of the privilege of having loved family members and friends around us and of the accompanying privilege of cherishing those people. Of cherishing each other and not letting a day pass without affirming and blessing those around us. We can’t know what the next day holds or what kind of adventure we will encounter. What counts is how much we love one another today.

And, of course, grace. Whatever the adventure, the loving-kindness and grace of God hold us tight. All this fragility is a passing condition. Someday—complete freedom and life.