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.