tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82774358782232188612024-03-28T07:58:53.847-07:00life in an old growth forest: reflections on agingNancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-25571273412662073812024-03-26T09:29:00.000-07:002024-03-26T09:29:46.741-07:00Bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights: Easter is coming<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is Holy Week, that time when
the Christian church remembers its foundations in the crucifixion and
resurrection of Jesus. We have many ways of remembering and celebrating this
season.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here in the retirement community,
the Market Place has announced a special Holy Week sale, and highlights three
items at good prices: bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights. An
interesting combination.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Market Place is a small
convenience and variety store, run by residents and stocked with practical
stuff like toilet paper, toothpaste, aspirins, and Snickers bars. It comes in
handy when I realize at the last moment that I need a birthday card.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The list of Easter
specials—bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights—reminds me of those
tests that have you read a list (or look at pictures—an apple, a banana, and a pencil,
for example) and say which item doesn’t fit. With the Easter sale list, that’s
easy. The bunnies don’t fit. Both the emergency lights and the chocolate are
helpful in facing danger and trauma. The bunnies, not so much.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This reminds me of the delightful
customs of Easter I grew up with. I remember my first Easter egg hunt, mostly
because I did it wrong and got in trouble. I was three-years-old and my parents
brought me to a community hunt. The little kids, the one and two-year-olds,
were supposed to go first through the gate and into the garden. But as soon as
the gate opened, I ran in, ahead of everyone. I wasn’t really greedy, just
excited. (I don’t actually remember my motives. I’m guessing.) My parents had
to rush in, pick me up, and carry me back in front of everyone. I remember it
and feel a stab of shame even now, although I don’t think it’s scarred me for
life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All the other Easter egg hunts in
my childhood were positive. We three kids anticipated it, received our baskets
with excitement, and ran around in the yard like rabbits, looking under every
leaf and bush. I do remember some disappointment when the loot was mostly
hardboiled eggs, with one small chocolate bunny that turned out to be hollow in
the middle. But, other than that, it was the highlight of Easter. (My folks
weren’t that into church in those days.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We carried on the custom with our
kids. One of the most fun parts was the afternoon we spent together coloring
the eggs, dipping them into bowls of colored water and painting faces or
stripes on them. Of course, that killed the myth of the Easter Bunny, but that
was fine with us. We still had fun hiding the eggs and the kids finding them.
With a few surprise chocolate rabbits thrown in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUe6eChFv6kqiiMvkv7H0PRiU_wmPkUL1Punra0mmJo5qhLjEW4tLMbAEOpwzcms9i6BfccMp9Pod4Tt5p2wK4bc-_x__iAIF4o2M6Lg5t9syHVN3kNEvn4qcCSjM3cpmrOCJ1NLKJb9g4k1fP1586N2JQV1stf2Of74vrRjv6UVWV_wA5OncUmghTvjF/s640/IMG_3974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUe6eChFv6kqiiMvkv7H0PRiU_wmPkUL1Punra0mmJo5qhLjEW4tLMbAEOpwzcms9i6BfccMp9Pod4Tt5p2wK4bc-_x__iAIF4o2M6Lg5t9syHVN3kNEvn4qcCSjM3cpmrOCJ1NLKJb9g4k1fP1586N2JQV1stf2Of74vrRjv6UVWV_wA5OncUmghTvjF/s320/IMG_3974.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here on our floor in the
retirement community, residents have decorated their apartment entrances for
the Easter season. Lots of rabbits, chicks, and eggs. It’s cheery and
spring-like, if not particularly holy.<br /><div style="text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><br />Aside from the colorful cultural
customs of Easter, and running deeper, the events of Holy Week so many years
ago continue to be relevant. Many of us are following the footsteps of Jesus
day by day on his journey to the cross, and then, the resurrection. The
devotional app I’m following calls the whole season of Lent one of a “bright
sadness.” Sorrow and joy mingle in our reflections. This is the bedrock of our
faith.</span></div></span><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">May the Spirit be with you as you
walk slowly through this week.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even if you are accompanied by
bunnies, chocolate eggs, and emergency lights.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHhB9P_DHKYK9bD9KcWj5v9tcMAafG8OFzt6F3Loe3lgqqDO1efdHq0S_rIPt-UO61ZGYqBCbcBMubCilnNzZ_BCFzigXTkRyq5aat8gE8InpHcq-9xSvA8vxyMnQhb4C6xsFl-l9hKrD02XZna0J0sxxIQDynOZsNH_eYDoQuyX4DzMw-svERY8Hzykp/s640/IMG_3979.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHhB9P_DHKYK9bD9KcWj5v9tcMAafG8OFzt6F3Loe3lgqqDO1efdHq0S_rIPt-UO61ZGYqBCbcBMubCilnNzZ_BCFzigXTkRyq5aat8gE8InpHcq-9xSvA8vxyMnQhb4C6xsFl-l9hKrD02XZna0J0sxxIQDynOZsNH_eYDoQuyX4DzMw-svERY8Hzykp/s320/IMG_3979.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p></div>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-42876774797552745262024-03-19T10:02:00.000-07:002024-03-19T12:09:35.816-07:00Seasoned traveler<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPIWd-4nEb0rKVWXskgavRzcgNhreUhn5NhsF5Dhko9_EUIiy5Qof0XGUZyuKy5YXQ6B5sojUimDB0oBiHcK8ePLY9An17Dx1K3Pd_PoFykSLaB5y3skLRNXHn24GjTiIvEEV69WZxQ8bF5XlVg_bmpp71a6ob29MKes6s9CELAZWMC0DEvdOLOVsL7tR/s750/airport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="422" data-original-width="750" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtPIWd-4nEb0rKVWXskgavRzcgNhreUhn5NhsF5Dhko9_EUIiy5Qof0XGUZyuKy5YXQ6B5sojUimDB0oBiHcK8ePLY9An17Dx1K3Pd_PoFykSLaB5y3skLRNXHn24GjTiIvEEV69WZxQ8bF5XlVg_bmpp71a6ob29MKes6s9CELAZWMC0DEvdOLOVsL7tR/s320/airport.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />In 2019, after a trip to Bolivia
to celebrate the 100<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the Bolivian Friends Church,
Hal and I decided that we would take no more long international trips. We
needed to face the fact that our aging bodies were no longer up to the
challenges of 24-hour flight schedules, heavy suitcases, long lines, connecting
flights in strange airports, customs, and all the other stresses of travel that
we once considered an adventure. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then last year we received an
invitation to travel to Panama for the 20<sup>th</sup> anniversary celebration
of an educational program we helped found and worked in for 14 years, up to our
retirement. All the graduates of the program (some 50 Latin American Christian
leaders, now with their PhD in hand), faculty, and staff (past and present) were
invited. We love these people and have invested a good part of our lives in
them. Being together again after ten years and celebrating God’s goodness—well,
it tempted us to give up our no-more-travel decision and we committed to the
trip. (I wrote about all this in an earlier blog—February 20.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We then wrestled with the physical
reality of Hal’s back problems, problems that would make the trip challenging
at best. We wondered if we might need to cancel the trip, but we decided to go
ahead. Hal continued with his physical therapy and we bought prescription pain
pills, just in case. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The morning of the flight, our
bags were packed and waiting by the door. At 2:15 a.m., the alarm went off.
Hal, already up, sat on the side of the bed and told me of the pain in his
stomach. We knew what that meant—the onset of diverticulitis, a condition Hal
faces several times a year. We’ve learned what to do to avoid a trip to the ER:
rest, drink lots of water, use Metamucil. This usually leads to healing. We
also know what not to do: get on an airplane.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With sinking hearts, we considered
our options: cancel both our tickets or have me travel alone. Our son, who was
driving us to the airport, offered to take Hal’s ticket and accompany me on the
trip. Both Hal and David were concerned about me traveling alone with my
chronic dizziness. We finally discerned that it was important that I go and
represent both of us in the celebration, that Hal would be well taken-care of
here. We felt peace. So I quickly repacked my bag (I didn’t need to take Hal’s
underwear and PJs along), kissed my husband goodbye, and left with David, an
hour later than we had planned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The trip proved to be insightful
on what it means to travel as an aging person. Once in the Portland Airport,
after saying goodbye to David, I began feeling the excitement of the trip. The
pre-boarding process was familiar and a sense of independence was rising up. I
enjoyed it. With a new twist. I discovered at the ticket counter that I could
pre-board as a “disabled person.” The label bothered me, but I thought, “Why
not?” Since I have this weird physical challenge, why not milk it for any
benefit I can get? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So when the announcement was made
for those in wheelchairs or with canes to come forward to pre-board, I joined
the line with a bit of uneasiness. I made my walking stick obviously visible.
But the boarding official didn’t ask for a letter from my doctor or any kind of
proof of my condition. She believed me. So I boarded before families with small
children or active military personnel. The first on the plane! For the whole
trip. That certainly made the process easier, much less stressful. The overhead
bins were all empty, and no noisy passengers jostled, finding their seats and
storing their luggage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-aQRBczFG8IoheUz5T_hPMT8JPJq2qyz_J2z1f3ge7uuQzzSsySFOWMGmtx9VH-Z8GOZCJ7C1Lmj8YBLXT6GqRwIlekCkKz2jcUmTFOKLXI3KJwRmvmobh4aDVn0Bo9_lYRLiwYYsSK_hugWMhGGR38T0YewTPdorcBFNbZX7i9A50d5G0c5jWAUiU_J/s180/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="180" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-aQRBczFG8IoheUz5T_hPMT8JPJq2qyz_J2z1f3ge7uuQzzSsySFOWMGmtx9VH-Z8GOZCJ7C1Lmj8YBLXT6GqRwIlekCkKz2jcUmTFOKLXI3KJwRmvmobh4aDVn0Bo9_lYRLiwYYsSK_hugWMhGGR38T0YewTPdorcBFNbZX7i9A50d5G0c5jWAUiU_J/s1600/download.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">David had insisted on making
arrangements for a wheelchair to meet me in Houston. The very thought jolted
me, but I acquiesced. Actually, I was met by a little passenger “train” for
various of us that tooted down the airport halls at a good pace. The place for
my connecting flight was only five minutes from where I disembarked. I could
have walked it with no problems, but the ride was fun.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And so it went for the whole trip,
there and back. People seemed more than willing to assist me, whether I needed
it or not. It was one of the easiest travel experiences I’ve had. Ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The celebration itself more than
met my expectations and gave evidence that I was meant to be there. I was with
people I loved; it felt a little like coming home. Lots of hugs, some tears,
deep conversations, times of prayer, and the sharing of stories. Each graduate
had space in the program to present whatever was on her/his heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our worship together was anything
but academic. And it was not an academic celebration, although I had never been
in a room with so many PhDs. That part was not at all overwhelming. What
overwhelmed was the sense of gratitude. We were people celebrating the acts of
God on our behalf. We were celebrating the community we had become. It all
provided me with a blessed sense of closure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One interesting aspect of the
adventure was the concern my family was experiencing. They were very worried
over how I would manage the trip alone. Lots of texts passed back and forth. At
one point, I didn’t text for several hours for various reasons—getting through
customs, late arrival at the hotel, the opening reception, getting connected to
the Internet, etc. When I finally was able to connect the next morning, I found
this long chain of conversations, all worried about me, wondering what to do,
who to contact, etc. It made me chuckle and I felt like saying, “Lighten up,
you guys. I’m a grown-up. I’ve done this before.” I didn’t say that, of course.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the morning I was to fly home,
I woke up just in time (thanks be to God) to get dressed, close the suitcase,
and hurry down to the lobby to catch the shuttle to the airport. No time to
text home. In fact, I had no time or connection to text until I finally got to
Houston. In the meantime, Hal had contacted the program administrator in Panama
to have her investigate to see if I had checked out of the hotel and boarded
the plane. I felt embarrassed by the fuss.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Looking back, I recognize that,
while a little exaggerated, the concerns of my family were legitimate. I hadn’t
traveled independently for quite a few years, and I was a different person. A
dizzy person in the process of growing older. And, to be honest, how much
better that my family be concerned then if they didn’t care one way or the
other.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wonder how much my reaction
comes from denial of the fact that I’m aging. “I’m too young for a wheelchair!
I’m not a ‘disabled person’! This is NOT a cane; it’s walking stick!” And so
on. And while I am on the younger side of old, that won’t last. There just may
be a wheelchair in my future. Face up to it, Nancy!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I also acknowledge the role prayer
played in all of this. I was humbled and blessed to learn how much my
congregation, as well as my family, had been praying for me. That surely made a
difference in how easy the plane trip was and how meaningful and satisfying the
celebration. Thanks be to God.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So now we have once again have
decided that long international trips are no longer an option. It’s a fairly
firm decision (how’s that for an oxymoron?), at least until the next enticing
invitation.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-5390041948243636932024-03-11T21:58:00.000-07:002024-03-11T21:58:17.944-07:00The Nursery Tree Effect<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I’ve invited a guest-blogger this
week. Gary Fawver and I have several things in common: we’re both residents of
this retirement community, we both participate in the same writers group (one
that has been ongoing for about 15 years), we both love green things, and we’re
both experiencing the challenge of growing older.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Twice Gary has been asked to give
a talk to residents here about trees, once in 1979 and again in 2016. In 1979,
Gary was 41 years old and the director of Tilikum, a camp in the Pacific
Northwest. By 2016 he and his wife Susan had become residents of this
community. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty -seven years separate those
talks! Gary recently let me read his notes. I have his permission to share them
with you in this blog. Here is the essence of what he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">June 1979<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Something a visitor to Tilikum
becomes immediately aware of are the trees—both those growing naturally and the
cultivated fruit trees. Trees are everywhere. They come in different kinds,
shapes, and sizes, yet they are all trees. A unique creation from the hand of
God.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The Scriptures are full of
trees, from the lovely green tree planted by streams of water (Psalm 1, Jeremiah
17:7-8), to the picture of the Christian as a branch clinging to the Vine of
Christ and bearing fruit (John 15), and the description of a believer as one
who is rooted in Jesus (Colossians 2:6-7). Trees provide a metaphor of human
development and the process of maturity, both spiritually and physically.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><br /><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzKEHW81yW56KSMRQy5w4Tr21iSBsa8xoYYNwMgnSkQ43R2KIU1POXkol79YKsvs08zL1OocvLr13zZ-y3fj0Oxm8zeaLlLvF-RBAUcvkr57tRd8KCilt3Fl3jYS5prSLuS51oIYraQJjXZhdoSx7V2XNydlBWmZ7htG-0IbqGCeG72nuEaQzph9aPyTY/s612/istockphoto-1763927049-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkzKEHW81yW56KSMRQy5w4Tr21iSBsa8xoYYNwMgnSkQ43R2KIU1POXkol79YKsvs08zL1OocvLr13zZ-y3fj0Oxm8zeaLlLvF-RBAUcvkr57tRd8KCilt3Fl3jYS5prSLuS51oIYraQJjXZhdoSx7V2XNydlBWmZ7htG-0IbqGCeG72nuEaQzph9aPyTY/s320/istockphoto-1763927049-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There are three particular
mature (old growth) trees at Tilikum that I’d like to tell you about: White
Oak, Douglas Fir, and Big Leaf Maple. They are 300-500 years old. If they could
talk, what stories they would tell of all the things they’ve seen and heard!
Once they were young and impressionable, easily bent. Other trees came and
went, but these grew strong and tall. As they grew, they bore their seeds and
parented many young trees of their kind, providing shade from the hot summer
sun. Animals and birds found refuge, comfort and nourishment in their limbs and
in the protection of their trunks. Hard times—fires, storms, disease—took their
toll on them and on other trees, yet these three survived.<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">You here at Friendsview are in
my story of these trees. You are like trees in an old growth forest, with some
of the same characteristics, challenges, and splendor of my old tree friends.
And yet, in God’s timing, those trees must fall in death. One such giant fell
yesterday. Her name was Marie Haines.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">March 30, 2016<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">My talk at Friendsview was 37
years ago. Who would have thought that Susan and I would be residents in 2016!
Yet here we are.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Since that message in 1979, the
Big Leaf Maple tree has fallen. It was my favorite. Of the three trees, it was
the most child friendly. One could climb into it easily, or several campers
could crouch into a natural impression at its base to stay out of the rain. At
various times there were swinging ropes and platforms placed in its branches.
In its hollow trunk was a honeybee hive. We could put a stethoscope against the
bark and hear the hum of all the bee wings.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">We old folks are similar to trees,
you know—trees living in an old growth forest community. We are all unique
creations of God—incredibly different from each other and yet humans, all of
us. We can tell lots of stories about what we have seen, heard, and done. Some
of us have parented young trees after our kind. And, as with the trees, there
have been hard times—accidents and illnesses that may have left us scarred.
Personal or family tragedies that left irreparable damage.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwCStqDMXXajb2_CG9JBhreBh18fVt8AOkNjZXxHgVwhrv69fDRO4AS3RdfJQ4gDS0wdubmMKzCxRZWUFjcJjK_55nPg1JUfYvmT9P-MpyUBjvZm8G0usYtrfcFIUDTm_RzyXeBEmgbPxPZZqTGxY5h7VMz5VzfuENjJOZ0g2htBEkchwHXeA9BVSrNP2/s900/nurse%20log%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwCStqDMXXajb2_CG9JBhreBh18fVt8AOkNjZXxHgVwhrv69fDRO4AS3RdfJQ4gDS0wdubmMKzCxRZWUFjcJjK_55nPg1JUfYvmT9P-MpyUBjvZm8G0usYtrfcFIUDTm_RzyXeBEmgbPxPZZqTGxY5h7VMz5VzfuENjJOZ0g2htBEkchwHXeA9BVSrNP2/s320/nurse%20log%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There’s more. A recent trip
through an old growth got me thinking about what are called “nursery trees”(also
called “nurse logs”). When an ancient tree falls, seeds germinate, take root,
and grow out of the body of that tree, using its nutrients. Even in its death,
the tree continues nourishing the life of the forest.<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps this can be one of the
greatest prayers of those of us who reside in this retirement community, a prayer
that we be productive nursery trees in our death as well as in our living.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s obvious how many of us throughout
our lives have given refuge, comfort, nourishment, security, and care to those
who have been nearest us—our spouse, children, friends and through our jobs as
teachers, counselors, ministers, entrepreneurs, and so on. But only in our
death and the years that follow will our real contribution as a nursery tree be
recognized.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Missionary doctor and author Paul
Brand wrote this after showing his children and grandchildren the nursery trees
of the Olympic National Forest: “My active life is mostly behind me. Soon I
will no longer occupy this earthly home. But I pray that my life and the
principles God has helped me to live by will continue to influence young lives.
When we die, we do not only leave seed; we also leave an effect on the soil in
which future children will grow and future spiritual seed will be nourished.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">We see what I call the Nursery
Tree Effect in many folks who have left our community, even since I spoke here
37 years ago. I think we see that Marie Haines’ legacy has been carried out in
her daughter Ellen Martin.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">And so I, Gary Fawver, continue
to ask myself: How am I shaping and giving nourishment to the new generations
of “great trees”? What effect am I leaving on the soil in which my family and
friends will be nourished? What principles is God helping me live by,
principles that will continue to influence young lives long after I’m gone?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Hear what the prophet says: “Blessed
is the person who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. He will be
like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It
does not fear when heat comes, its leaves are always green. It has no worries
in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8)</span><o:p></o:p></i></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-45882864906821028802024-03-05T09:36:00.000-08:002024-03-05T09:36:36.059-08:00The tree or the insect: differing views of old age<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I love it when the Bible presents
differing views of a single subject, sometimes so different they seem
contradictory. These can often be solved by understanding the cultural-historical
context. Other times the different views become resolved as a paradox, two
apparently opposites that prove to both be true. That’s the playground of the
poet.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Take old age. The Hebrew culture
of the Old Testament revered the elders among them. The Patriarchs—the
grandfathers of the faith—became the ground from which succeeding generations
arose to build the Hebrew faith. Not that daily experience in Israelite
families was all roses and respect; growing old has always been hard and
families complicated. But in general, respect was the rule of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o2V4qEtLuC11NAC8qz-Ru5xTaD_PVZuyB8qmSmokt8KCHepNOogSmaxXTORKpr8mq0UnYgLSWvmRD9JCmUHm43MXnguj0rQ9JlXsKlpuTPkgnAOjxb5oM44EJgPYZsUtZYxp0dYdOckcHv3xnQqrbzigRqxyq1o37LrcDwCcprkIuAggLBxTpXUeVwdD/s210/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="210" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o2V4qEtLuC11NAC8qz-Ru5xTaD_PVZuyB8qmSmokt8KCHepNOogSmaxXTORKpr8mq0UnYgLSWvmRD9JCmUHm43MXnguj0rQ9JlXsKlpuTPkgnAOjxb5oM44EJgPYZsUtZYxp0dYdOckcHv3xnQqrbzigRqxyq1o37LrcDwCcprkIuAggLBxTpXUeVwdD/s1600/download.jpg" width="210" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Several biblical passages
especially interest me. The first, from Psalm 92, I’ve taken as a theme for
this blog site: “The righteous will flourish like a palm tree [I mistakenly
wrote “psalm tree”]; they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will still
bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” This refers to a
“righteous” old person which, hopefully, describes many of us. Semi-righteous,
at least. I don’t look good in the color green, but even so, I love this
description and would love to grow into it.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The seeming contradiction is found
in Ecclesiastes 12 where the cynical teacher recites a series of wonderfully
creative metaphors describing the horrors of old age. It’s skillful and
terrifying poetry. First, the sun, moon, and stars black out—blindness. Then
the “keepers of the house” tremble—the trunk of the body? The skeleton? The
legs? I’m not sure which body part is referenced here, but when it starts to
tremble that’s bad news. “The grinders cease because they are
few”—toothlessness! (False teeth help.) The songs of birds grow faint—time for
hearing aids. After “the grasshopper drags itself along” for a time, the old person
dies. What a dim view of the adventure of aging! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Take Your Choice<br />
</b><i>Ecclesiastes 12:1-8; Psalm 92:12-14<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Who am I to believe?<br />
The psalmist has one view of old age,<br />
the teacher, another. Poets both.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The sweet psalmist sings for joy<br />
and flourishes like a cherry tree in spring.<br />
Fresh, green, productive,<br />
ever strong and full of the Holy Spirit<br />
right up to the end, something<br />
to look forward to. Peaceful sleep<br />
followed by unending bliss.<br />
It makes one want to grow old.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The teacher, on the other hand<br />
(why is there always another hand?),<br />
calls the final stage of life<br />
<i>the days of trouble.<br />
I find no pleasure in them,</i><br />
he grumbles. Rightly so.<br />
Blind, deaf, toothless, and full of fear,<br />
the old lady drags herself<br />
along the floor of the nursing home<br />
like a grasshopper with a broken wing.<br />
<i>Meaningless. </i>The teacher again<br />
uses his favorite word.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So which is it—<br />
the blooming tree or the injured insect?<br />
I choose the tree<br />
(but I have my suspicions).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">These conflicting viewpoints are
both true. The psalmist gives the positive picture of faith, what can happen to
one who follows God all her life (although some of it may be reserved for after
her death). It underscores the truth that whatever happens to us, we are
surrounded and carried by the love of God. All things will work together for
the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The teacher brings us back to
reality. Faithful followers of Christ or not, old age is hard and inevitably
brings with it illness, diminishment, loss, and death. It’s important that we
look this reality straight in the face. Believing that Heaven is around the
corner is important, but so is our situation here and now. We need courage to
walk this path.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The challenge is to hold onto both
a faith-filled picture of old age and an open-eyed realism. Not either/or.
Both/and. That can be tricky, even when we know which side will ultimately win.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">St. Paul brings together realism
and faith when he writes, “Though outwardly we are wasting away (Ecclesiastes),
yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day (Psalms)” (2 Corinthians 4:16).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another Paul, French poet Paul
Claudel, puts it this way: “Eighty years old… No eyes left, no teeth, no legs,
no wind! And when all is said and done, how astonishingly well one does without
them!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Absolutely astonishing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOrztZpwPlC3sjet5LZqgiVARd68wcL8DKtdZ5Ijdu1HLV2QktmhZe1LqVhDDb7Te72V833i3_O5cQwmxYBpTlk2DOHbScT_petb43xJjnN1qnCIWYtbIBwDJLbjZyrT9dN6wZvlTxQydYOXAkbFTIpziq9pQMBaCMr_jYNaqojxuyBT3Uk2mIpxk8LXnN/s212/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="212" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOrztZpwPlC3sjet5LZqgiVARd68wcL8DKtdZ5Ijdu1HLV2QktmhZe1LqVhDDb7Te72V833i3_O5cQwmxYBpTlk2DOHbScT_petb43xJjnN1qnCIWYtbIBwDJLbjZyrT9dN6wZvlTxQydYOXAkbFTIpziq9pQMBaCMr_jYNaqojxuyBT3Uk2mIpxk8LXnN/w319-h223/images.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-33789376654811551172024-02-27T12:16:00.000-08:002024-02-29T09:43:52.801-08:00Gruesome perhaps, but necessary and worthwhile<p><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the goals of our retirement
community is to encourage people to continue as life-long learners. Retirement
doesn’t mean turning off the brain. On the contrary, having more time opens up opportunities
to explore new areas of knowledge. Curiosity gives life to old bones. And old brains.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In this retirement center,
opportunities for learning abound. A resident committee dedicates itself to
finding interesting speakers and workshops; this week a professor from the
university across the street is speaking on “Civility in Polarized Times.” A
few weeks ago, a Vietnam vet (and resident of this community) talked from
personal experience on the ongoing emotional trauma war veterans face. The art
committee frequently invites artists to demonstrate their craft. The community
life department organizes outside excursions; in a few weeks those who want can
ride the bus to the Rice Museum of Rocks and Minerals of the Pacific Northwest.
And on and on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And, of course, learning takes
place through books. I’ve been a reader all my life, and retirement gives more time to
read all kinds of books. The retirement community has its own well-used library.
Belonging to a book-discussion group helps with processing what we read.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This past week I’ve been
inhabiting another world, learning about a line of work I only experienced watching
detective/murder movies on TV (not my favorite kind of show—and apparently full
of misinformation). It’s the world of forensic investigative medicine. The
world of autopsies, something I’ve not been interested in. Until now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVA04Uy9-QQ0TC21YMmjxi6gxQ1N_UQcpd4_XqmAWboB3D3Y6vfGXwy3xcMFSnJHAqljbY8iDasNkXXKIwlXAOXEJeeQuCrwFyK_3Gm7kiKaxFm23ArE7S3NcDjcbkOjob0_aElw9c2zDmV53B1dlxSt6P3lqTom5XuGF7n6Ez1BBZkx8Rvkmkq4sGkPG-/s327/712BFEZeC6L._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="215" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVA04Uy9-QQ0TC21YMmjxi6gxQ1N_UQcpd4_XqmAWboB3D3Y6vfGXwy3xcMFSnJHAqljbY8iDasNkXXKIwlXAOXEJeeQuCrwFyK_3Gm7kiKaxFm23ArE7S3NcDjcbkOjob0_aElw9c2zDmV53B1dlxSt6P3lqTom5XuGF7n6Ez1BBZkx8Rvkmkq4sGkPG-/s320/712BFEZeC6L._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" width="210" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The book is a memoir by Judy Melinek,
M.D., assisted by her husband, T.J. Mitchell. It’s called <i>Working Stiff: Two
Years, 262 Bodies, and the Making of a Medical Examiner </i>(2014). The author tells
the story of her two-year internship (2001-2003) in New York City, working in
the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner (OCME), the office that investigates homicides,
suicides, drug overdoses, and disasters. She describes her role as follows:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">A forensic pathologist
is a specialist in the branch of medicine who investigates sudden, unexpected,
or violent deaths by visiting the scene, reviewing medical records, and performing
an autopsy—all while collecting evidence that might be used in court. Like a
clinical pathologist, she has to recognize what everything in the body looks
like, but the forensic pathologist also has to understand how it all works….
The forensic pathologist is the medical profession’s eyewitness to death—answering
all the questions, settling all the arguments, revealing al the mysteries
contained in the human vessel. “One day too late,” my clinical friends like to
joke.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the beginning of the book,
Melinek assures the reader that, “I’m not a ghoulish person. I’m a guileless,
sunny optimist, in fact.” Part of the book is the story of how she journeyed
from surgery to general pathology, finally realizing that forensic pathology challenged
her and gave her the most personal satisfaction. She writes with humor that, “I
didn’t start off wanting to be a forensic pathologist. You don’t say to
yourself in second grade, ‘When I grow up, I want to cut up dead people.’ It’s
not what you think a doctor should do.” But in the end of her professional
search this very role become her calling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Melinek’s story demonstrates a combination
of objectivity and compassion. Concerning objectivity, she writes that “You
have to suppress your emotional responses or you wouldn’t be able to do your
job. In some ways it’s easier for me, because a dead body really is an object, no longer a person at all. More important, that dead body is not my only
patient. The survivors are the ones who really matter. I work for them too.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She demonstrates compassion
through the stories of the people that death put on her operating table. The book
is full of stories. The different chapters deal with deaths by poisoning,
violent accidents, homicides, suicides, natural disaster, and man-made
disaster. A chapter is given each, with stories of the people and details of how she went
about her investigations, including details about the autopsies and how she
discovered the secrets the bodies revealed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was disturbing reading and I
had to steel myself in parts, practicing objectivity. This was possible because
of Melinek’s obvious love of and respect for the human body and her
fascination with its intricacies, even in a state of decomposition. That combined
with compassion for the subjects of her investigations and their families helped me read my way through the book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The longest chapter in the book is
titled, “DM01.” That stands for “Disaster Manhattan 2001.” 9/ll. All cases for
identification would be coded DM01-1, DM01-2, and so on. The workers at the OCME were
in shock that day, as was the whole nation, and it soon became clear the
dauting task ahead for the forensic pathologists. OCME headquarters became the
center for the identification of remains from the disaster. Tents were set up
in the street around the building, much like we witnessed during the recent
pandemic. Thirty medical examiners joined the team and they worked 12-hour
shifts around the clock. The work went on for 8 months, with remains being
discovered even after the investigation was officially closed. Melinek
estimates that she had 598 DM01 cases assigned to her. A year after the
disaster, the team had issued 1,389 death certificates, the other 1,344 missing
persons declared dead by judicial decree. The author noted that, “Many families
expressed their gratitude that our office, and the funeral directors who acted
as intermediaries, had helped them to mourn even in the absence of remains to
bury.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This gave me an entirely new perspective
on 9/11, just as the whole memoir gave me a new understanding of forensic
pathology.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Since 2004, Dr. Melinek has carried
on her work in San Francisco where she lives with her husband and two children.
Looking at her life’s work, she writes that<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Every day I learn something new
about the human body. I love the work, the science, the medicine. But I also
love the nonmedical aspects of the job—counseling families, collaborating with
detectives, testifying in court. I find I work hardest at these roles, at
speaking for the dead. Every doctor has to cultivate compassion, to learn it
and then practice it. To confront death every day, to see it for yourself, you
have to love the living.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">As I wrote above, this book was like a walk through another
planet. I learned something new about the world, about the value of work. I gained
a stronger appreciation for people called into roles that most of us might find
repulsive, but which are a necessary part of our living together in society.
And I was reminded that any job can be carried out with integrity and
compassion.<br /></span></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-44187518291737741382024-02-20T09:29:00.000-08:002024-02-20T09:29:11.978-08:00The fragility of travel plans<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I’ve been blessed with a career
that let me travel the world, at least that part of the world south of the US border.
Hal and I began our relationship in Guatemala, where he was serving as a
conscientious objector to war and I was there are a short-term “youth
ambassador” with our denomination. After we married, we moved to Bolivia where
we spent 26 years, raising our kids and learning to be at home in Latin
America.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuFeM-gfkVVU7CKAdVIUQdKvE23hjQbxcwRKkQp8OtFGz3penCaoCafP0X5gcarRRwtdihHzi3qUn0stDeea9WIoVCpZIrgbhp7wd4l2rd4uyomH3RqjRzZVkc9x12oLf_24zbhjQ7SbyJfmmZnw_1p22WepZgZrgN9Sox6F1U-fjQRJNfBGAOz5a2K6Z/s2284/2012%20April%20May%20167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2284" data-original-width="1795" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJuFeM-gfkVVU7CKAdVIUQdKvE23hjQbxcwRKkQp8OtFGz3penCaoCafP0X5gcarRRwtdihHzi3qUn0stDeea9WIoVCpZIrgbhp7wd4l2rd4uyomH3RqjRzZVkc9x12oLf_24zbhjQ7SbyJfmmZnw_1p22WepZgZrgN9Sox6F1U-fjQRJNfBGAOz5a2K6Z/s320/2012%20April%20May%20167.JPG" width="251" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />A subsequent job with a
semi-virtual graduate school saw us teaching Christian leaders in Bolivia,
Peru, Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Ecuador, and Costa Rica. I gave seminars for
writers in Bolivia, Peru, Guatemala, Mexico, and the Philippines. In addition,
we spent time with our daughter and son-in-law in Saipan, and made four trips
to Ruanda and Kenya to be with our son and his family. (Our kids caught the
travel bug from us.) And we were privileged to visit friends in Thailand,
Turkey, and Russia. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was all very exciting at the
time, but just reading the list now exhausts me. As the preacher in
Ecclesiastes could have said, “There is a time to travel and a time to stay
home.” We’ve come to acknowledge the time we’re in now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In fact, in the last ten years of
this extensive travel schedule, we were noticing how much longer the flights
seemed, how uncomfortable the seats had become, and how hard it was to hoist
our hand luggage into the overhead bins. The airport stays between connecting
flights became oppressive and trip-recovery time more drawn out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0gAIFkQUlNtT9ATpZQuYNuQjrrK_qKLkdBhlbURxyucmsLN1zdlncnSyTbKrf45l3qCAUaX1oQkdsj3qJdlUxi1kFBmQY9oAp0O9lyqL1vHkN_I8vQmocliFtJgnNGiWrvM7DTaR_BSZYlWtZOWTmUbBgqshwXQ-DB8HAezO6roSiTxr7-H93sb9llAO/s960/58441097_10219244938619673_6702627353983451136_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0gAIFkQUlNtT9ATpZQuYNuQjrrK_qKLkdBhlbURxyucmsLN1zdlncnSyTbKrf45l3qCAUaX1oQkdsj3qJdlUxi1kFBmQY9oAp0O9lyqL1vHkN_I8vQmocliFtJgnNGiWrvM7DTaR_BSZYlWtZOWTmUbBgqshwXQ-DB8HAezO6roSiTxr7-H93sb9llAO/s320/58441097_10219244938619673_6702627353983451136_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Our last trip to Bolivia in 2019
was to celebrate the centennial of the Bolivia Friends Church and celebrate we
did! Our two adult kids came with us so the four of us could experience their
“home country,” and be with so many loved-ones again. But……Hal and I adjusted
poorly to the high altitude and came down with some familiar but energy-sapping
illnesses. We seemed—and were—more vulnerable. We reluctantly decided that this
would be our last big trip.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And for a time, it was our last
trip. The pandemic helped us stay home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But now a wonderful opportunity
has been handed to us. The graduate school we helped found and worked in up
until our retirement is celebrating its 20<sup>th</sup> anniversary. It’s to be
held in Panama City. All present and former professors and administrators, plus
the 50 some graduates are invited. These are all people we came to love and
consider family, so the thought of being together again delights and excites
us. The organization is sponsoring our trip and we have our tickets in hand<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But (again, that pesky little word)
it’s been ten years since our retirement and we are not the same people. Our
bodies challenge us in ways they didn’t before. The current issue is Hal’s back
pain, a hazard of aging that seems common around here. Common, that is, unless
it’s happening to you or your loved-one. The doctor does not recommend another
back surgery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At his age (hate that
phrase!), the operation would have a 50% chance of success and recovery time
would be long and “uncomfortable.” (I could tell the doctor didn’t want to do
the surgery.) So we opted out, and Hal is handling his pain with physical
therapy, appropriate exercise, and an ever-handy heating pad. We think we see
progress.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Other times, progress seems an
illusion. These past few weeks have been especially painful, in spite of him
doing all the right things. And our trip is three weeks away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We’ve been avoiding this
conversation, but we’re finally admitting the possibility that he might have to
cancel. If it hurts so much here in our comfortable home, what would a day-long
airplane trip feel like? Would he be able to celebrate and do fun stuff with
the rest of us once we arrived? Would he be alive and well at the end of the
trip?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe. He has more good days than
bad ones. But we don’t know. If we cancel now, there’s a chance we can recover
the money for the ticket. But what if we cancel and he feels great? We’ve
decided that I will travel, even if he doesn’t. I would represent the two of us
and he could benefit vicariously. But that’s not nearly as satisfying.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It comes down to reckoning with
our limitations, something we all face. How do we balance our dreams, joys, and
all the things we used to do well with the realities of growing older? How do
we face our limitations yet not limit ourselves from the richness of life we
suspect God want us to have even at this age? Jesus called it “abundant life”
and did not put a time-limit on it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We’re still learning the balancing
act. In fact, I’m taking a balance exercise class! But it won’t help solve our
present dilemma. We’ll give it one more day. If he feels tremendous tomorrow
morning, the trip’s a go. If not, well, maybe one more day?</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-73968804557812976062024-02-13T09:55:00.000-08:002024-02-13T09:55:00.035-08:00Dust if you must<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">One of the benefits of living in
our apartment here in the retirement community is free housekeeping. On Monday
morning, every other week, a housecleaning staff person comes in and spends an
hour vacuuming our rugs, scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors, and giving
the bathroom a thorough going-over. I haven’t cleaned a toilet in seven years!
I really appreciate it.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYM2wZxsK9tYhhll0J84TbwLiu-o0T0ZYorRKsHaPnSgTSlQWBTJ7D2GMRy8ALa8iqnmMDaBiD2iDBjXswLt3TAaAVbadec-X3gtZdcnuueKXykP05ojM3K3pXiCDqClCSgtwIA5blaFJN7Sa4xD-kNPivXVfDrEXL8I95jNY116NEWbi9TsqX-8QZFHM/s640/trinkets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYM2wZxsK9tYhhll0J84TbwLiu-o0T0ZYorRKsHaPnSgTSlQWBTJ7D2GMRy8ALa8iqnmMDaBiD2iDBjXswLt3TAaAVbadec-X3gtZdcnuueKXykP05ojM3K3pXiCDqClCSgtwIA5blaFJN7Sa4xD-kNPivXVfDrEXL8I95jNY116NEWbi9TsqX-8QZFHM/s320/trinkets.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The cleaners, however, are not
allowed to dust. I think it’s because everyone here keeps little precious
trinkets, statues, vases, photos, or whatever. These occupy dresser tops,
bookcases, and other spare surfaces. A duster would have to take them all down,
carefully, dust them, clean the surface of the dresser, and then replace them.
Not only time-consuming, but risky. If some little precious thing dropped and
was broken, well, some older people would get really angry. (Not me, of
course.) The community might even get sued. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So the dusting is up to me. Seems
like a small task, as, in fact, it is. But the funny thing is how often I
notice that I could actually write a poem with my finger on my dresser top!
Since retirement, I’ve become a little lax. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8Ilao3HkjoVxFxHB5QQA2Gd1drXVQMwpdoV0uSpxTzSFOSuAVWCVhyphenhyphenou-_2eqq5HQPhGHkpaLgt81GDi2D8c7vwEiv8dXVj48hBMJTTQQiy7fnn-Ov8-GknYX37P3J39QzkRQ1RQg3c092WJmqvdPp_R7Qe8pCppDsI-m7JaACD-wyf3k_ZKsekNAi5s/s1068/rose-milligan-hixson-tn-photos1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="898" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl8Ilao3HkjoVxFxHB5QQA2Gd1drXVQMwpdoV0uSpxTzSFOSuAVWCVhyphenhyphenou-_2eqq5HQPhGHkpaLgt81GDi2D8c7vwEiv8dXVj48hBMJTTQQiy7fnn-Ov8-GknYX37P3J39QzkRQ1RQg3c092WJmqvdPp_R7Qe8pCppDsI-m7JaACD-wyf3k_ZKsekNAi5s/s320/rose-milligan-hixson-tn-photos1.jpg" width="269" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Recently a friend sent me a poem
by Rose Milligan. I had never heard of her, so I looked her up on the Internet.
An English poet, she lived in North Lancashire until her death in 2011 at age
89. I can’t find much about her as a poet and apparently she wasn’t critically
acclaimed. But in 1998 she published a poem called, “Dust if You Must,” that
has since been republished countless times and broadly quoted and misquoted.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The poem not only makes me laugh,
it helps me be more gentle to myself concerning my current housekeeping
tendencies. If you notice that it sounds a little like a Hallmark greeting
card, just have patience. Read on. Here it is:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dust If You
Must<br />
by Rose Milligan<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dust if you must,
but wouldn’t it be better<br />
To paint a picture, or write a letter,<br />
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;<br />
Ponder the difference between want and need?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dust if you must,
but there’s not much time,<br />
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;<br />
Music to hear, and books to read;<br />
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dust if you must,
but the world’s out there<br />
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;<br />
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,<br />
This day will not come around again.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Dust if you must,
but bear in mind,<br />
Old age will come, and it’s not kind.<br />
And when you go (and go you must)<br />
You, yourself, will make more dust.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, don’t you feel better too?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Set that broom back in the closet.
Put on your sweater. Go outside and play.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjms12A8KbJO9715HrCLHeHCLWtQY7o9bjuMZPfL-Ie97W0bASDTOxuWHoa-iUyzEbYytlrNaHdwf6FD-qnEZUjs5JMQhn5c08ubOVX9cFCXj2HJ4IKsTCl8g8Qs8Ey-L5f-FUw3cR7csZsAZ5qioKZeh0RzaqcNrydx99kYraCSQe926N29xv8MEZAVEpT/s220/roses%20in%20forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="220" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjms12A8KbJO9715HrCLHeHCLWtQY7o9bjuMZPfL-Ie97W0bASDTOxuWHoa-iUyzEbYytlrNaHdwf6FD-qnEZUjs5JMQhn5c08ubOVX9cFCXj2HJ4IKsTCl8g8Qs8Ey-L5f-FUw3cR7csZsAZ5qioKZeh0RzaqcNrydx99kYraCSQe926N29xv8MEZAVEpT/w320-h215/roses%20in%20forest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-52675895559431620962024-02-06T12:11:00.000-08:002024-02-13T10:00:10.702-08:00Vaccinations and second childhood<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Older people are said to
experience a “second childhood.” The stereotype is that of a silly old man or
woman acting childish, often on the verge of dementia. I resist that image,
although sadly it does describe some people. Those people deserve compassion,
not sarcasm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But it is true that many childhood
memories and emotional experiences are alive and active in our inner persons,
maybe more so the older we get. They influence how we feel and act.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.25in;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhs9Jfp3GtDSmUV174NNCFOJxxCgLOHOrILM2YOw_AJdG1E9BBtPmI-l8iIUono6X2iDJzHiSrBGh8LFA0hWuhgq4tjb5jBFJ1KMmT0pqBoHOY80yHb8lyQrCkzRCigGpYP1rsAMjynXhlu4Ql2h1Z1x3w1gE88VGLV8tuGaE3CvkmZtHRtdaaaSpStDlR/s600/pexels-photo-3786166.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhs9Jfp3GtDSmUV174NNCFOJxxCgLOHOrILM2YOw_AJdG1E9BBtPmI-l8iIUono6X2iDJzHiSrBGh8LFA0hWuhgq4tjb5jBFJ1KMmT0pqBoHOY80yHb8lyQrCkzRCigGpYP1rsAMjynXhlu4Ql2h1Z1x3w1gE88VGLV8tuGaE3CvkmZtHRtdaaaSpStDlR/s320/pexels-photo-3786166.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br />Take getting shots. Maybe this is
a trivial example, but in this regard I’m still a child. I hate getting shots.
My gut begins twisting and tightening as the time approaches, like when I was a
little girl and my parents told me this was better than getting measles. And it
was. But, still….<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s really not as bad as it used
to be. I’ve spent much of my adult life living abroad and that meant typhoid,
hepatitis, yellow fever, and other gruesome shots. While I never liked them, I
learned to tolerate the experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I still feel that jab of fear.
I have a coping strategy. I sit in the chair, my arm bared and waiting, and I
pretend I’m a grown-up, even as that frightened inner child shakes. My face
doesn’t let anything but indifference show. Afterwards I inevitably say to
myself, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Maybe that makes me mature, not
childish. I’m committed to getting that annual flu shot, and now the latest
Covid vaccine, no matter what. So, stop crying, inner child.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7F_fcrbENiEsrHA08xUMjdMkU5Ubk4XEMHcgRWeTuUfV3ws-2xVd-b5JQXr7l8D1od4Ia_1W8dq2MhnMe1Zdb6Lcp12EXHz4FYgqifqRLtPdNVRLYac1lQ_9eSQbyMm6a7mZkws1NXxX_vi3sQ2SnbGLKOiVZRXc35fsJ1i-kjn0V2tI1aGKpDW4X_Dhc/s204/download.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="204" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7F_fcrbENiEsrHA08xUMjdMkU5Ubk4XEMHcgRWeTuUfV3ws-2xVd-b5JQXr7l8D1od4Ia_1W8dq2MhnMe1Zdb6Lcp12EXHz4FYgqifqRLtPdNVRLYac1lQ_9eSQbyMm6a7mZkws1NXxX_vi3sQ2SnbGLKOiVZRXc35fsJ1i-kjn0V2tI1aGKpDW4X_Dhc/s1600/download.jpg" width="204" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">(An aside: When I looked for vaccination images on the Internet, most of the offerings were cheerful--people sitting in the chair, needle in arm, smiling smugly. Even children. Even babies. I remember bringing my babies in for their shots. They may have been smiling beforehand, but that was quickly followed by a look of pure shock, and then the wails.)</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Currently I have six red spots on
my face. No one has said anything about them to me, so maybe they aren’t
conspicuous. But in the mirror, I look like I have some infectious childhood
disease. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Last week on a routine checkup, my
dermatologist told me I had six pre-cancerous spots on my face. She followed
this information by saying, “But it’s nothing to worry about.” Right. She then
took out her slender silver gun, aimed it at my face, pulled the trigger, and
froze each spot. Each shot stung for a brief moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Looking back, I realize that I
experienced no fear. And I’ll do it again next year if necessary. I have no
qualms although this procedure stings more than a flu shot or the dreaded
drawing of blood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wonder why. Maybe it’s because I
have no frozen-face childhood memories. Maybe it’s because anything that
reduces the possibility of cancer is worth the pain involved. I don’t know why
I’m so calm about this. I’m just standing back and observing these things about
myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s intriguing how some childhood
fears linger, even into old age. We change, of course, and hopefully find ways
of facing these fears. Something that helps me do this is humor. I look at
myself and chuckle. I write silly blogs. And I show up at the doctor’s office
no matter what I’m feeling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You can laugh at me, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Or, better yet, laugh at yourself.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><i>Examples of Happy Campers:</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMafp1cma5U2RRwfqKOiL_NmP9kKPwFjz6kKYEXwfry5-qmWoZR-Uww_X0n3wK_lIrP-ggDBIeep63IBG5w_hUYwqk7Shd8yxMrfGofFuWtvchRvJYdvRyg1YjvY8UjhX2ZcaZT_WJ7GCE1anBe4yS6Nqrg3Zc2r87GBwnFmmkqZXgx2ToIftgK7ibnlM9/s612/istockphoto-1402658038-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMafp1cma5U2RRwfqKOiL_NmP9kKPwFjz6kKYEXwfry5-qmWoZR-Uww_X0n3wK_lIrP-ggDBIeep63IBG5w_hUYwqk7Shd8yxMrfGofFuWtvchRvJYdvRyg1YjvY8UjhX2ZcaZT_WJ7GCE1anBe4yS6Nqrg3Zc2r87GBwnFmmkqZXgx2ToIftgK7ibnlM9/s320/istockphoto-1402658038-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhae9D0pdl1AHxya3CAlmgKHfeNHcRFE2ggkJnKw06IqFoh8y8ZbebMmb1C27xknlqWcQLH0eeeANmTEE4bY1nPHq2nSM8fz9owOH4ZBb-R4UgHHZM_QIUPtsLDRdN3_F3U5DZsUzYlkobc7o7tmPNrF-P2dVb3cQOLLPIu9GA-JGgHh-C-EOJrEbSWUGAO/s612/istockphoto-823871730-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhae9D0pdl1AHxya3CAlmgKHfeNHcRFE2ggkJnKw06IqFoh8y8ZbebMmb1C27xknlqWcQLH0eeeANmTEE4bY1nPHq2nSM8fz9owOH4ZBb-R4UgHHZM_QIUPtsLDRdN3_F3U5DZsUzYlkobc7o7tmPNrF-P2dVb3cQOLLPIu9GA-JGgHh-C-EOJrEbSWUGAO/s320/istockphoto-823871730-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-37300582306628381582024-01-30T09:16:00.000-08:002024-01-30T09:16:59.006-08:00What? Say that again!<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I just completed a milestone in
the aging saga. I got hearing aids. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I’m surprised. For some reason
I didn’t think this would happen to me. In fact, I was proud of the fact that I
didn’t need them. But I was beginning to notice how often I was saying, “What?”
And not just to Hal, who is soft-spoken anyway. But in any conversation of more
than three people. In meetings where people did not want to use a mic.
Especially in the dinning room. It was getting embarrassing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The whole problem crept up on me
gradually. I finally had to admit I needed help. And now here I am. One of
them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“What?” is a word we hear a lot
around here. It gets funny. In fact there are a lot of deaf-old-people jokes
out there in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 27.0pt;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbdH4xmr5Y9MzRTa-AAYRtDRKy29KjrTY1PLpnh2Dltx2VRtR_Gifxp-C66pcjjQiDUIojKVZ0VhR44w3rPRJRC2Jy5cubgsmtH9gZzG_q-DRI5D0nmWI0X8rwUQ76H1gevqzr5mFMKQPvj9djKi5RVvDRToqdwHvIcAkUOFTNKiEXm4WXsY8tAcSbbYbp/s612/istockphoto-175447094-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbdH4xmr5Y9MzRTa-AAYRtDRKy29KjrTY1PLpnh2Dltx2VRtR_Gifxp-C66pcjjQiDUIojKVZ0VhR44w3rPRJRC2Jy5cubgsmtH9gZzG_q-DRI5D0nmWI0X8rwUQ76H1gevqzr5mFMKQPvj9djKi5RVvDRToqdwHvIcAkUOFTNKiEXm4WXsY8tAcSbbYbp/s320/istockphoto-175447094-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Two friends:<br />
#1: Maybe you should think about getting a hearing test.<br />
#2: Why would I want a hairy chest?<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 27.0pt;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">What do you call an old man
who has his hearing aids turned off?<br />
Anything you want.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sorry. Those are truly
moan-worthy.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I guess there’s a lot to laugh
about. Except when it happens to you and then it’s not so funny anymore. Hal
began to lose his hearing years ago and his attempts to adapt to hearing aids
haven’t worked. He has skin allergies that make the aids painful. It’s hard to
participate in conversations, other than one-on-one. Lectures, sermons,
announcements, even with a mic, are blurred. We only watch movies with
subtitles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It especially bothers him as a
musician. Hal plays the French horn in the community band. In practices he
can’t hear the conductor’s directions and has to depend on the person sitting
next to him. Fortunately, that person is kind and understanding. And of course,
as the hearing loss progresses—well, you can guess what that does to a
musician.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s not only hard on the person.
It’s hard on the other people in his or her life. I’m sympathetic and usually
kind, but there are times I just get downright irritated. Hal gets tired of
asking me to repeat and I get irritated at having to do it. And that’s not fair
to him. I end up feeling guilty. If we’re both tired, we often just give in and
don’t talk at all. (Fortunately, that never lasts long.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_xWvOLSRa2fnRbjPlvUZi_mA2mi5o1n8ibLijgoUD0EOSngbCcLdRzVvQ5l8vn7xxhx6glP4nbjG_vasbMFgw6Q135kdBGDJof0UiXWrB1vwrUawoYvTWaSL-HSHqlAUjsBJ9FMgjq7A0TA54FnpUDBtMpKshNpdMXP63vXQ8O6YCbg0RMZLRDOSBYeT/s612/istockphoto-1450981827-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_xWvOLSRa2fnRbjPlvUZi_mA2mi5o1n8ibLijgoUD0EOSngbCcLdRzVvQ5l8vn7xxhx6glP4nbjG_vasbMFgw6Q135kdBGDJof0UiXWrB1vwrUawoYvTWaSL-HSHqlAUjsBJ9FMgjq7A0TA54FnpUDBtMpKshNpdMXP63vXQ8O6YCbg0RMZLRDOSBYeT/s320/istockphoto-1450981827-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">From conversations with others, I
know that we’re not alone in facing these challenges. One in every three adults
between the ages of 61 and 70 has hearing loss. Above 85, the number rises to
80% (American Academy of Family Physicians). In addition, studies show a
relationship between hearing loss and depression. Deafness or partial deafness are also said to play a role in dementia. Hearing aids help reduce the risks of
these conditions.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, here I am. It’s not been a
week yet and I’m still adapting. I’ve still very aware that these things are in
my ears. Fortunately the models these days are discrete and so far no one can
tell I’m wearing them (except when I can’t keep it back and say, “Guess
what?........”). I’m still a bit uneasy. I’m not sure I’m putting them in
correctly or if they’re far enough into the ear. Am I cleaning them well
enough? My follow-up visit is in two weeks. My list of questions is growing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have no doubt that I’m hearing
better. Sitting around the table in Sunday school, I could hear the people across from
me without cupping my ear and leaning forward. I can hear my soft-spoken
husband (even if he can’t hear me). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I can hear a lot more than
that. I never realized what a noisy world we live in. Just in our apartment,
everything is loud—the clock on the wall, paper crinkling, the door closing,
our loud-mouthed refrigerator that hums the same tune over and over. The sound
the toothbrush makes scrapping my teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And me! I can hear myself talking;
it’s like being in an echo chamber, and it doesn’t sound like me. Or what I
thought I sounded like. A little tinnier. In fact, everything seems tinny, like
people are speaking through tin cans connected by wires. I’m told this will
moderate in time, that I’ll learn how to adjust the sounds and volume. I hope
so.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Overall, I’m pleased. I know I’ll
grow used to my hearing aids, begin to forget they’re in there, and just hear
people talking, birds singing in the distance, the creek bubbling over rocks,
and all that other good stuff. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I’ll probably still get angry at jokes
about old people saying “What?” all the time. Compassion is called for and understanding. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">But you can smile.</span><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"> </span></span></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-34901337003760875842024-01-23T10:08:00.000-08:002024-01-23T10:08:59.470-08:00For as long as I live--I will sing<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Memory plays strange tricks on us
as we age. Not only are the edges of the past blurred, our priorities get
mixed. Take music, for example. Songs. What songs do we remember from the past?
What has slipped away?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I remember the silly songs from
childhood—Old MacDonald and his farm, the alphabet song, “The Itsy Bitsy
Spider” of course, and the irritating “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the
Wall.” It helps memory that we taught these songs to our kids (except for the
beer song). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I also remember some totally
inane rock-n-roll songs from early adolescence. I can sing all the verses of
“Splish, Splash, I was takin’ a bath,” “Wake up, little Susy, wake up,” “The
Purple-People Eater,” and of course the incomparable Elvis—“Jailhouse Rock” and
“You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog, yapping all the time.” These songs often
come back to me at inappropriate times, like when I’m taking a prayer walk or
sitting in church. What does that say about me? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMm_vedqSNbZKyL1zPWaN4K3w2gX4cOolhnrClwePQzguJGF-EBOPJkT9MriQJe9FT0XLSvkZKyrFKOsBsmZDCGkD_RPDWkHDknOr3poxc69HXVZ6qm_Uj2WjepMNn31dyqO8BUT5Vw6hqykcuVLqgh1o9ajRLnLd7S3adyHvm_8Q47JOOmMKNaq4uyQo/s640/2023.12%20Christmas%20harmonica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMm_vedqSNbZKyL1zPWaN4K3w2gX4cOolhnrClwePQzguJGF-EBOPJkT9MriQJe9FT0XLSvkZKyrFKOsBsmZDCGkD_RPDWkHDknOr3poxc69HXVZ6qm_Uj2WjepMNn31dyqO8BUT5Vw6hqykcuVLqgh1o9ajRLnLd7S3adyHvm_8Q47JOOmMKNaq4uyQo/s320/2023.12%20Christmas%20harmonica.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote in a December blog about this
past Christmas season when Hal played his harmonica, joining two ukulele
players, preforming in the memory care unit of our retirement community. When
the trio broke into “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Frosty the Snowman,” and “Rudolf
the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the residents began tapping their feet, grinning, and
singing along, memory loss and all.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This community recognizes the
value of music to the elderly and offers all kinds of opportunities. A music
committee oversees activities such as a mixed choir that gave a marvelous
Christmas concert and is already planning for Easter. Music plays an important
part of the on-campus worship services—chiefly Sunday morning worship and
Wednesday evening prayer meetings. Informal hymn sing-alongs and piano concerts
regularly take place in the lobby. From time to time, guest musicians give
special presentations. There’s lots of music going on around here.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hal and I have our tickets for the
Portland Symphony concert next door in the university auditorium. Every year
this famous orchestra gives a concert in Newberg, offering 35 tickets to our
retirement community (first-come-first-served). I made sure to get ours early.
This year it will be a pops concert featuring the music of Gershwin. Can’t
wait!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our wider local community also
offers opportunities. Hal plays his French horn in the Cheleham Valley
Community Band. Its membership includes all ages, from high school on up to the
elderly. Its intergenerational nature makes it more fun. Hal struggles with
wondering whether or not it’s time to give it up. He says he’s not as good as
he used to be when younger; plus the once a week night rehearsals and the need
to practice every night (a goal not always met) challenge his stamina. I’m
telling him, “Not yet, please.” That time will come soon enough.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Unlike Hal, I don’t have the
musical gene. My voice range is one octave that squeaks at the top. As far as
instruments go, consistently keeping the right rhythm is more than I can
manage. And yet I love the idea of playing an instrument. I’ve strummed the
guitar since high school days, never reaching any level of proficiency. But I’m
not giving up. Last year I purchased a Great Courses series called, “How To Play
the Guitar.” It promises that if I persist through all 24 lessons, I will
“master” all that is taught in one college semester. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sounds good. I’m finding it a lot
of fun and especially feel good about finally learning how to read music. But
this will take more than a semester. I’m slowly working my way through the DVD
and Hal tells me I’m sounding better. But a sneak-peak at the advanced lessons
gives me grave doubt. I might stop while I’m still having fun. At any rate,
it’s stimulating my aging brain, or so the experts tell me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqnZnsoxE3utmiWnu_3mitfoqtjR0WGbxWbW_K71pGazg77pcIJoXiWnGC7ClfEBvgi1ZiSKrT_ZuiOdokHByByGEZIkm6-bDjQtp-_qrK7e5-PAqif5UoMs4UdbCsfDR2TszxH5CQ1GV7AwrOCiJSqkzlWN9bYxnA5E0MChNSWzT5bopuURtcaaB1HqM/s612/singing%20bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqnZnsoxE3utmiWnu_3mitfoqtjR0WGbxWbW_K71pGazg77pcIJoXiWnGC7ClfEBvgi1ZiSKrT_ZuiOdokHByByGEZIkm6-bDjQtp-_qrK7e5-PAqif5UoMs4UdbCsfDR2TszxH5CQ1GV7AwrOCiJSqkzlWN9bYxnA5E0MChNSWzT5bopuURtcaaB1HqM/s320/singing%20bird.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s without doubt that music
ministers to the elderly in ways we can’t always understand. Hal and I used to
visit my dear friend Harriet before she died at 104-years-old. She loved it
when Hal brought his harmonica and played old hymns. Some times she sang along.
When it came time for us to leave, she would always say, “No! Play more songs!”
Usually we stayed a while longer.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hal’s parents spent their last
months of life in a care home. Both were suffering from dementia. Conversation
was difficult as both memory and logical thought processes had decayed. Yet
when we sang together, all the words of the old hymns were there, accessible,
and they sang with joy. All the verses.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hal’s mom had been an accomplished
pianist; most of her skill had left her, but she could still play simple tunes
in the key of C. But when Hal sat with her at the old piano in the care home,
he would play his harmonica and she would follow along on the keyboard, her
fingers remembering more than she thought she knew. A big smile would light up
her face.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the last few days before her
death, family members would gather around the bed, talking in low voices,
praying, and singing. Mom remained unconscious. On the day before her death,
while we were singing, I happened to look at her feet, and they were moving
back and forth, keeping perfect time to the music. She was responding on a deep
inner level.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOp6HsO6ZcLdLZfWMmq6h9zHYXdEeS1fxSoYQcNtOsKlO93pMiI81jIGnNIlAIEZ6DVkm3iHNKCF7ZHAihAuSO0zQdcq33BiTWH4R_M1m3dt5uDGtY7mlPcvOadYbkChhvr3navyMFpFbT1K7yXvUJWwvkdqVqqhF32yV_Y_G4s4vtiVvDow0CzWdYRDj4/s3032/Longstroth%20birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3032" data-original-width="2238" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOp6HsO6ZcLdLZfWMmq6h9zHYXdEeS1fxSoYQcNtOsKlO93pMiI81jIGnNIlAIEZ6DVkm3iHNKCF7ZHAihAuSO0zQdcq33BiTWH4R_M1m3dt5uDGtY7mlPcvOadYbkChhvr3navyMFpFbT1K7yXvUJWwvkdqVqqhF32yV_Y_G4s4vtiVvDow0CzWdYRDj4/s320/Longstroth%20birds.jpg" width="236" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I love it when the psalmist
proclaims: “I will sing to the Lord all my life; I will sing praise to my God
as long as I live” (Psalm104:33). That sounds like a healthy
intention—mentally, emotionally, even physically. Music makes a different. It’s
a life-giving component of the aging process. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I intend to go on singing, maybe
accompanying myself on the guitar, for as long as I am able. I may even enter
into heaven singing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It probably won’t be “Jailhouse
Rock.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">[For those of you who responded to last week’s blog about
the branches falling on my daughter’s house, here’s an update. While the damage
is extensive, the structure is sound and insurance will cover the repairs. These
will be extensive—replacing the roof and several walls, as well as the deck.
They are staying with friends now, divided among three households, looking far
a temporary rental where they can be together. The story continues, but the
family’s spirits are good.]</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-19934970145641384142024-01-16T08:42:00.000-08:002024-01-16T08:42:02.663-08:00Always a mom<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Life seems to be a series of
stages, one after another, characterized by changing relationships. One
pattern, the one I’m most familiar with, starts out with a single baby in
intimate dependence on its mother, a gradual growth out of dependency, followed
by blessed independence (!), and then marriage (an interdependence at best),
motherhood (reversed dependence), up through the empty nest and a new freedom
as persons in our own right. Then we end up again dependent on others for the slow
journey to the end of life.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Only that’s a little too neat and
orderly. My own life seems more mixed and messy, without a clear transition
from one stage to the next.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Take motherhood, for example. Now
that my kids are grown and with grown children of their own (and soon to be
grandparents, amazingly enough), my raising/nurturing/disciplining tasks should
be long over. And, indeed, they are, thank God. But it doesn’t always feel that
way. While no one calls me “Mommy” any more (again, thank God), I still
sometimes feel a keen sense of responsibility and a need to protect. I still
have a compulsion to stand between my daughter or son and any real or imagined
monster that would threaten them. I want to exchange my safety for their peril.
My health for their illness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I sometimes still wake up in the
night with a nightmare of some threat to their well-being. I find it harder to
pray with faith when one of them faces danger than I do to pray with faith for
peace in Ukraine. And that’s ridiculous!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, in mid-January, the houses,
trees and hills outside my window are covered in white. The first snow of the
season always amazes me with its beauty. But beauty isn’t the first word people
use to describe the snow this year. It’s slippery and dangerous outside. And
more so in the mountains where my daughter and her family live. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On Saturday it wasn’t snow; it was
freezing rain that fell all day and stuck to the trees surrounding their house
on the McKenzie River Road. Electricity went off in the morning and a downed
tree blocked their long driveway up the hill. That night as the temperature
dipped and the winds blew, Kristin, her husband Jon, and their son Peter
huddled all night in the living room, listening to the sound of tree branches
cracking and falling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By morning, branches had broken
through the ceilings in a bathroom, the hall, and their dining room. The front
porch and back deck were damaged and the yard a tangle of fallen trees and
branches. The largest tree on their property, a giant Douglas fir, had
completely toppled.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMnKoR-G_qjUBmB6HV_a4hGIRELXr-oMO_zJX98GUkLJV0iPX0rW_mEpMltCpSUqrUS_hyfuLGFn1NxwIcX197bmvrbEeEm6NFusHWQ-eaYGPeNuiP-TYS08RiIdgaVLSNU1yb3waeJGlW-splQ4o7opfzEGCD2_ku1zQohHO9YOjHkLcdxBqvjSg99fq/s640/image000000%20(7).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMnKoR-G_qjUBmB6HV_a4hGIRELXr-oMO_zJX98GUkLJV0iPX0rW_mEpMltCpSUqrUS_hyfuLGFn1NxwIcX197bmvrbEeEm6NFusHWQ-eaYGPeNuiP-TYS08RiIdgaVLSNU1yb3waeJGlW-splQ4o7opfzEGCD2_ku1zQohHO9YOjHkLcdxBqvjSg99fq/s320/image000000%20(7).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUlAw50ynMUa3MMLOdJV6NfHSE6RTCMFS206VjQPLjVC5LAih2csMRME1gJ6OCS6kQJyj0_xJxZhWl30R2-nd8l_cqzh9IheLMfPDsVypcCFIwwLI8ZDKfhyGUx4eYHwNxipqiugEzKT9kz2UL8JH5LsVayLWzQdZRosYCnh_S2qbUQGWzgOIZZ2QYUAt/s1600/image000000%20(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUlAw50ynMUa3MMLOdJV6NfHSE6RTCMFS206VjQPLjVC5LAih2csMRME1gJ6OCS6kQJyj0_xJxZhWl30R2-nd8l_cqzh9IheLMfPDsVypcCFIwwLI8ZDKfhyGUx4eYHwNxipqiugEzKT9kz2UL8JH5LsVayLWzQdZRosYCnh_S2qbUQGWzgOIZZ2QYUAt/s320/image000000%20(3).jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />They were blocked in most of
Sunday by the downed tree. Some friends met them at the bottom of their
driveway and took them home for showers and a hot meal. Jon and Kristin elected
to go back to their house to spend last night, partly for the sake of their
animals (two large dogs, three cats, and a tortoise), and partly to take care
of their house and keep the water system working. Hal and I were awake, off and
on, all night praying and worrying (which did a lot of good, I’m sure).<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning they informed us they
had made it through the night with no adventures. Even the cats came out of
hiding and slept on top of Kristin. Today it’s still a world of ice outside and
extremely cold, although sunny. Electricity is still off. The danger has not
passed. Quite a few trees around the property could still fall, and tomorrow
the forecast predicts more freezing rain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62t0BmAjxp49XQZBYn7pFoMxOqmSTgXt2YPNQKiEwe6-ejhsuDBn-LZXdlDpyTNFZ4kRpV5N0akrqsKQk6JiL6Vsu1EB7s5S9h0hQS5WJpWOnltQLqKMTZuKv8WTJTD8TiL5VfvF1RdPS_wS7zcvc31LpvOC-n2Z1i6YChc8v-xurMybIYbjTDfKoPpNz/s640/image000000%20(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg62t0BmAjxp49XQZBYn7pFoMxOqmSTgXt2YPNQKiEwe6-ejhsuDBn-LZXdlDpyTNFZ4kRpV5N0akrqsKQk6JiL6Vsu1EB7s5S9h0hQS5WJpWOnltQLqKMTZuKv8WTJTD8TiL5VfvF1RdPS_wS7zcvc31LpvOC-n2Z1i6YChc8v-xurMybIYbjTDfKoPpNz/s320/image000000%20(6).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The tree company just informed
them that the cost of removing the trees that have already fallen on their roof
and property comes to $13,000. They were planning on staying another night but
Kristin just texted, “We are really needing to consider getting out of here as
we were told by the tree company that it may get worse. It’s just so
complicated with the animals. Jon may be realizing the trailer, boat, water
system, and house just may not be worth keeping.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even if nothing else happens to
the house, it will take several months at least to repair the damage. They’ll
have to work out the details with their insurance company and find a place to
rent in the meantime.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So why am I going into all this
detail? It’s because it feels like it’s happening to me. If it’s happening to
one of my kids, it’s happening to me. I don’t know if every “old” mother feels
like this, but I suspect many of you do. I don’t even know if I <i>should</i>
feel like this. Maybe it’s a sign that I haven’t matured enough to pass on to
the next life stage. But I need to recognize that this is where I am so that I
can face it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once a mother, always a mother, I
guess. At least in the sense of deep empathy and a sharing in bearing the
emotional burden. Maybe that’s not so bad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, tomorrow is another
day, with its own dangers, blessings, and answers to prayer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(I’ll let you know how this story
plays out in a future installation.) </span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-3870150117433237952024-01-09T15:33:00.000-08:002024-01-09T15:33:05.042-08:00The Marketing of Old Age<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I’ve been reading a provocative
book called </span><i style="text-indent: 0.25in;">Never Say Die: The Myth and Marketing of the New Old Age </i><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">by
Susan Jacoby (2011). Jacoby calls attention to an anti-aging media blitz that
has been going on since the 1990s, a marketing of longevity that gives the idea
that with good nutrition, exercise, etc., we can control how we age. Successful
aging describes someone who has no complaints, no experience of prolonged
grief, no need for nostalgia, and no loneliness, depression or fear of
dependency. The author calls this the “new old age” and critiques what she
calls “the cult of longevity” for its lack of realism and refusal to face
eventual diminishment and death.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacoby identifies several cultural
“myths” that make up the “cult of longevity”: 1) the claims of the health
industry that the old can live “forever” if they live right and think
positively; 2) the implications of the biomedical business that they are rapidly
approaching a cure for old age; 3) the nostalgic idea that in the past
Americans honored the elderly; and 4) the idea that older is necessarily wiser.
The author spends most of the book busting these myths.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I recognize much of what Jacoby is
talking about as I see TV advertisements featuring the elderly (and directing
their marketing to this sizeable public). The people in the ads represent the “new
old,” people in their 60s, 70s, and into their mid-80s. They are beautiful,
well-groomed and clothed, going on cruises, playing catch with their grandkids
(also beautiful), and behaving romantically with their beautiful elderly
consorts. I remember one ad several years ago—for impotence, I think—that ended
with an older couple seated in matching bathtubs placed in a meadow, with
romantic music matching the glorious sunset. I wondered what those tubs were
doing out in the field and how they managed to fill them with water. Bucket by
bucket?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here’s how Jacoby describes the
actual state of the elderly as they transition out of the “young old” stage:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>“Maintaining a sense of dignity
and a sense of purpose in the final stages of life is, however, much more
complicated than simply picking the right place to live and hoping for good
health—or good enough health—to be of use in society. For too many Americans
like my grandmother, old age—especially advanced old age—means a sharp and
unwanted transition from a sense of themselves as people valued by family and
community to a diminished sense of themselves as burdens who serve no purpose.
It is a shift from active to passive, from being a caretaker to being a care
recipient, from independence to dependence, and it is experienced as a personal
loss at the deepest internal level, regardless of outer circumstances.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jacoby claims that the “cult of
longevity” is dangerous because it interferes with the reality that as the old
keep growing older, the difficulties increase. The two real problems of old age
in the United States are health, which will inevitably worsen over time, and
economics—all but the richest will grow poorer as they grow older. A rosy view
of aging interferes with the need to “deal pragmatically with…the issues.” She critiques
the Christian hope of heaven as interference with reality. Jacoby
self-identifies as a “serious atheist.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think this is an important book
and I learned a lot about contemporary American attitudes toward aging. Much of
her critique is spot-on. And yet….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When we moved into this retirement
community, someone gave us a copy of the book, <i>The Gift of Years: Growing
Older Gracefully</i> by Joan Chittister (2008). Susan Jacoby would probably
class Sister Chittister among the unrealistic who claim that old age is “the last
of life for which the first was made” (to quote Robert Browning). It certainly
gives a positive take on the purpose and satisfaction one can find in the final
stages of life. While I find good information and thought-provoking ideas in <i>Never
Say Die,</i> I discover wisdom in <i>The Gift of Years.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So, I ask—Is it possible to
approach the retirement years with a sense of optimism, determined to seek appropriate
adventures, learn new things, cultivate relationships, experiment with our
creativity, and affirm life while, at the same time, facing the challenges old
age inevitably brings? Can we bravely admit that each year the adventures will grow
fewer, our minds work more slowly, loved ones die, and body parts begin to fail?
Can we say the word, <i>death</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, I think so. The verse I’ve
placed at the top of my blog site is from Psalm 92: “Those who follow God will
flourish like a palm tree; they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon…. They will
still bear fruit in old age; they will stay fresh and green.” It takes faith to
affirm this, and that’s what I choose to do. Our belief that this life is not
the final word makes a huge difference in how we face any hardships that come. Advanced
old age will not be easy, but palm trees and cedars flourish in harsh climates.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I chose not to identify with the beautiful
“new old” whose image is being sold to us, along with the products that claim
to make it possible. I have no immediate plans to talk Hal into joining me in matching
bathtubs out in some farmer’s field. Even so, I can still accept this time of
life as a gift from God, to be both stewarded and enjoyed. And I can face the
future with courage, knowing nothing can separate me from the love of God<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d love to read a critique of
American cultural views of aging written from the standpoint of faith. Maybe
there is such a book out there somewhere. Let me know.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNVG-QXyXobpYaIvLiOdhbrOaPq3NtukNJjHrF5kA0YII_tFr5GuPKwULQAlWSVE5g7LeiMISadZqWPTTux62Iaa4Sua3ZJm-hoSohTudHPBOVZbs5sF5XdSPo2ae_lIZHiqvgNhv9G8FiCpqe1DH12ofvyrAWhdBfheZoqK3AWaezMxwALHh_1CV_Zpr/s616/1648128375983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="616" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNVG-QXyXobpYaIvLiOdhbrOaPq3NtukNJjHrF5kA0YII_tFr5GuPKwULQAlWSVE5g7LeiMISadZqWPTTux62Iaa4Sua3ZJm-hoSohTudHPBOVZbs5sF5XdSPo2ae_lIZHiqvgNhv9G8FiCpqe1DH12ofvyrAWhdBfheZoqK3AWaezMxwALHh_1CV_Zpr/s320/1648128375983.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-3383672351359372212024-01-02T10:23:00.000-08:002024-01-02T10:23:52.591-08:00Favorite books of 2023<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s New Year’s Day as I write
this. Although it’s really just an ordinary day, following yesterday in a
continuous line of 24-hour periods of time, it always feels special to me, as
though new beginnings and better behaviors are ahead of me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If I were making a list of New
Year’s Resolutions, which I’m not, I would put this one on the list: to read
lots of good books in 2024. But I don’t need a resolution because I already
know I’ll follow through. If 2023 is any indication, 2024 will be a good
reading year.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My annual list of favorites
follows. It doesn’t cover all the books read in 2023, just the ones I’d
recommend above others. A good number of these are the ones chosen by my book
club whose meetings I look forward to every month. We always read good books
which we choose ourselves once a year through a hilarious process of
recommendations and decision-by-consensus. Having a good book club helps in
making good choices. Plus, it’s tremendous fun.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With apologies for the length of
the list, here it is:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Fiction<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Colleen Oakley,
<i>The Invisible Husband of Frick Island </i>(2021): Unusual and creative plot
that kept me guessing until the end. It’s the story of a young widow who
pretends her husband is still alive and the islanders who go along with it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZxsSHK5u7EMp5QhMpQZwfi-wXQmQsyDZ9IWgN5-7RB5vsuzfdNINcHXRDwGTjsnZd_Fm5V8FqsJUFXESW8c-76I_gH8wwpd4CJDsngJDuA4Semgirt6vCLT5LABmyUcVlXxCgauUQfcBwSj6f6soQHTQ_HR481NxRAacyBDZRfd4MYnnRkYuNT5ISkhT/s1500/91-6PtI8ZfL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVZxsSHK5u7EMp5QhMpQZwfi-wXQmQsyDZ9IWgN5-7RB5vsuzfdNINcHXRDwGTjsnZd_Fm5V8FqsJUFXESW8c-76I_gH8wwpd4CJDsngJDuA4Semgirt6vCLT5LABmyUcVlXxCgauUQfcBwSj6f6soQHTQ_HR481NxRAacyBDZRfd4MYnnRkYuNT5ISkhT/s320/91-6PtI8ZfL._SL1500_.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Louise Penny, <i>A
World of Curiosities </i>(2022): I always look for the latest Penny mystery.
This one is about a notorious serial-killer, loose from prison and on a quest
to kill Inspector Gamache. Gamache figures it out before we do, of course, and
barely escapes with his life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Abi Dare, <i>The
Girl with the Louding Voice </i>(2020): The author is Nigerian and writes of a
14-year-old girl from a rural town who runs away to escape an arranged marriage
and ends up in Lagos. The story is written from the perspective of the girl who
speaks Nigerian English, and her language is one of the best features of the
book. A powerful story of women in Africa and the importance of education.
Loved this book. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXDA9pabf0LX5_tL988DAhaNV6vkbZRiZT78gl7x0nrJ-UoOqLDKSOxfCu7cfxDl23c-nEH4mARYPBrPs4AO7R7ZJYgoYMbNHIvMj6Xs62VtONBkKKQXhauIoUV43nksfyftkEOue4JrO9zrHo_nx57KrSeFasfA-7v7aF8KnI-M8LnjFZLCCX7ES1ZV8/s1500/91Fw+bxD9bL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="999" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXDA9pabf0LX5_tL988DAhaNV6vkbZRiZT78gl7x0nrJ-UoOqLDKSOxfCu7cfxDl23c-nEH4mARYPBrPs4AO7R7ZJYgoYMbNHIvMj6Xs62VtONBkKKQXhauIoUV43nksfyftkEOue4JrO9zrHo_nx57KrSeFasfA-7v7aF8KnI-M8LnjFZLCCX7ES1ZV8/s320/91Fw+bxD9bL._SL1500_.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Louise Erdrich,
<i>The Night Watchman </i>(2020): Pulitzer prize winner. I love anything by Erdrich,
a Native American writer. This story is based on Erdrich’s grandfather and the
work he did against the Congressional resolution to abrogate treaties made with
American Indians. Insightful on both NA history and intercultural relations.
Powerful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Anne Tyler, <i>Noah’s
Compass </i>(2009): Tyler is another favorite author. This novel deals with an
old man who is “downsized” from his teaching job, forced into an unwilling
retirement, and has a strange romance with a quirky young woman, throwing his
daughters into a chaos of emotions, mostly frustration and anger. Insightful on
the struggles of aging and hopeful at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Charles
Williams, <i>Descent into Hell </i>(1937): This was a re-reading of my favorite
of Williams’ theological thrillers. The story of people so ego-obsessed they
find themselves damned. But also a story of conversion and substitutionary love
whereby one person literally bears the burden of another. This was
transformative for me the first time I read it and continues to influence my
thinking and my ministry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Marie Benedict,
<i>The Only Woman in the Room </i>(2019): Revealing and surprising novel based
on the life of iconic actress Heddy Lamar. I had no idea (nor did her
contemporaries) she was such a brilliant scientist and so influential behind
the scenes of World War 2. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MdpPPHyFQUngVagm1RQG65SAsIKVeMUz2KSb6BeMHRFV9yos2x4DbJaXW6SySod6tmvwy61UqbeOwuPmsmYy3tRM0OISemeY1tVNablhuSVuq8qrYWfJXrci4_sKlP3I4PHBEGYqE-4lgHVmuhvhawcvEX1Ry6HefYz-xw-a58-XSd6Qgi-FVZXUU2T4/s1500/8150zfIIitL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MdpPPHyFQUngVagm1RQG65SAsIKVeMUz2KSb6BeMHRFV9yos2x4DbJaXW6SySod6tmvwy61UqbeOwuPmsmYy3tRM0OISemeY1tVNablhuSVuq8qrYWfJXrci4_sKlP3I4PHBEGYqE-4lgHVmuhvhawcvEX1Ry6HefYz-xw-a58-XSd6Qgi-FVZXUU2T4/s320/8150zfIIitL._SL1500_.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Luis Alberto
Urrea, <i>The Hummingbird’s Daughter </i>(2005): This is definitely one of the
best books I read during the year. It’s based on the true story of a young
Mexican woman, Teresita Urrea, who had unusual mystical gifts of healing and
became a living saint and an inspiration to indigenous peoples during the
Mexican revolution of the early 1900s. Urrea writes beautifully and this book
is riveting.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jodi Picoult
and Jennifer Finney Boylan, <i>Mad Honey </i>(2022): About the murder of a
young man and told alternately by his mother and his girl-friend who is accused
of the murder. It addresses difficult themes: spouse abuse, child abuse, and,
especially, the struggles of transgender people. Presents a compassionate view.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Shelby Van
Pelt, <i>Remarkably Bright Creatures </i>(2022): Loved it! About the
relationship between an octopus (in an aquarium) and the cleaning lady who
admires him. The octopus is intelligent (“remarkably bright”), good at solving
conundrums and at escaping his tank every night to forage for better food, etc.
It’s a story of friendship, loyalty, and self-giving love. A modern fairy-tale
actually. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrdc2tgL6ezhUN-GDCi5auC-7pjsBBvGc6a81byulSOmGYevTyHQsjb_7Qn6koNHl6NrbtIIF56BoUgdwdsd6WKkzOa_ik1H7HdyeRWWAaK5I__kthvZlac2c9bnctRJYTy6azGkR00dyYPUxYmKfCpW2FcusW8Nm3gJaf8XPoGbaxBXF8eQcjBvV9jr6/s1500/81X7rAcaQkL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="993" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrdc2tgL6ezhUN-GDCi5auC-7pjsBBvGc6a81byulSOmGYevTyHQsjb_7Qn6koNHl6NrbtIIF56BoUgdwdsd6WKkzOa_ik1H7HdyeRWWAaK5I__kthvZlac2c9bnctRJYTy6azGkR00dyYPUxYmKfCpW2FcusW8Nm3gJaf8XPoGbaxBXF8eQcjBvV9jr6/s320/81X7rAcaQkL._SL1500_.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ann Patchett, <i>The
Patron Saint of Liars </i>(1992): Story of a disgruntled young wife who finds
herself pregnant and escapes to a rural Catholic home in Kentucky for unwed
mothers (even though she is married). She plans to give her baby up for
adoption but falls in love with her infant daughter and ends up staying
long-term in the home. The plot develops as she deals with her past and learns
to accept who she is becoming. I like everything Ann Patchett writes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ann Garvin, <i>There’s
No Coming Back from This </i>(2023): A clever and quirky story of a single
mother about to be imprisoned by the IRS for back taxes. She flees across the
US to Hollywood and a job in the costume department of Universal Studios. Her
unspoken candor and unglamorous ways clash with the movie-making culture and
make for fascinating, sometimes hilarious, reading.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Non-Fiction<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hyeonseo Lee, <i>The
Girl with Seven Names: Escape from North Korea </i>(2015): Incredible memoir of
the author’s life in North Korea and her complicated escape.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Prince Harry, <i>Spare
</i>(2023): Fascinating to hear Harry’s side of his controversial decision,
made with his wife Meghan, to retire from the duties of royalty and move to
North America. Good insider view of the challenges of life among the British
royalty.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Emily
Pennington, <i>Feral: Losing Myself and Finding My Way in America’s National
Parks </i>(2023): Memoir of the author’s cross-country trip in a decked-out
van, while she works through a romantic break-up and searches for her identity.
All this is against the backdrop of America’s spectacular national parks; the
author describes each one, with some of its history. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWtnmDHPltxmJAbGCZue-vHmFn7WScKj0E6g2NUGIil3rx6Cv_jF96_9Uvl39fUAyKYkH7COiupB4-gLkon_sutGQYI2qbfymjgaELTCpE20bZMaOR4S_es272TJI8gJOFjay4ZZjkVmvU2VF3OhSEFutJyFfzTOrulRotIEZ8mG_ZG2_9DopySNyBXec/s1500/811RdUc3jCL._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWtnmDHPltxmJAbGCZue-vHmFn7WScKj0E6g2NUGIil3rx6Cv_jF96_9Uvl39fUAyKYkH7COiupB4-gLkon_sutGQYI2qbfymjgaELTCpE20bZMaOR4S_es272TJI8gJOFjay4ZZjkVmvU2VF3OhSEFutJyFfzTOrulRotIEZ8mG_ZG2_9DopySNyBXec/s320/811RdUc3jCL._SL1500_.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Daniel Bowman
Jr., <i>On the Spectrum: Autism, Faith & the Gifts of Neurodiversity. </i>(2021):
Insightful essays by the author who didn’t realize he was autistic until becoming
an adult.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Louise Aronson,
<i>Elderhood: Refining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining Life </i>(2019):
One of the most important books I read this year. The author is a geriatrician
and advocate for change in the way society views aging and treats the elderly.
Especially insightful when it comes to the “health industry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eli Saslow, <i>Rising
out of Hatred: The Awakening of a Former White Nationalist </i>(2018): Pulitzer
Prize winner. Biography of Dereck Black, a man indoctrinated in white
nationalism since childhood. Gives a scary picture of the lives, beliefs, and
passions of this extreme branch of North American conservatism. Shows Black’s
slow process of coming to doubt the tenets of the movement and backing away.
Insightful and hopeful. An important book today.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Poetry<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Andrea Cohen, <i>Everything
</i>(2021): A delight discovery, Cohen majors in short poems that give surprise
takes on cultural cliches.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Carl Phillips, <i>My
Trade is Mystery </i>(2022): Pulitzer Prize winner in poetry, this book is a
collection of essays on poetry. I found it inspiring and insightful. I also
bought his prize-winning book of poems, <i>Then the War,</i> but I couldn’t get
into it. I guess I need to read it several times and see if it connects with my
spirit. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Ed Higgins, <i>Near
Truth Only </i>(2022): I’m delighted with this collection of poems from my good
friend, who is also a good poet. His images and insights often surprise me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I read lots of
other poets, mostly collections that I consider keepers, even in this stage of
downsizing: ee cummings, Robert Siegel, Theodore Roethke, Luci Shaw, Mary
Oliver, and many others.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’d love to hear about your
favorite books in 2023. I’m sure I’d find many to add to my to-read list. Happy
reading!<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-80096016431521519992023-12-26T09:49:00.000-08:002023-12-26T09:49:17.643-08:00Reflections on the day after Christmas<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s the morning after Christmas.
We’re at our daughter’s house and so far I’m the only one up. Outside the day
is slowly dawning. It looks like clear skies today. Tomorrow we’ll head back
home.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As a child, I remember being sad
on the day after Christmas, thinking I would have to wait a whole long year for
this magical time to come around again. Now that I’m on the far end of the age
spectrum, I don’t feel that way. “Normal” life sounds good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For children, and even for us
adults if we’re honest, Christmas focuses on the presents around the tree. As a
kid I would surreptitiously stalk out the packages, find the ones with my name
attached, and try to guess what treasure might be inside. The heavier the
package, the more promising the treasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As parents, and now grandparents, choosing
the gifts and watching the kids open them on Christmas morning is more fun that
getting the stuff ourselves. I admit to more than occasional qualms about
materialism, thinking about kids around the world who would be overwhelmed with
our abundance. But I somehow manage to stifle my qualms as we gather around the
tree for the ceremonial distribution of the gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I always love being at our
daughter’s home. We’ve been part of the lives of our three grandchildren since
they were infants and now they are all young adults. That makes for an entirely
different Christmas dynamic. In addition to the pleasure of receiving and
opening presents, they’ve all become generous givers, and that’s even more fun
to witness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Wc3nAfpMnLB65t2u5Tcn1uwjIRBNGmc1VJjsakU5Fiz19HULchlmcwznJjcqwdos3_gn1bWGSnhfsm2WF_WNKvHlH9K9b6RaJQCXDp1QcOqGXJHXDpe7q_CUg8CDB1akVUt4uxTNoODBfvFIICl2mYRKaZ0fEF8cJdOXMdNHVdo9reinHz4rlw7eb0cz/s4032/IMG_3778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Wc3nAfpMnLB65t2u5Tcn1uwjIRBNGmc1VJjsakU5Fiz19HULchlmcwznJjcqwdos3_gn1bWGSnhfsm2WF_WNKvHlH9K9b6RaJQCXDp1QcOqGXJHXDpe7q_CUg8CDB1akVUt4uxTNoODBfvFIICl2mYRKaZ0fEF8cJdOXMdNHVdo9reinHz4rlw7eb0cz/s320/IMG_3778.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I was a bit overwhelmed myself
when we arrived last week and saw the mound of presents around the tree. I guess
that’s natural when you have a family of five generous, creative, and loving
people. But I did think that maybe they had outdone it this year. “Just relax,
Mom,” Kristin told me, “and enjoy it.” Wise advice.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjQt7pLRYdA6x3bV3vR0KOUwOIUHcNnTUM8bDw2jcL8mLB_qm4emjz1i1amOAJi-ccstVsHXZrGzrHjn-1ceVNb8ZftEIYcWx_h-rMJ42KxAl1P4-zI4ABONvDvvk30qX6YBFX1c9CxtVtFiuKGdHxvxjNX-Ys-cvXAzk9IZ26FWKwrO6RTbthobkC0SV/s4032/IMG_3768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjQt7pLRYdA6x3bV3vR0KOUwOIUHcNnTUM8bDw2jcL8mLB_qm4emjz1i1amOAJi-ccstVsHXZrGzrHjn-1ceVNb8ZftEIYcWx_h-rMJ42KxAl1P4-zI4ABONvDvvk30qX6YBFX1c9CxtVtFiuKGdHxvxjNX-Ys-cvXAzk9IZ26FWKwrO6RTbthobkC0SV/s320/IMG_3768.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I was concerned, though, about the
modesty of our own offerings. We’re in a different stage of life where most of
our income goes into the retirement community fees (well worth it, I might add).
Much of our creativity these days focuses on finding ways to live frugally,
which is not a bad thing. That frugality affects the extravagance—or lack of it—of
our giving. But, of course, it does not affect the extravagance of our loving.
Or of our creativity.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had found some bargains in the retirement
community’s resale store, some vintage items I would have paid a lot for
elsewhere. And I went through our store of precious stuff we need to pass on to
the next generation and picked out some items for this season. And I also did
some shopping down town. Nothing extravagant.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCyZntjiN7IEjSWnU8AXTy8BcN9YHHkHth8nXJ3K51Xtgz2huDVDkg5-ir6k_DajmFxGOeq2jP491cJ0zDJOW-l23iLJAqGVCM8LqvVpssGZjCS8dwob_01dljjZNVbTzFbcRF6ZnhLeJ-coNPw1C7sLUw8GYL_wGhizlHdvjW1w5HT6BiqdEP0uV5_FO/s4032/IMG_3783.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaCyZntjiN7IEjSWnU8AXTy8BcN9YHHkHth8nXJ3K51Xtgz2huDVDkg5-ir6k_DajmFxGOeq2jP491cJ0zDJOW-l23iLJAqGVCM8LqvVpssGZjCS8dwob_01dljjZNVbTzFbcRF6ZnhLeJ-coNPw1C7sLUw8GYL_wGhizlHdvjW1w5HT6BiqdEP0uV5_FO/s320/IMG_3783.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I need not have worried. As we sat
around the living room on Christmas morning, read the Christmas story once
again, and sang carols, we refocused on the greatest Gift of Christmas, the baby
born to be King. We prayed together for the people of Gaza, Israel, Russia, and
Ukraine. We asked that “Peace on earth, good will to all people” become a
reality. And we took our time doing all this. A few tears were shed.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then the opening of the gifts.
Kristin’s family has a unique way of carrying out this ritual, with the
intention of making the experience last as long as possible. We each had a
large stocking and went around the circle, taking turns removing one item at a
time. A bar of sweet-</span><span style="font-size: large;">smelling soap, the inevitable Life Savers, a scarf, fuzzy
socks, a practical box of hand-wipes, a candy cane, all accompanied by
exclamations or, when appropriate, groans (the hand-wipes).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we went to
the table for a traditional Christmas breakfast of coffee-cake and orange
juice. Kristin imported the coffee-cake ritual from her growing-up years in our
home. Similar recipe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20J0igDXzFif69eQza2Z0r7pZZeFL2rEGp4uYGFIjCVp25fd1At6URNCPf0YK_15c4civdZN6HtDnO2UAWgtycoEkZgyQZNr91uulPIB1fIPoi1JUPMCZiZ-O6DhU76kAgm6JV9Uismk7V82uxDivAivRdmGAjWMvBQVozAOYTEZ8O8iBFTp8S3ebP-O7/s4032/IMG_3804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi20J0igDXzFif69eQza2Z0r7pZZeFL2rEGp4uYGFIjCVp25fd1At6URNCPf0YK_15c4civdZN6HtDnO2UAWgtycoEkZgyQZNr91uulPIB1fIPoi1JUPMCZiZ-O6DhU76kAgm6JV9Uismk7V82uxDivAivRdmGAjWMvBQVozAOYTEZ8O8iBFTp8S3ebP-O7/s320/IMG_3804.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">And then it was
back to the living room for the opening of the presents, another event that
proceeded slowly and in an orderly (but simultaneously chaotic) manner. The
atmosphere was fun and very affectionate, with people more concerned about how the
gifts they gave were received, which was usually with delight. Peter, the
youngest among us at 14, chose and distributed the gifts, one at a time of
course, so that everyone could concentrate on the one opening his/her present.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a hilarious
and holy time, with lots of exclamations (“Oh Grandma! I love this!”), laughter,
and affection. Hal and I were amazed at Kristin’s gift to us, a large sherpa
blanket covered with photographs of us and the grandkids. I treasure it. (Each
kid also got their own photographic blanket.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigd2YDxvlrJwdDAJUHFdtQ7j3wt5Xwr2OQuIm0gjStKWZDsMCex6rVFQ_HBeOZyuVnSsPD6fjE74oV9qCnSYbpe_mNyeS09Q34mNuf21tkfHPsDmChaFQQHWA8MU3O6eRh3NFCcoZYSoWFH93qBkXBqn0W8Sro7JPNiaa1aYOddBxSX_okcHbgqEFBte4w/s4032/PXL_20231225_221522654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigd2YDxvlrJwdDAJUHFdtQ7j3wt5Xwr2OQuIm0gjStKWZDsMCex6rVFQ_HBeOZyuVnSsPD6fjE74oV9qCnSYbpe_mNyeS09Q34mNuf21tkfHPsDmChaFQQHWA8MU3O6eRh3NFCcoZYSoWFH93qBkXBqn0W8Sro7JPNiaa1aYOddBxSX_okcHbgqEFBte4w/w320-h181/PXL_20231225_221522654.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1yQSAKAdzlKLxOxf71ZeClTfMcIS8XVa6EB6prIgJo3KepZDcHXxhkCAa9zLSnKHXSeCxem6ShxjpoFIjZiMURdpYaQaOLL9c50bAJzfAyful2tnMOalLSPA6nMnM5Ul6-ooRuF-DaQWBFHyI1ucky-2r3eHfFC6_tJR8CWyV-flXsQTubfkqq8NmiSBi/s4032/IMG_3808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1yQSAKAdzlKLxOxf71ZeClTfMcIS8XVa6EB6prIgJo3KepZDcHXxhkCAa9zLSnKHXSeCxem6ShxjpoFIjZiMURdpYaQaOLL9c50bAJzfAyful2tnMOalLSPA6nMnM5Ul6-ooRuF-DaQWBFHyI1ucky-2r3eHfFC6_tJR8CWyV-flXsQTubfkqq8NmiSBi/s320/IMG_3808.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So now it’s the
day after Christmas. I’m hoping for some time playing games with the kids,
talking with our daughter and son-in-law, maybe watching a movie together,
eating of course, but everything low-key. Normal life (whatever that is). It’s
been good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I still struggle
with juggling all this abundance and joy with what is happening in other parts
of the world. I still need to be intentional in my focus on the Gift of Christ.
I still need all the help I can get in living my life (my normal life) in light
of the Gift which is for the whole world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Let there be
peace on earth, dear Lord. Show me how to be a part of what you are doing.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in; text-indent: .25in;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o5PghR6qq6tiz6LhNnm_c9OsfM9pp8HwJygaN_xHfz8aJPiQEZmqsX9p3yevHeYEjWcB68JlrDZFoJsZ5J2c_dpZAVetxSRUsf3hDPfRTaGYKBcjJn2nKw_tZM4xgScjamhhMYVyl_bZpD7qhZu1dKMCJA_Hr0m6wGc0_1XdPGG84O5TGMh4zvIPvqvK/s4032/IMG_3791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3o5PghR6qq6tiz6LhNnm_c9OsfM9pp8HwJygaN_xHfz8aJPiQEZmqsX9p3yevHeYEjWcB68JlrDZFoJsZ5J2c_dpZAVetxSRUsf3hDPfRTaGYKBcjJn2nKw_tZM4xgScjamhhMYVyl_bZpD7qhZu1dKMCJA_Hr0m6wGc0_1XdPGG84O5TGMh4zvIPvqvK/s320/IMG_3791.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-26088332790411363342023-12-19T09:27:00.000-08:002023-12-19T09:27:29.098-08:00Christmas in a time of war<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">Last week I received an email
notifying me that a friend of mine had commented on another friend’s Facebook
post. I usually ignore these notices; I receive so many of them they irritate
me. But in this case, because they were both good friends, I decided to get in
on their conversation and I opened Facebook.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">My friend from Virginia had posted
a cartoon, as she frequently does. It showed a group of people in a subway
train, heads down in personal concentration, but instead of their cell-phones,
they were all reading books. The subtitle read, “On a different planet.” Very
funny.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Then I went to the comment of our
mutual friend from Scotland. Her response jolted me. She didn’t think the
cartoon was funny at all. It wasn’t the content, but rather the fact of telling
jokes in this particular season. She rebuked her American friends (like me) who
were sending her “Merry Christmas” messages. “This in NOT a merry Christmas!”
she ranted, referring to the war in Gaza and the extreme suffering of so many.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">This touched a cord in me and I
wrote back immediately thanking her for her concerns. I’ve been thinking about
it ever since.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxCv2_H5gGvMhWs_PC6yz5eGTuCXkv0qYJCrhPqErxQ_rPYu-vV6KYhxBgMxcEWeN5NKu4s1GBClPATmWGaHWJYzA4XZeceUg6mUO3QyP9Yc4rXEUE_cGyzs0B-C4g-39565B55fzb_3YgFdCH_zusayfankPkNioosLaooNw0bjLftHgU9aKDbd8jDjd/s640/IMG_3734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJxCv2_H5gGvMhWs_PC6yz5eGTuCXkv0qYJCrhPqErxQ_rPYu-vV6KYhxBgMxcEWeN5NKu4s1GBClPATmWGaHWJYzA4XZeceUg6mUO3QyP9Yc4rXEUE_cGyzs0B-C4g-39565B55fzb_3YgFdCH_zusayfankPkNioosLaooNw0bjLftHgU9aKDbd8jDjd/s320/IMG_3734.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Here in the retirement community,
Christmas cheer vibrates off the walls. The staff has outdone itself with a
large glowing Christmas tree in the lobby and other trees in every public
place. Snowmen, Santas, elves, and nativity scenes inhabit every empty space.
Lights sparkle in the greens adorning the walls. Here on the 5<sup>th</sup>
floor we residents have taken charge and our lobby is festive and each
apartment door festooned with family heirlooms. It’s <i>Ho Ho Ho </i>everywhere
you look.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">I don’t want to sound critical. All
this really does make me happy. Hal is part of a musical trio—two ukuleles and
one harmonica (his). They preform in the different neighborhoods of the
community. I went with them when they played their music in the memory-care
unit, the place where residents with dementia live. I watched the faces while
the trio played. During songs like “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and “All I
Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” everyone was smiling and swaying,
some even tapping their feet. I would certainly not begrudge these people their
childhood memories. They also smiled at “Joy to the World.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PmrBzHBFNcxOWwfkaXXmAabuA2wkziO3gENm9-PQJnuwl40_HLPt_XHynACYz17AbHTkMF_YlQ0EXWUuu3ejotgk7tD64zMT20v2tMj6FDZwiMaVTZTA0iA3Reg4D5nEQYEAQyQvmpTenG6wGtXZmpyYWhQUkbuGVfJEQKm9k6YoMklxrmOm_QMlOcRV/s640/IMG_3733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PmrBzHBFNcxOWwfkaXXmAabuA2wkziO3gENm9-PQJnuwl40_HLPt_XHynACYz17AbHTkMF_YlQ0EXWUuu3ejotgk7tD64zMT20v2tMj6FDZwiMaVTZTA0iA3Reg4D5nEQYEAQyQvmpTenG6wGtXZmpyYWhQUkbuGVfJEQKm9k6YoMklxrmOm_QMlOcRV/s320/IMG_3733.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The last two nights the beautiful
Christmas concerts placed the emphasis of the season where it belongs, on the
Christ child. I thrilled to the music.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">But back to my friend’s concern.
My concern as well. How to carry together the two diverse realities this
Christmas season—the very merry celebrations all around us and the extreme
violence and suffering on the other side of the globe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Some of my friends have told me
they no longer watch the evening news. Too negative, it affects their spirit. I
can’t adopt that perspective. Hal and I regularly watch our news program, talk
about it, and pray together. We need to know what’s happening because it
matters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">Prayer seems like such a simple
answer, but I know that a small person’s (me) prayer has power with God. At
least I think I know that. But I can’t help but wonder—what difference does it
make? I pray that God “make wars cease to the ends of the earth” (Psalm 46:9)
and the next day find out that the bombing has intensified.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The people of Palestine, and the
people of Israel too, don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not part of their faith
traditions. But this is the place of the first Christmas. That first Christmas
season was not merry, although it was joyful to a few chosen witnesses. Joyful
and mysterious. While it was not actively a time of war, the Romans were
oppressing the Jews and suffering abounded. War was on the way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">The original Christmas story gives
clues that help integrate these two realities. Years previously the Spirit had
revealed to the prophet Isaiah that the babe would be born and that one of his
strange names would be Prince of Peace.<span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 27.0pt 45.0pt 63.0pt 81.0pt 99.0pt 117.0pt 135.0pt 4.5in 431.95pt;"><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Prince of Peace<br />
</span></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Isaiah 9:6</i><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
</span></b><i>Silent night,</i> we sing.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b><i>Sleep in heavenly peace.</i><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>A story book song<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>for a star-studded dream.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>That night wasn't silent<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b><i>pax romana</i> not withstanding.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Bethlehem teamed with people,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>impatient, demanding,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>wanting to be in their own homes.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Inns throbbed with activity,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>wine flowed, and in one dim corner<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>a woman moaned in childbirth.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>That night wasn't silent,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>and neither are ours.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>The world convulses<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>in a chaos of crises.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>The newscaster's voice is grim,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>and people fear the dark.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Here at my house<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>my grandson cries out in nightmare,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>and insomnia stalks these rooms.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
</span></b>Prince of Peace,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>you came to Bethlehem<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>in the clash and crash of life<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>as it is.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Show us your face.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Teach us the strength of your tranquility,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>the power of your humility<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>that bent to babyhood<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and still bends to us.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
<br />
</span></b>Prince Jesus,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>baby and Lord,<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>we kneel.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Speak Shalom to our world.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Here.<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></b>Now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 27.0pt 45.0pt 63.0pt 81.0pt 99.0pt 117.0pt 135.0pt 4.5in 431.95pt;"><i>Lord
Jesus, have mercy on the people you love in Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, and Russia.
Let wars cease. Let lives be rebuilt.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 27.0pt 45.0pt 63.0pt 81.0pt 99.0pt 117.0pt 135.0pt 4.5in 431.95pt;"><i>Amen.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 27.0pt 45.0pt 63.0pt 81.0pt 99.0pt 117.0pt 135.0pt 4.5in 431.95pt;">Merry
Christmas.<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-2468128248771359282023-12-12T21:47:00.000-08:002023-12-12T21:47:04.798-08:00Old journals<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The task of downsizing and
discarding never seems to end. The treasures are the hardest things to tackle:
the collection of letters my father wrote to me after I left home; the scraggly
teddy-bear I once loved; the china doll that sat on my dresser; pictures the
kids drew when they were little; and so on. You have your own lists.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Passing them on to the kids and
grandkids seems the best option. I made a catalogue with photos and
descriptions. I distributed it to the tribe, asking them to write their names
under the stuff they wanted. I ended up with a few names here and there but was
still left with boxes of old vases, paintings of Bolivian landscapes, my wedding
dress, and thousands of photos. Why don’t they want this precious stuff?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfm8Y3NJLck-qARTTEin87P_GQ0xTtPwxPfi-PHW4um__RG8p65cqFnurW9gzpzWp3Q309s6b-rJdLL8eQjdZJnDVqxAOxyohWh1KBwGEPQEANwOs79pT_wgHYfSIaJIMqvf5IC3SyBh_3qFfCc23Ge5_sU9On8UipWD0MswmuwA7vDiBCzluZ2ftRHYV/s612/istockphoto-1133570868-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfm8Y3NJLck-qARTTEin87P_GQ0xTtPwxPfi-PHW4um__RG8p65cqFnurW9gzpzWp3Q309s6b-rJdLL8eQjdZJnDVqxAOxyohWh1KBwGEPQEANwOs79pT_wgHYfSIaJIMqvf5IC3SyBh_3qFfCc23Ge5_sU9On8UipWD0MswmuwA7vDiBCzluZ2ftRHYV/s320/istockphoto-1133570868-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The conundrum I currently face is
the most difficult—what to do with my old journals. I’m a writer and I’ve been
a faithful journal keeper all my life. Now, in my years of retirement, I’m left
with boxes of notebooks dating back to my teenage years. They’re full of
struggles, triumphs, complaints, and prayers. Full of stories. The conundrum—to
leave for the kids and grandkids to read or to spare them the burden and throw
them all out before I die?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It's enlightening now, reading
them. It’s also sometimes distressing, even embarrassing, to remember how
immature I once was. I’m thinking of purging the journals (the parts I want no
one to read, ever), and selectively passing the rest along. But that seems a
bit dishonest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If I were famous there would be no
question. I’d be obligated to leave the whole story to the researchers and
literary academics to craft into biographies. But I’m not even close to famous,
except to a small group of people (which contradicts the concept of “famous”).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve decided to keep one of my
high school diaries—a day by day list of which boy looked at me that day. I’ll
keep it because I find it hilarious, and proof that I was once an adolescent.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frequently I face my struggles
through poetry. Here’s an old-journal poem, inspired in part by a paradox I
found in the book of Isaiah about “the old ways.”<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Old Journals<br />
</span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Isaiah 43:18-19;
46:9-10<br />
<br />
</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">1<br />
Do I keep them, all the notebooks<br />
of stored memories, stories and struggles?<br />
Years of anecdotes and meditations—relational problems,<br />
cute things the kids said, past resentments I don’t want to reveal<br />
to anyone, spiritual highs and shadowed valleys,<br />
dreams good and wicked. Will my kids and grandkids<br />
really want to read this stuff, to know and fondly remember<br />
their dead grandmother? Or will all this paper burden them?<br />
To toss or to store in the attic? Guilt if they toss, loss<br />
of storage space if they keep.<br />
<i>Remember the old things, those of long ago,<br />
</i>says the Lord God. <br />
How seriously do I take that?<br />
<br />
2<br />
Why not unburden myself and spare the kids<br />
a difficult decision? Do I really want them<br />
to know how immature I once was? How petty at times?<br />
How cast down and struggling to keep the faith? Not really.<br />
But somehow, I can’t let go. Not yet.<br />
It feels like destroying part of my identity.<br />
Does throwing out old journals<br />
erase the stories, mean I’ll be forgotten?<br />
<br />
3<br />
God once again muddies the waters,<br />
seems to contradict himself by telling me to<br />
<i>Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.<br />
</i>How do I apply that to my personal pilgrimage?<br />
<br />
Why forget? <i>Because,</i> says the Lord,<br />
<i>I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up!<br />
Do you not perceive it? I am making a way<br />
in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.<br />
<br />
</i>That sounds good. I could do with a fistful<br />
of new about now. With a truckload actually.<br />
<br />
4<br />
Are my old journals a barrier to new life?<br />
<i>Remember the former things. Forget the former things.<br />
</i>Why do you so often send me mixed messages?<br />
Is it either/or? Or both/and? How do I do that?<br />
<br />
Once again I am perplexed by paradox.<br /></span>
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<!--[endif]--></span>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-57762114542800702572023-12-05T09:37:00.000-08:002023-12-05T09:48:20.462-08:00For a friend in hospice care<p><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Death
has become a more common part of life since we moved into our retirement
community. That makes sense as all our neighbors are older. But being “common”
doesn’t lead us to make friends with death. Death still jolts and stabs. And even
though we believe in heaven and have the hope of reunion, our grief is real.
The passing leaves a hole.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A
good friend died just a few days ago and I’m still trying to settle my heart
around that reality. Her passing did not surprise us. Janice had been
struggling with cancer for several years, and earlier this year she and her
husband decided to stop the chemo and try to live as fully and freely as they
could with the time she had left. It was a good decision. The courageous way
Brian and Janice faced death while choosing life has been a tremendous example
to all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But
when she went on hospice care, we all knew that the time was drawing close. So
we, her friends, tried to spend all the quality time we could with her. So much
so that Brian eventually had to make a schedule permitting visits by two
friends a day. (Family, of course, was there at all times.) In the last weeks,
I got two of those scheduled visits. The last was on the day before Janice
died. She was by now unconscious, but I sat by her side, read her a poem, and
prayed with her. Brian, her sister, and a son were there, too. It was holy
ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Following
is the prayer/poem I wrote and read to my friend. It flows from images in the
23<sup>rd</sup> Psalm, a passage that reflects God’s compassion and care for
his children. A passage that shines a light of hope into the darkness, a light
that ultimately vanquishes death.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><b><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Prayers for a
Friend in Hospice Care<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 45.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">-1-<br />
I hold you in my heart<br />
which is a good place, my friend,<br />
because Christ is in me,<br />
the hope of glory.<br />
You and Jesus are at home<br />
in my heart, surrounded by glory.<br />
Brian is there, too, of course.<br />
Jesus has his arms around<br />
you both. My prayers<br />
blow in on a Spirit wind,<br />
ruffle your hair, carry<br />
the fragrance of hope.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Breathe in that
fragrance, my friend.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X3lEFuOzOHKYk-7k9m0pSpmr9E4aZxgUlsyuPkw-OEFOv5TiWS3250a4nO8ZOndBtJpUCYxGCaJ59w3lT5w8rYFVkRcq2j_sUeY4xWkuob3p6czED2aTQxKtc35tWmsGPoYrNnDsOftiCuJGUUH1LfeqMhtYlqc7-0U4XY-hpzlVnmzDI0CtgLEhIU0n/s1800/2Q3A5635-2.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X3lEFuOzOHKYk-7k9m0pSpmr9E4aZxgUlsyuPkw-OEFOv5TiWS3250a4nO8ZOndBtJpUCYxGCaJ59w3lT5w8rYFVkRcq2j_sUeY4xWkuob3p6czED2aTQxKtc35tWmsGPoYrNnDsOftiCuJGUUH1LfeqMhtYlqc7-0U4XY-hpzlVnmzDI0CtgLEhIU0n/w272-h230/2Q3A5635-2.webp" width="272" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />-2-<br />
What started out as the valley<br />
of the shadow of death turns<br />
out to be a glen in a redwood forest.<br />
Morning light streams through the trunks,<br />
floods the small space where you stand,<br />
listening. The tall trees around you<br />
are all at prayer.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">-3-<br />
I see a table in the forest, set<br />
with beautiful dishes, real silver, and crystal<br />
goblets. You and the people you most love<br />
are seated, expectant, and, yes,<br />
hungry. Soon the food appears.<br />
The united chefs of The Red Lobster,<br />
The Olive Garden and Tenderloin<br />
seem to have collaborated, as angelically<br />
gorgeous waiters carry in all<br />
your favorite food. After a brief thankful<br />
prayer, you dig in, conversation<br />
temporarily suspended, though the sense<br />
of companionship remains.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Somehow you all
manage to ignore<br />
the others, those peeking at you from around<br />
the trunks of the surrounding trees<br />
--pain, fear, death, defiance, defeat.<br />
As your satisfaction and gratitude grow,<br />
those others turn to mist, fade into the ground,<br />
vanish. Soon all is light, all is beauty,<br />
all is joy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKt6S8KY6loCOYwn2EYJyw7FND3xkiH_Zi4vgMKawzlxoJjmVDk8VT1KDD7HKDlH2Ey-hqMLiGS6oaRPZvT_FNe38iTvGIlrPg6s2bRW_vv8PZxU88MnzFG3d-DOn-wrC-dzk9NbISan2X-SPubp8OKioulxe5vMUXVRZrLqigTupEyq7M7fp9Sc_47VA/s612/istockphoto-913546552-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKt6S8KY6loCOYwn2EYJyw7FND3xkiH_Zi4vgMKawzlxoJjmVDk8VT1KDD7HKDlH2Ey-hqMLiGS6oaRPZvT_FNe38iTvGIlrPg6s2bRW_vv8PZxU88MnzFG3d-DOn-wrC-dzk9NbISan2X-SPubp8OKioulxe5vMUXVRZrLqigTupEyq7M7fp9Sc_47VA/s320/istockphoto-913546552-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span><span style="font-size: medium;">-4-</span><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">I ask the Lord to fill your cup with</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
<b>Faith</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 9pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in who he is,
who he has always been<br />
for you, who he promises to be in your future,<br />
forever and ever, life without end.<br />
Let faith light your way forward.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Hope</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 9pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">that all the
faithfulness of the past<br />
and all the promises for the future<br />
shine here in this present moment.<br />
Let hope’s light flood your being today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Love</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 9pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">clearly
revealed in the people<br />
who surround you, who have become<br />
God’s hands, arms, feet, and face.<br />
May your love be released to bless<br />
them back. To bless your Lord.<br />
Let love’s light shine into <br />
and out from your heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">May your cup
overflow. Faith. Hope. Love.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">-5-<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I see your
friends, Goodness and Mercy,<br />
sticking with you through the thick <br />
of plenty and the thin of want.<br />
They’re always there,<br />
sometimes giggling, sometimes weeping,<br />
sometimes running ahead<br />
to hack a new path<br />
through the brush,<br />
sometimes walking alongside<br />
to talk and laugh and wonder with you.<br />
Often they follow close behind,<br />
not always perceptible, but there<br />
nonetheless.<br />
They’ll be with you,<br />
they tell me,<br />
for the rest of your life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">-6-<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 45.0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And
you will dwell<br />
in the house of the Lord<br />
forever.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; tab-stops: 45.0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBQEcGaZRYpQmUt6e9s22HUml3Z-u-p1OU0MH7FlkfbnO2F9tlgq27IK0tSUy3uFyOpItkhgPrF47VhnkvRLIVrc7qrhg-l-ZH_ZCeg0gLT0Ru7kLaZYxUDFd4asjDez6zWgi18mCcM6lUB9Ttv3B4L1oJfHj3a3aggKPG8fX0VVpHoXGTNmjPX_ZvhHf/s2000/4129111b850a1aaf6a26635aeb24234c.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="2000" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBQEcGaZRYpQmUt6e9s22HUml3Z-u-p1OU0MH7FlkfbnO2F9tlgq27IK0tSUy3uFyOpItkhgPrF47VhnkvRLIVrc7qrhg-l-ZH_ZCeg0gLT0Ru7kLaZYxUDFd4asjDez6zWgi18mCcM6lUB9Ttv3B4L1oJfHj3a3aggKPG8fX0VVpHoXGTNmjPX_ZvhHf/s320/4129111b850a1aaf6a26635aeb24234c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-48164994214526636982023-11-27T09:26:00.000-08:002023-11-27T09:26:16.186-08:00Old wisdom, young wisdom<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our grandson is serving a two-year
term in a North African country, learning how to set up small businesses.
Through the wonders of modern technology, we get to be in regular
communication.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On Saturday we had a long
conversation via <i>whatsapp</i>. At what we thought was the end of our time
together, he told us how much he appreciated our years of experience and
wisdom. He then shared a concern and asked for our wise advice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My brain immediately froze.
Although he was not in any way demanding, I have problems with
wisdom-on-demand. For one thing, I’m uncertain about the amount of wisdom I
might have. It’s almost a stereotype—wise old people. We’re either serene and
wise or grouchy and bitter. Both stereotypes. Take your pick. I know I’m
somewhere in the middle, never reaching the total grouch stage, but also
falling short of an endless reserve of heavenly wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So I did what seemed natural. I
said, “Hal, you go first.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He gave me an unhappy look but
proceeded to share some experiences with our grandson, to give him perspective,
I guess. It sounded good.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8fM58c4m26NqkKNV96l1v3_XzXpPniHHRxhE0GLy6o-X4qrXyjbyuDnPO-qmaqEMdcoYhBczclAyOJ_FpvSEzKH_rSnsIBtSyAw9j4jrh6cufg5wROFno6ituKz1J3Ldvkt5IYkDNLCXDg4QVDkqaGK_JC3zb8qEC0ypmKjadrFswxTGmVyjQjH_4TkH/s300/300px-Biogradska_suma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="209" data-original-width="300" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8fM58c4m26NqkKNV96l1v3_XzXpPniHHRxhE0GLy6o-X4qrXyjbyuDnPO-qmaqEMdcoYhBczclAyOJ_FpvSEzKH_rSnsIBtSyAw9j4jrh6cufg5wROFno6ituKz1J3Ldvkt5IYkDNLCXDg4QVDkqaGK_JC3zb8qEC0ypmKjadrFswxTGmVyjQjH_4TkH/s1600/300px-Biogradska_suma.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />That gave me time to think. When
my turn came, I realized that the best approach was first to ask questions and
listen. So I asked him what he was hoping for, positive points, fears, what he
could bring to the to the situation, and more such questions. He responded, Hal
joined in, and the resulting back-and-forth conversation between the three of
us actually led to some helpful insight. Not only did we share wisdom (I hope),
we encouraged his wisdom to kick in.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qbGJAcQgvMtKNQPwhYGa_DyQWNg2RQ1zZGm5eD1sCL9Z8YgTFvNU6_T21yMr3gJltrGeQs40JtV77lXerP071m-kT7K47S2CH8N3zpOsy75EM22CKDTh4XYUUiM7ic_R_jJcniJTLr1oV-nJlR7-SQnSDAos_sxxi3b2uPlQHxU7i-Op6B02G9dX9acG/s2016/IMG_2897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qbGJAcQgvMtKNQPwhYGa_DyQWNg2RQ1zZGm5eD1sCL9Z8YgTFvNU6_T21yMr3gJltrGeQs40JtV77lXerP071m-kT7K47S2CH8N3zpOsy75EM22CKDTh4XYUUiM7ic_R_jJcniJTLr1oV-nJlR7-SQnSDAos_sxxi3b2uPlQHxU7i-Op6B02G9dX9acG/s320/IMG_2897.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Maybe wisdom is communal, at least
in some situations. I think of the Quaker committees-for-clearness where a
selected group of people centers their thoughts and prayers on one person and
that person’s concern or decision. This involves times of silent waiting, questions,
listening to the person, more silence and prayer. And then people share their
sense of what the Spirit is saying. When it functions well, the person leaves
with some clearer perspectives and a path to making his/her own decision. It’s
all about wisdom and discernment. Communal wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m realizing that God invites us
to ask for wisdom: “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives
generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given you.” There’s no
age requirement. Any follower of Jesus can ask—old, middle aged, young. Even
children. The Book of Proverbs time and again encourages young men (and women) to seek
wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Still, it seems natural that some older
people, through years of right living, should be known for their wisdom. As
to whether or not I’m one of those people—well, it’s probably not for me to
say. Or even to wonder about. But I can certainly ask for wisdom as a gift. As
can my grandson. Wisdom that sometimes comes from consulting with other people.
Even grandparents.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next time I’m facing a conundrum,
I may ask one of my grandchildren for insight.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-47331263889261427802023-11-21T11:25:00.000-08:002023-11-21T11:25:44.218-08:00Gratitude in the old growth forest<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuy40yNIZpRAqHBSyzyKFpdsRfZN3Vi4-MtyRgHybHxqWByz7MyKZGuN7-q6XhBMSYgRk92RpAt04oU77nOX8-PYfiN3lNhK_DlLMOFPcUcwoGuD5iRbtGpw31c0HUHzymdx6g34Lx0S6Ak894JCkxwmdY97GoI0EG7db4fNK0zy5jjfRjylNPg5Pw_X1A/s800/Redwood-tree2.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuy40yNIZpRAqHBSyzyKFpdsRfZN3Vi4-MtyRgHybHxqWByz7MyKZGuN7-q6XhBMSYgRk92RpAt04oU77nOX8-PYfiN3lNhK_DlLMOFPcUcwoGuD5iRbtGpw31c0HUHzymdx6g34Lx0S6Ak894JCkxwmdY97GoI0EG7db4fNK0zy5jjfRjylNPg5Pw_X1A/s320/Redwood-tree2.webp" width="213" /></a></div><br /> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m a list maker: to-do lists,
wish-lists, prayer requests, priorities, and so on. I just made a (helpful, I
hope) list of migraine triggers. And because this is Thanksgiving week, a gratitude
list seems appropriate. (Hal helped me come up with this list.) I focus on the
retirement community where we now live. This is a very particular old growth
forest.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m thankful for….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--an environment that not only keeps me safe but encourages
me to keep growing<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--that my long-time husband is still my best friend and we
get to share this apartment<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--for the art studio in the basement that lets me (a
non-artist) keep my own locker of art supplies, invites me to come down anytime
to experiment with my own projects, encourages me to join classes and discover
that maybe, just maybe, I am a sort of artist<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--lots of new “best friends,” all of them in their 70s, 80s,
and 90s. (I had thought “best friends” was a high school thing. Wrong.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the opportunity to listen, understand, and be present to
my neighbors in good times and hard</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--a library with a good selection and a flexible attitude
toward late returns<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--food that is almost always good and sometimes delicious<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUpSczwyrsnxZgyNl19va5Dd7sZFdOVWcIITmY_gLJ9Veq6d2wTtVCRAdDp7wGvgF8OSch269fcmD_A0GQHvLPGFmoSwt1p7nDMFFdGSMYXq6xrGWUN_XTtbIoQu5N992VqRF_gBnNp3MY1KoV0Asj91_NKkmmqb1dW5_gvj_ujGNNTbgMp6a62nhwNKd/s640/IMG_3645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUpSczwyrsnxZgyNl19va5Dd7sZFdOVWcIITmY_gLJ9Veq6d2wTtVCRAdDp7wGvgF8OSch269fcmD_A0GQHvLPGFmoSwt1p7nDMFFdGSMYXq6xrGWUN_XTtbIoQu5N992VqRF_gBnNp3MY1KoV0Asj91_NKkmmqb1dW5_gvj_ujGNNTbgMp6a62nhwNKd/s320/IMG_3645.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>--a room with a view—trees, hills, a sky full of dancing
clouds</span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--a cozy burgundy rocking chair that swivels to let me see
the view (It’s my early morning prayer chair and my afternoon nap chair.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the path around the Hess Creek Canyon that feeds my need
to be among trees on a regular basis and to hear water moving over the earth<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the critters that inhabit the secret spaces—deer, birds,
squirrels, the occasional racoon<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the staff that works behind the scenes to make our
lives comfortable: the women who clean our rooms, the man who replaced the
handle on my refrigerator door when it broke off, the tech expert who solves my
computer problems, the cooks and waiters/waitresses who prepare and serve our
meals, the community life director who plans our outings, the gardeners who
keep the place beautiful, and especially the nurses and aides who care for our
most vulnerable residents. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--beautiful and sometimes intriguing works of art that
decorate our lobby and all the residential halls. We live in an art gallery
with free admission.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--our own lobby on the fifth floor where we congregate to
have meetings, celebrate birthdays, pray together, and work (play) on puzzles <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--free coffee down in the lobby<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljC-3-LT2BG0iZhzJXHe_VUv4ELlL38BchrNBRBRfPtw_49x9ZlPkL3P-8JLonsvYzmebLRI8ROEWwTuUWC0srH1GKofUwfSfsNsWJafRgqj8F1s_UhFrTm9-p8lue8_zvPdAhviZwPGwpmK6kWet3e5MheznH24cagpZP8sA2iVq2DInU6bWQFJvXE-i/s640/IMG_3261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhljC-3-LT2BG0iZhzJXHe_VUv4ELlL38BchrNBRBRfPtw_49x9ZlPkL3P-8JLonsvYzmebLRI8ROEWwTuUWC0srH1GKofUwfSfsNsWJafRgqj8F1s_UhFrTm9-p8lue8_zvPdAhviZwPGwpmK6kWet3e5MheznH24cagpZP8sA2iVq2DInU6bWQFJvXE-i/s320/IMG_3261.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">--our community garden where this year, for the first time,
we had our own plot. Amazingly enough, things grew (roses, tomatoes, Inca
lilies, green onions, wild flowers, and spaghetti squash, among other
miracles).<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--an exercise room with lots of machines and open space for
courageous classes. My favorite machine (called the New Step) faces a window
with a forest view. Forty-five minutes can pass without my realizing it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--a woodshop where I (Hal) find a community of like
interests and skills.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--an active residential association that lets us
self-govern, plan our activities, and come up with creative ways to serve the
community<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--a resale shop and storage space that not only provide
residents with a place to donate their furniture, clothes, and other items as
they need to downsize, but offers bargain prices on really good stuff<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">--the security of knowing that as I continue to age and need
different levels of care, this community will provide that. That’s the nature
of a continuing-care retirement community. My kids and grandkids can come be
with me, but they won’t have to take care of me. That gives me peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb77axgW4sWv3mRt_TEIVRbuEunjGpaE1dx9EZN2TzWSGWl81pB_aSzg6lS1CRnL221ajt8dO3TlkVu9PYdZwHwck9Ub_lXZmojRpVoYaxlChei1a77FLYj7cFBv0_GSgu_W0gqXuu3DkOwuDsmk6ejvT_oe6eyFnks-X11E3aSTMcLAQ4iJ-V8kCwmA_h/s800/Belovezhskaya-Forest-Poland.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="532" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb77axgW4sWv3mRt_TEIVRbuEunjGpaE1dx9EZN2TzWSGWl81pB_aSzg6lS1CRnL221ajt8dO3TlkVu9PYdZwHwck9Ub_lXZmojRpVoYaxlChei1a77FLYj7cFBv0_GSgu_W0gqXuu3DkOwuDsmk6ejvT_oe6eyFnks-X11E3aSTMcLAQ4iJ-V8kCwmA_h/s320/Belovezhskaya-Forest-Poland.webp" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">--the blessing of knowing that this community is
Christ-centered and founded on values such as integrity, compassion,
stewardship, community, excellence and service. I can live with that. I can
grow old in this environment.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I hope this doesn’t sound like a
publicity pamphlet. That’s not my intention, and that’s certainly not my
favorite writing genre. And this community is far from heaven-on-earth. We have
our fair share of problems, conflicts, and challenges. After all, we’re all
people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But my intention today is
gratitude and the above list represents my true feelings. </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.25in;">(Maybe I’ll write an angry list
another day. Probably not.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks be to God for blessing us
in this time of life. Life in this old growth forest is good.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-72637674630498416782023-11-14T08:17:00.000-08:002023-11-14T08:17:28.691-08:00Grace in an old photo<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">I’m downsizing again. Although we
took on this task before moving into the retirement center, we stored some
boxes in our son’s garage, stuff I planned on going through later. Well, that’s what
I’m attempting to do now. Last week we brought over to our apartment several
boxes labeled “memory stuff.” That’s dangerous.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One box proved to be full of
letters and old photos from my mother’s side of the family. It had been
entrusted to me at some point in the past, and I had set it aside. Now was the
time. I sat on the floor and began digging and sorting stuff into piles on the
carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Some of it was helpful
information, some mildly interesting, and some destined for the recycling bin. I
loved the photos of my grandparents, my mom, and all the aunts, uncles, and
cousins when they were young.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Among all the musty black-and-white
photos and crinkled letters, I discovered a few treasures.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBv4SjUi4TPKVTlhO1D2JtA3brkX4wIrrhST6ldN86WIbXmIXYMc5OGIba4r6fdCWSrlxdGMLziYZo-ST5HsQC91dFXfuHnoJc6NdY7vbuiosKEFCh_8G3pGDliToz2tZJfCv1fpkmM6a9Ac1zpQQMNofPDKPries61XFVKW3EvJPpbYZkJby8mJ4xhG9/s2424/img261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2424" data-original-width="1872" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBv4SjUi4TPKVTlhO1D2JtA3brkX4wIrrhST6ldN86WIbXmIXYMc5OGIba4r6fdCWSrlxdGMLziYZo-ST5HsQC91dFXfuHnoJc6NdY7vbuiosKEFCh_8G3pGDliToz2tZJfCv1fpkmM6a9Ac1zpQQMNofPDKPries61XFVKW3EvJPpbYZkJby8mJ4xhG9/s320/img261.jpg" width="247" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I found a photo of a lovely young
woman. When I turned it over and read the name on the back, I gasped. Nancy
Jane Nichols. I had never seen a photo of my Aunt Nancy. I had never even met
her. And I am her namesake. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My mom, Barbara Nichols, was
raised with six siblings—four sisters and two brothers. Mom was the third-born,
and Nancy followed her two years later. I understand that Barb and Nancy were especially
close as kids and young women.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When Aunt Nancy was in her early
20s, she began behaving in ways that alarmed her family. She alternated between
deep depression and erratic hyper-activity. She became delusional and had
difficulty speaking. Happening to such a kind and friendly person, this terrified
her loved ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it went on for some
time, her parents began taking her to different doctors. Finally, a
psychiatrist diagnosed schizophrenia, a little understood condition at the
time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">According to the American
Psychiatric Association, “Schizophrenia is a chronic brain disorder that
affects less than one percent of the US population. When schizophrenia is
active, symptoms can include delusions, hallucinations, disorganized speech,
trouble with thinking and lack of motivation.” Although there is still no known
cure for schizophrenia, ongoing research has found humane ways to treat the
symptoms and to care for the person. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But back when Aunt Nancy was
diagnosed, institutionalization was standard practice. So, with broken hearts,
my grandparents committed their daughter to a mental hospital. She lived there
for the rest of her life. The family apparently stopped talking about her as
they tried to deal with their loss and move forward. It became the Family Secret.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Schizophrenia is inherited, and a
generation later two of my cousins developed it in their early 20s. My cousin
Eileen was also institutionalized. My cousin John committed suicide.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaqDGRaAondrtzUI6ybC3gnWVVAH2xtzV6ETlwQVsa5GBFpZcIeubT1uS8TzxKNYd7tGHnX6N7zXq2Pa9A2WuMNkyPmfBLBHSJz396YOc255g-EeNiAxBLj3s4tFu3AvBc1v19LN62jHRGPaILIOTpf46xjHH4I49bJifLlPIXPbvL0ZQPYfr91uG568X/s2355/img262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2355" data-original-width="1742" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaqDGRaAondrtzUI6ybC3gnWVVAH2xtzV6ETlwQVsa5GBFpZcIeubT1uS8TzxKNYd7tGHnX6N7zXq2Pa9A2WuMNkyPmfBLBHSJz396YOc255g-EeNiAxBLj3s4tFu3AvBc1v19LN62jHRGPaILIOTpf46xjHH4I49bJifLlPIXPbvL0ZQPYfr91uG568X/s320/img262.jpg" width="237" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />My mom was devastated by what was
happening to Nancy, and the grief followed her the rest of her life. As best I
can calculate, Mom was a newly married woman at the time. Two years following
her marriage, my parents welcomed their first born—me—and they named me Nancy
Jane.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I was growing up, my mom never
talked about Aunt Nancy. And of course I never met her. When I got old enough
to be curious about my name, I was told I was named after an aunt who was now
“gone.” Even as a child I sensed Mom didn’t want to talk about it, so I left it
alone. It’s only been since my mom’s death that I’ve been able to piece
together a few details that saddened me. Sad for my aunt, but even sadder for
my mother whose heart never healed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And so my excitement at finding
the photo of Nancy Jane Nichols, and discovering her to be such a beautiful
young woman. I imagine I see her character in the photo—a kind, loving person
I’d want to have as a friend, if that were possible. Maybe the photo shows who
she really is, not the person the disease turned her into. I feel privileged to
be named after her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My parents apparently didn’t pay
too much attention to the meaning of names. They were not Christians at the
time and certain words might not have carried much significance. But both <i>Nancy</i>
and <i>Jane </i>are derivatives of the work <i>grace.</i> I’ll accept that. A
double portion of grace. God’s grace child. That’s something to hold onto,
cherish, and live into with the Spirit’s help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My mom died at the relatively
young age of 57 after years of degenerative rheumatoid arthritis. Her limbs had
become twisted and she could no longer walk. She kept her quiet and cheerful
spirit to the end, but it hurt to see her suffering.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I imagine the sisters, Nancy Jane
and Barbara Mae, together now, healed, whole, and flourishing. They have an
eternity to make up for time they lost here on earth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Grace.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-51191292435665566682023-11-07T08:20:00.000-08:002023-11-07T08:20:52.632-08:00Creativity has no age limit<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Creativity and beauty are alive
and well in the retirement community! Retirement doesn’t keep artists from
painting, writers from writing, musicians from blowing their horns,
photographers from capturing beauty, and artisans of all sorts from growing
craftier than ever.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Speaking of art, the lobby of the
main community building is its own art gallery, under the management of a
resident activity group called Art on the Wall. It always features the work of
a local artist and changes every few months. Sometimes the local artist is a
resident of our retirement community.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjS0pa60SZBCryZjNO4MTNhkQCTFhagTCCSf1zh6m4Yq35CusCV21MQMBCqQ60wdq4JgbGlmujjktFXgtC9XHP4IKzX3mrIpwCFhgu3e2NDTszw1ArFPk5dxyRy3WzSa-i5b0pPS0KnMbXZhfhcyqAr8hMCcp6PCgDyWAp4yhhGejqLbPJDnAeov9q639/s4032/IMG_3577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjS0pa60SZBCryZjNO4MTNhkQCTFhagTCCSf1zh6m4Yq35CusCV21MQMBCqQ60wdq4JgbGlmujjktFXgtC9XHP4IKzX3mrIpwCFhgu3e2NDTszw1ArFPk5dxyRy3WzSa-i5b0pPS0KnMbXZhfhcyqAr8hMCcp6PCgDyWAp4yhhGejqLbPJDnAeov9q639/s320/IMG_3577.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />That’s the case with the latest
collection that circles the walls of the lobby and extends down the hall to the
dining room. The artist just happens to be a good friend. I’ve known Sharon
Longstroth since college days over 50 years ago. We’ve kept up our friendship
over the years and now find ourselves part of the same retirement community.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After college, Sharon taught in
grade school, as well as being a wife, mother, and homemaker. All along art has
played a central part in her life. It’s part of her identity as a person.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PUa1QLodwp3N6nPAzEc70WBNU6HLfNGCljGBRgtqKyIOAvjcPYoMttojtzc7KU1s2DiWUoGLGg5i8rjY5_Z6y0tLypgf4aLcPzvfEzQegVWe9TxrYFSI1TNu5HIOQLV3kQSoR7vlv_pnKPOZZSegv2aoFHj39MVdYQEDz0T2wtNrsL9mgIGdtuE-TQgz/s4032/IMG_3605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PUa1QLodwp3N6nPAzEc70WBNU6HLfNGCljGBRgtqKyIOAvjcPYoMttojtzc7KU1s2DiWUoGLGg5i8rjY5_Z6y0tLypgf4aLcPzvfEzQegVWe9TxrYFSI1TNu5HIOQLV3kQSoR7vlv_pnKPOZZSegv2aoFHj39MVdYQEDz0T2wtNrsL9mgIGdtuE-TQgz/s320/IMG_3605.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />She is currently known as a
“Watercolor/Mixed Media Artist.” Sharon writes, “In recent years I have spent
considerable time painting the things that I love: old buildings, people I
know, flowers, birds, and anything else that catches my interest. A few years
ago, I took a mixed media class where I learned to make books and art pieces
using my own painted collage papers. I loved the results and the freedom of
creating in a new way.”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sharon tells me that living in the
retirement community has encouraged her as an artist. It’s not just a matter of
having more free time (although that is a major factor). It’s being part of a
community of other creative people who inspire her and motivate her to keep
learning new ways of creative expression. She is part of the Studio Arts
Committee and spends a lot of time in their large studio on the lower floor. She
sometimes teaches art classes and also enjoys taking some of the other classes
the committee offers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t consider myself an artist,
but I’ve taken a few of the art classes, including one Sharon taught on mixed
media. But aside from art, the creative energy this group puts out encourages
creativity in other forms. I find myself writing more stuff in a more creative
manner. It’s part of the atmosphere of this community. I’m grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here are some of Sharon’s pictures
currently on display:</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4mgBoDftBZvUQDzYEzf_cHLatUHpPC2SoiT1yx23PZQCeIkGPHWC8i4UD8OBhH-ReLUzreRKya3BHnd37LXMc0whi5n96J-tsAvCtaGz-H_WyTyJkDXyl5lY299J7MrT130UTRjK9oIZlu3MvTnabaC_oS8EDzPMlERunveh7ogMB_nGE9YrGHwMkXJB/s4032/IMG_3580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4mgBoDftBZvUQDzYEzf_cHLatUHpPC2SoiT1yx23PZQCeIkGPHWC8i4UD8OBhH-ReLUzreRKya3BHnd37LXMc0whi5n96J-tsAvCtaGz-H_WyTyJkDXyl5lY299J7MrT130UTRjK9oIZlu3MvTnabaC_oS8EDzPMlERunveh7ogMB_nGE9YrGHwMkXJB/s320/IMG_3580.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKom43lnMdEBjW1hxSL7aLdOBK-s3EbiXcYBQkwiVUHFWbFZYFKgq4qaohimHF8WFT6h45kqe9QHVA8WX2pXq03Duoqlo39GvlL-9iCEdn87qk70T18OgPrDTv8RAw9lOmmqkA3_XjXfw-_VCGrFsFYapqHlgsE64Zd3NfyqSprlg-ciigIJDbj4W1hPp/s4032/IMG_3573.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKom43lnMdEBjW1hxSL7aLdOBK-s3EbiXcYBQkwiVUHFWbFZYFKgq4qaohimHF8WFT6h45kqe9QHVA8WX2pXq03Duoqlo39GvlL-9iCEdn87qk70T18OgPrDTv8RAw9lOmmqkA3_XjXfw-_VCGrFsFYapqHlgsE64Zd3NfyqSprlg-ciigIJDbj4W1hPp/s320/IMG_3573.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIYG01s1cdO6VAGQDCw994oQVwmZVa5FaakyabfULZu0d4WOabBqNCg6bZU8E5dZI5Uyt6Uf7Rvak71L1236aUEPo57cTTZxQ5vybZdWbuE8eHhCU9pm1UibXr5lLlOWs2UL3iSKEJGza4e7orHsWoPfNdrfFBcT1ZN43CYHkBwhBl_ui4s-VR1FMDPB6/s4032/IMG_3599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFIYG01s1cdO6VAGQDCw994oQVwmZVa5FaakyabfULZu0d4WOabBqNCg6bZU8E5dZI5Uyt6Uf7Rvak71L1236aUEPo57cTTZxQ5vybZdWbuE8eHhCU9pm1UibXr5lLlOWs2UL3iSKEJGza4e7orHsWoPfNdrfFBcT1ZN43CYHkBwhBl_ui4s-VR1FMDPB6/s320/IMG_3599.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJaZh5RuPESCDSMMiit6GfA-6KwKqhAgh9xb-Fmvxbk0LGFRjT58j6dmds_U5TOBe5cLdvMyq0QnAR0VdYzQO9_C5aHJT36v3fRLpYLHPx0AeooYKu2-87RbqWJA2cIOj_I4YnSING_Vg8wZF-DEpLHJWqH1s4p-R3YnbTpSc_dl74T8GkRlSBUhrKjcD/s4032/IMG_3598.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJaZh5RuPESCDSMMiit6GfA-6KwKqhAgh9xb-Fmvxbk0LGFRjT58j6dmds_U5TOBe5cLdvMyq0QnAR0VdYzQO9_C5aHJT36v3fRLpYLHPx0AeooYKu2-87RbqWJA2cIOj_I4YnSING_Vg8wZF-DEpLHJWqH1s4p-R3YnbTpSc_dl74T8GkRlSBUhrKjcD/s320/IMG_3598.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASNVjJG4QJBe46LXicSZhHt4PsM8fUmjLV8LVswBCQrbBtGIm_YWAlKzU3zzeN24BOw_ZeGgp9WB4L0BAunGiGGBPe88k3mOeWdA-A0zbqpEF6vrAnYesrRfYEj7uGM_5Fs6bmAZwE2Bkjs0-P5DSnpwdtGRSFHTBkllgNqxx1fVF83Mi5pTRuXOPkSKz/s4032/IMG_3581.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgASNVjJG4QJBe46LXicSZhHt4PsM8fUmjLV8LVswBCQrbBtGIm_YWAlKzU3zzeN24BOw_ZeGgp9WB4L0BAunGiGGBPe88k3mOeWdA-A0zbqpEF6vrAnYesrRfYEj7uGM_5Fs6bmAZwE2Bkjs0-P5DSnpwdtGRSFHTBkllgNqxx1fVF83Mi5pTRuXOPkSKz/s320/IMG_3581.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-QmKGTcu40T4ghZRqtRCrFn8w2Pjuseixp3G3OAyU81Bz1r7r2rYKUsklYghhQG5OK3VxAvU9a2nfrvKHE1wKFp_6Ux3SVymLNKrrGM2QX5Wehb5Bwv7HasNsAsYR6t34up0OE1XxRMMbdDKbz-Yq6AkdvAJLcyHKSjfz12-nRPCJP8QyipdYju4MX_K/s4032/IMG_3588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-QmKGTcu40T4ghZRqtRCrFn8w2Pjuseixp3G3OAyU81Bz1r7r2rYKUsklYghhQG5OK3VxAvU9a2nfrvKHE1wKFp_6Ux3SVymLNKrrGM2QX5Wehb5Bwv7HasNsAsYR6t34up0OE1XxRMMbdDKbz-Yq6AkdvAJLcyHKSjfz12-nRPCJP8QyipdYju4MX_K/s320/IMG_3588.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHPnygwpKG6J0nHv7c3D0MXyLUARYYUp2Vzma_ih-WMzctwOOMJG_fKiQrnW6Q53gAxzXo_Jg4IYEzNgLb4xkofCgTVFc8EOs49eaXEVcSU1iX9RRfL1hMnYzcV-oghBenRiBEOEJ3STRHZ1mxgidi0nzSTCHP2zE7f1N7Qn-Df-2nrUB7NmbuhRy3kCA/s4032/IMG_3595%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHPnygwpKG6J0nHv7c3D0MXyLUARYYUp2Vzma_ih-WMzctwOOMJG_fKiQrnW6Q53gAxzXo_Jg4IYEzNgLb4xkofCgTVFc8EOs49eaXEVcSU1iX9RRfL1hMnYzcV-oghBenRiBEOEJ3STRHZ1mxgidi0nzSTCHP2zE7f1N7Qn-Df-2nrUB7NmbuhRy3kCA/s320/IMG_3595%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RYUyOyZpT3dS0bPBJ8c6gyVg1nKa-0Pvj-UpXsONqX4rSGUayyiIAr8hE_CaKNzgv-tj0yQzPwgCWtXHrT1n3LgqLz5j9PAlftGTSLyJO-V_Aczn1pHArkXuAMtOley_jLrrOtGGcGHDJazSnBlpJ7fotgyn2pv8GUZ-ENXWi_Z0jlTV2QzYTktx0-QW/s4032/IMG_3575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RYUyOyZpT3dS0bPBJ8c6gyVg1nKa-0Pvj-UpXsONqX4rSGUayyiIAr8hE_CaKNzgv-tj0yQzPwgCWtXHrT1n3LgqLz5j9PAlftGTSLyJO-V_Aczn1pHArkXuAMtOley_jLrrOtGGcGHDJazSnBlpJ7fotgyn2pv8GUZ-ENXWi_Z0jlTV2QzYTktx0-QW/s320/IMG_3575.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-84668521870554334862023-10-31T10:59:00.000-07:002023-10-31T10:59:12.571-07:00Ageism in the health care industry<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">We live in a time of medical
specialization. We learn about the family doctor by watching ancient “Little
House on the Prairie” re-runs. Where once one doctor oversaw all medical care
and actually knew their patients, now it seems there is a specialist for each
body part. Add to that the reality that as we age our body parts start
malfunctioning; thus we end up seeing a lot of doctors.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ne8ajtiqdOI-oHKF7cVt30zmAV4cxg9cVt_PTpyDiNdOLqqpdeTYNh0YrjFyqxHxEtokjhEhxxWqLHH2YXiEEhMcyGFHwSWoxgzVbzzqF8ddx45PLLy6LPmaPbpWzsiFW9k9UJ_vN2R45nTTpQbSLWgDfJswJYHaCeGyyVmvsfg96C3dWxMg7uHWM8xq/s1500/old%20tree%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1500" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Ne8ajtiqdOI-oHKF7cVt30zmAV4cxg9cVt_PTpyDiNdOLqqpdeTYNh0YrjFyqxHxEtokjhEhxxWqLHH2YXiEEhMcyGFHwSWoxgzVbzzqF8ddx45PLLy6LPmaPbpWzsiFW9k9UJ_vN2R45nTTpQbSLWgDfJswJYHaCeGyyVmvsfg96C3dWxMg7uHWM8xq/s320/old%20tree%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Right now I’m in touch with my
primary care physician (PCP), an audiologist, a neurologist who specializes in migraines,
and a dermatologist. I accompany Hal on his visits to his urologist,
gastrologist, an orthopedic specialist in hands and another one who focuses on
backs. I may have missed one. All of these doctors are young (from my mature
perspective), in their 40s or early 50s. Curiously, my doctors are all female,
which I have nothing against. But Hal’s specialists are all male. We have the
same PCP, a young woman in her 40s.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another fact: more often than not
these days, when we go to see one of these doctors, we’re likely to instead get
the physician’s assistant (PA), usually someone in their mid-30s.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But we need their help, so we
humble ourselves before the wisdom and skill of youth. And hope for the best.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZudaRAqd4JejhMlgzD3DLC0nWq5OP_kRNbIsJAfCShN1B3zMSUyE-pj_nAZrMpLiXACsLzC2jcOaW9B4SE4_eWFBQKZQ-ScDcOYQZGu8vWhQwffUphqGOu-_KCWNDi0ga0mZ_OvV2tIcbz68BmnTMoLwckR55KV3Vqr965jbK3UZJKi56WEmhyphenhyphen9UeVWc/s327/81qM8QkasOL._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="215" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZudaRAqd4JejhMlgzD3DLC0nWq5OP_kRNbIsJAfCShN1B3zMSUyE-pj_nAZrMpLiXACsLzC2jcOaW9B4SE4_eWFBQKZQ-ScDcOYQZGu8vWhQwffUphqGOu-_KCWNDi0ga0mZ_OvV2tIcbz68BmnTMoLwckR55KV3Vqr965jbK3UZJKi56WEmhyphenhyphen9UeVWc/s320/81qM8QkasOL._AC_UY327_FMwebp_QL65_.webp" width="210" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I’ve been reading a fascinating
book by award-winning scholar and geriatrician Louise Aronson. The book is
entitled <i>Elderhood: Redefining Aging, Transforming Medicine, Reimagining
Life </i>(2019). Aronson, herself a woman in the prime of life, traveled a
twisting path before choosing geriatrics as her specialization. She tells this
story in her book.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Among other topics, Aronson gives
a penetrating view of ageism (age discrimination, especially against the
elderly) in the medical system, beginning with the training of physicians. She
writes that<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Over their four years in
medical school and three to ten years of residency and fellowship training,
doctors in training are taught that human beings come in two age categories
that matter: children and adults. After required classes and rotations elucidating
differences in physiology, social behaviors, and health needs between those two
age groups, they choose whether to work in children’s hospitals or adult
hospitals, and as pediatric specialists or adult specialists. If they happen to
notice that older adults make up to 16 percent of the population but over 40
percent of hospitalized adults, or that patients over sixty-five are the group
most likely to be harmed by medical care, that knowledge will be tempered not
only by medicine’s predilections for saves and cures but also by comments from
their teachers and mentors such as “Unless you really like changing adult
diapers, don’t waste your time” learning geriatrics.” (5-6)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj4QV1_AcUflNz0iLlFneL_eHt9dsWzMo2nrCyO4lUpy95nUCR3g0cmXDUkHlbORxRpIqbDVNcdG5JIWhjq3uSE7fZVISq9dmBeugnGXstQZDLk0zwZa0qUeSOKJV3QV70sRVzHJ674LFYokML8vJY59uGQRznvil0s72EvULPlFCLtGQmdrPC2s4ZZsZ/s255/old%20tree%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="255" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj4QV1_AcUflNz0iLlFneL_eHt9dsWzMo2nrCyO4lUpy95nUCR3g0cmXDUkHlbORxRpIqbDVNcdG5JIWhjq3uSE7fZVISq9dmBeugnGXstQZDLk0zwZa0qUeSOKJV3QV70sRVzHJ674LFYokML8vJY59uGQRznvil0s72EvULPlFCLtGQmdrPC2s4ZZsZ/s1600/old%20tree%202.jpg" width="255" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Aronson goes on to show how this
kind of discrimination in training carries over into medical practice, with
many doctors treating and medicating older persons just as they would younger
adults, without considering that the aging body has different needs and
reactions. She claims that “The second-class citizenship of older patients is
entrenched and systemic” in the health care industry.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At this point I need to stop and
say that all of my doctors have treated me with kindness and respect. (I can’t
say the same for some of the PAs). I’ve detected no obvious ageism.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Yet there is something subtle
going on, an uncomfortable itch that only gets worse as I scratch it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">About eight years ago, just as I
was entering retirement age, I began experiencing symptoms of head-pressure and
dizziness. (I’ve told this story in other blogposts.) I began reporting it to
my doctor. Aronson notes that “When a patient uses the word ‘dizzy’ most
clinicians will tell you that something inside them clutches, if only for a
second.” Even more so if the patient is older. After several years of my
mentioning this (probably not forcefully enough), my doctor began ordering
tests and referring me to specialists. Lots of them. After two years of
exploring the options, every doctor involved told me they found nothing wrong.
One even said, “Don’t worry. Most old people have some degree of dizziness.
It’s aging.” My PCP said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do anything for you.” And smiled
sympathetically.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It felt like no one believed me. So
I changed insurance plans and found a neurologist at a research hospital who
finally gave me a diagnosis. Like I said, I’ve already told this story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I really don’t know how many of
the obstacles in my journey were due to my age. Probably not all of them. Even
so, having read Aronson and made my own observations, I recognize that age
discrimination is widespread.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here are some preliminary
conclusions I’ve reached:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
am thankful for people like Louise Aronson on the forefront of a change of
attitude in the health care industry, a positive change I believe is coming.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
will prepare myself better for each medical visit, reminding myself that I am a
person of value, that my health matters as much as anyone’s. I will gently
insist on being heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->I
will prepare to treat my doctors with respect, no matter how young they are, a
respect I trust will be returned, no matter how old I am.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The quote at the beginning of
Aronson’s book is by Cicero. Apparently ageism has been around for a long time.
He said that “Old age will only be respected if it fights for itself, maintains
its rights … and asserts control over its own to its last breath.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMu93qaACkNnU07arXoxUDQI3rYBujyF9PQLTDpUYcF6LFzAdbPKgqJf-A5KWdO6ggp6ZLO5EMXovj8ZP4NUl8IkuTvl45kb5tRDnIxu2hPvZJRJzAWayIxD0IAYsmyIsbREtAh8RmDZWlkSOBAklrltbHv_gVvqGhE6Gph80faSSMXYWvxLwFqA969Cce/s299/old%20tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="299" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMu93qaACkNnU07arXoxUDQI3rYBujyF9PQLTDpUYcF6LFzAdbPKgqJf-A5KWdO6ggp6ZLO5EMXovj8ZP4NUl8IkuTvl45kb5tRDnIxu2hPvZJRJzAWayIxD0IAYsmyIsbREtAh8RmDZWlkSOBAklrltbHv_gVvqGhE6Gph80faSSMXYWvxLwFqA969Cce/s1600/old%20tree.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-44534449611223208822023-10-24T10:41:00.002-07:002023-10-24T10:43:49.951-07:00Windows, waterfalls, and a beautiful view<p> <span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first thought was an
unannounced partial eclipse of the sun, so quickly had the shadow entered the
room. I turned to find it wasn’t an eclipse but a man outside my window,
pressing up against it.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;"> I would have screamed had I not
then remembered that it was window-cleaning day at the retirement community. It
surprises me twice a year, even when it’s announced a week ahead of time. This
is partly because we live on the fifth floor, with no balcony. The sudden
appearance of the cleaner always catches me unaware.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRa3VlI0somxLMURKzp4elC4UH16RSpXFhpoIkMhev-TRV4BvO4KvsvZtK-zGgAsO3gKylKxP0nN6zuWW2JN7b4ly0Bmb6c6uE0cSgD2lIzuDxxoalwr4UjuKFHWZUznlTz_nu2fDunHdDRfw2cGeZOvuzY2rYBIHajnT3BhxQM4NoUsgZO8I1-ay5R44/s640/IMG_3543%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRa3VlI0somxLMURKzp4elC4UH16RSpXFhpoIkMhev-TRV4BvO4KvsvZtK-zGgAsO3gKylKxP0nN6zuWW2JN7b4ly0Bmb6c6uE0cSgD2lIzuDxxoalwr4UjuKFHWZUznlTz_nu2fDunHdDRfw2cGeZOvuzY2rYBIHajnT3BhxQM4NoUsgZO8I1-ay5R44/s320/IMG_3543%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Actually, I’m grateful that this
establishment provides bi-annual window cleaning. One of the reasons we moved into
this apartment was the north-facing wall of windows in both rooms. It makes the
small area feel spacious and open. We never tire of the view. After the
cleaning, the far hills seem especially clear and lovely.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A clear view is so important to
personal well-being. When choosing and moving into a new place, my first
questions were always, “What will we see looking out the windows? How much
light gets in?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Another type of window cleaning
common to people of retirement age is cataract removal/lens replacement surgery.
I’m still amazed at the thought of an operation on the eye and that it’s become
so quick and routine. “Don’t worry,” my doctor told me. “I do dozens of these
each day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Dozens a day” makes it seem like
minor surgery, and so it is. But for the person undergoing the procedure, me
for example, it’s huge and life-changing. Hal and I had the surgery several
years ago. I was thrilled with how sharp and clear my vision was afterward,
much better than a window cleaning. I could actually read road signs. The
greens were greener, the reds redder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPd6uMJNaLs2np6GPaeeo63McSxTzMJ5Id4-UBuwtc7yrYvRRSeQ3C3EThSQdekQOZs3IVx-mc67tUje8Kh-FMWzercGjfq1np8V8dqHDChyphenhyphen21GkX5IQH2sbSEiiyjegCzeef1_gBr2jvOifOKrIu7QDvcG2bCKd7tiUSUi6T-UBgDRY6F7HTYCtBYqFT7/s600/depositphotos_206643260-stock-photo-picturesque-landscape-upper-duden-waterfall.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="600" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPd6uMJNaLs2np6GPaeeo63McSxTzMJ5Id4-UBuwtc7yrYvRRSeQ3C3EThSQdekQOZs3IVx-mc67tUje8Kh-FMWzercGjfq1np8V8dqHDChyphenhyphen21GkX5IQH2sbSEiiyjegCzeef1_gBr2jvOifOKrIu7QDvcG2bCKd7tiUSUi6T-UBgDRY6F7HTYCtBYqFT7/s320/depositphotos_206643260-stock-photo-picturesque-landscape-upper-duden-waterfall.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The name <i>cataract</i> interests
me. It has two meanings in English: 1) a clouding of the lens of the eye and 2)
a waterfall. The latter is an older usage. But in Spanish the word <i>catarata</i>
is the common word for waterfall.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just before my surgery I wrote
the following poem:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m having my waterfalls<br />
removed. It will be good<br />
when all the mist<br />
that floats between me<br />
and the sun is gone.<br />
Even so, I’m going to miss<br />
the rush and swirl of moving<br />
water, the mad leap over the edge,<br />
the plunge and crash and all<br />
the lovely daily drama that goes<br />
with having my very own<br />
waterfalls somewhere <br />
inside my head.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clarity of vision is indeed
important to human flourishing. I find my soul frequently needs a window
cleaning. Cataracts of fear and discouragement need the surgery of the Spirit
so that I can again see the beautiful reality of life in God’s kingdom. The
Apostle Paul prayed for the new believers in Ephesus that the “eyes of their
hearts” would be opened so that they would clearly see all that God had
provided for them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Clear vision.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eyes that see truth and beauty—in
myself, in other people, in God’s world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A requirement at any age.</span><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbRa9xGibt7K2poOEt3pcg0cY9IgoyY4-txat8cKvnbp2jbHUDJ8w9zfv4UnSOPTjPwWCo43O3dIc51jmiGpyn_hLBoKZhWujLRPtzJqe1ObuMaOP0prXEScRJFTZUN1VC5-lhYHaECSGdJDrZ-b7IXbKLR9XJ-vS5v-ZUoVHwQAidVsivFJf3z4LQGAH/s275/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwbRa9xGibt7K2poOEt3pcg0cY9IgoyY4-txat8cKvnbp2jbHUDJ8w9zfv4UnSOPTjPwWCo43O3dIc51jmiGpyn_hLBoKZhWujLRPtzJqe1ObuMaOP0prXEScRJFTZUN1VC5-lhYHaECSGdJDrZ-b7IXbKLR9XJ-vS5v-ZUoVHwQAidVsivFJf3z4LQGAH/s1600/download.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><br /></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-12901189064084573202023-10-17T14:30:00.003-07:002023-10-18T10:51:36.076-07:00Four older women and me<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Bess was the first one. I was just
home on my second furlough from mission service in Bolivia. I was in my
mid-thirties, a mother of young school-age kids, all of us feeling the
awkwardness of being strangers in our own home country. Wondering if we belonged
anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A friend told me about this woman who,
at the age of 76, had just discovered that she was a poet. She had
self-published two chapbooks of her poems, one of which was titled “Wise and
Otherwise.” I loved that title.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My friend told me that this woman
wanted to meet me as a sister poet. Still under the spell of reverse-culture-shock,
wanting to keep to myself, I, nonetheless called this perfect stranger and
asked if I could come over for a visit. Her <i>yes</i> was most enthusiastic.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thus began my friendship with Bess
Bulgin, a friendship that I’ve been grateful for ever since. Even though we
were strangers, after that first visit it was as though we had known each other
all our lives. Although mentally alive and vibrant, her aging body was beginning
to betray her, so she was house-bound. Our weekly visits were at her house, in her
cozy favorite room, full of books and memories from her exciting and very full
life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We talked a lot, back and forth,
shared life stories and struggles, discussed relationships and the mysteries of
knowing God. We read poetry to each other, of course. My friendship with Bess
became the stabilizing anchor of that year at home in the US. I went back to
Bolivia knowing how much I would miss our weekly times together. We exchanged a
few letters, but then her health took a sudden turn for the worse. I never saw
Bess again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I met my second older mentor on
another furlough home from the mission field. This was a strange furlough, not
on the Mission Board’s schedule. After just one year into our fourth year of
service, Hal became sick with a combination of typhoid, amoeba, and hepatitis.
His Bolivian doctor didn’t know what to do with him, so, not wanting him to die
on his watch, insisted he go back home to the US for treatment. The Board
deemed it a medical emergency and had him flown home immediately. That left me
and the kids to finish out their school year, pack up the house, and fly home
to join him. It was a scary time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It turned out to be an entire year
of recuperation. His doctor took Hal off all medications, and outlined a regimen
of rest, nutrition, and gradual exercise. My job was to take care of him (and
the kids, of course). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGMXbnZ5_OPFk0J2lt1aJW3LDVhwpb5LvpdDDd5DcFa1yHP8C5yfIHLNMsPzdgtREwS1Y7I5YT37xBtvHuJvQBq9sYj-K2QAEFb9p-jy2gsUfQOKhdkoAU1gEsjoC-CBEcNeZ46DeEc0GTCs_1ecGkAbiNddBkYkRcNfri5ShebWcsOXa0vu4iOzPo6Hd/s220/41766467_131336028315.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="159" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGMXbnZ5_OPFk0J2lt1aJW3LDVhwpb5LvpdDDd5DcFa1yHP8C5yfIHLNMsPzdgtREwS1Y7I5YT37xBtvHuJvQBq9sYj-K2QAEFb9p-jy2gsUfQOKhdkoAU1gEsjoC-CBEcNeZ46DeEc0GTCs_1ecGkAbiNddBkYkRcNfri5ShebWcsOXa0vu4iOzPo6Hd/s1600/41766467_131336028315.jpg" width="159" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Catherine Cattell had recently
moved into Friendsview Manor (where I now live). I knew of her and her husband,
Everett, by reputation only. They had served a life-time as missionaries in
India and were widely recognized by Indians and Americans alike for their
contributions. So I was naturally hesitant (introvert that I am) at imposing
myself on her, but I called and asked if I could come over for a visit. The
house we were renting was just a block from Friendsview. Again, her <i>yes</i>
was most enthusiastic.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our friendship was instant and, as
with Bess, became a highlight of each week. We shared our vocations of mission
work and writing. We both had faced the challenges of being mothers on the
mission field, not an easy task. All this became regular topics of conversation
and I learned much from her experiences and wisdom. We laughed a lot and prayed
together. She was a life-line during that difficult time. And I sensed I served
in that role for her, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Catherine died turning my
following term of service in Bolivia.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inez Smith was number three. Having
temporarily retired from the mission field for further education, Hal and I
found ourselves at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, California. We were
both enrolled in Ph.D. programs in the School of World Mission, as crazy as
that sounds.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inez was a well-known figure in
Fuller circles. Having served for years as executive secretary to long-term
seminary president David A. Hubbard, she was now widowed and retired. But that
didn’t slow her down. At the time Hal and I were there, she was president of
the Fuller Women’s Auxiliary. One of the main contributions of the Auxiliary
was raising funds for scholarships for women in doctoral degree programs. After
being at Fuller for several years, I was thrilled to earn one of those prestigious
(and very helpful) scholarships. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Inez had made it a custom to meet personally
with each recipient. So one evening it was my turn. I managed to find her small
house on Green Street by her famous large rose garden out in front. I was a
little nervous about this meeting (being me), but she put me at ease. She
served me tea in beautiful old-fashioned cups (with saucers, of course) and she
asked me the usual questions. Somewhere in the conversation, we clicked. She
asked me to come back so we could get to know one another better. I did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At first my visits were
occasional, but when Hal left for a five-month research trip to Bolivia, Inez
told me I needed to come over one evening a week. So I did. She cooked dinner. Then
we talked or watched movies. That year we both celebrated milestones—my 50<sup>th</sup>
birthday and her 80<sup>th</sup>. Our friendship was a life-line and a great
comfort during my time as a single wife. Inez has been gone several decades
now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialIaIFDMf20zhocQHSE_ihFtkydYG8Lkl5i5X5F0FxgEiLS6Xh3v4TcIBlHIKRuq079A0m-jopMpzhA3CamE9lADblSWCQk8VfLf1c1LjJGw9-tneTlDQnw0EmUJlaVUp6cAtaiUySueRUYCgqsvWsTXfz576Iodsby9qxTD_DvXl8t92ATU5DrraHBks/s4032/IMG_3227%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialIaIFDMf20zhocQHSE_ihFtkydYG8Lkl5i5X5F0FxgEiLS6Xh3v4TcIBlHIKRuq079A0m-jopMpzhA3CamE9lADblSWCQk8VfLf1c1LjJGw9-tneTlDQnw0EmUJlaVUp6cAtaiUySueRUYCgqsvWsTXfz576Iodsby9qxTD_DvXl8t92ATU5DrraHBks/s320/IMG_3227%20(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Shortly after moving into this
retirement community, I met Harriet Fowler, who became my next older “best
friend.” I’ve written about our friendship in other blogs (May 2022, June 2023), so won’t repeat the
details here. She died this year just short of her 105<sup>th</sup> birthday. I
still miss her.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">None of these four older friends—Bess,
Catherine, Inez, and Harriet—were mentors in an intentional sense. They didn’t
deliberately set out to teach me stuff or guide me along the path of life. They
befriended me. They were all around 30 years older than me, and because of the difference
in age and life experience, I had more to gain from the relationships. And I
did learn, more from their stories and examples than any formal lessons they
might have taught.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One important thing all these
older friends taught me was that it’s possible to be vibrant, alive, creative,
caring, beautiful, and, at the same time—old. I remember thinking, shortly after
I left Bess to go back to Bolivia, that someday far off in the future, I also
wanted to be a beautiful old lady.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">They all helped me face growing
older as something to actually look forward to, with a sense of adventure and of
hope that God would keep on using me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-indent: 0.25in;">Now, of course, it’s my turn to
pass on this vision to those younger than myself. God grant me the privilege.</span> </span></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277435878223218861.post-77376273656542173372023-10-10T07:59:00.000-07:002023-10-10T07:59:39.184-07:00How weighty do I want to be?<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In this time of life, the word
“weight” has a double meaning. The most obvious refers to poundage. It seems
that the older I grow, the easier it is to put on the pounds, and the harder to
take them off. And what’s here on my body is distributed in strange
configurations. It’s like a heavy weight (that word again) is pressing down
from above, making me shorter and spreading me out. When buying new clothes,
it’s not just color and style I consider, but what the garment is able to hide.
I tell myself that at this age, none of that should matter. But for some
reason, it does.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The second meaning of the word
“weight” has to do with a serious dose of wisdom some older people exude. We
respect these older gentlemen and ladies, not just for their white hair and
slow deliberate manners, but because the experiences they’ve lived through seem
to have given them a perspective worth heeding. When they speak, we listen. The
weight of wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqPqLnY4-DHKYRCHgozNC2YTNH6ifrZvUIeSrmf0UdMpBbAlZeMUFW-88ysrD3464mvjk3pxs3rtFaqyKufC2MkkCa8uSv8u_g3WcW4NVz0iAGNREY7ZkIcgPXZSA0iE3aDo95FZlKa7Bg4n-4RTYJZWvA2Sk10MuI6OzmJLZ0prK7ewfLwg2Hl2JnkR0/s233/weighty%20Friend%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="200" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqPqLnY4-DHKYRCHgozNC2YTNH6ifrZvUIeSrmf0UdMpBbAlZeMUFW-88ysrD3464mvjk3pxs3rtFaqyKufC2MkkCa8uSv8u_g3WcW4NVz0iAGNREY7ZkIcgPXZSA0iE3aDo95FZlKa7Bg4n-4RTYJZWvA2Sk10MuI6OzmJLZ0prK7ewfLwg2Hl2JnkR0/s1600/weighty%20Friend%202.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Quakers have a special take on
this kind of weight. They refer to certain people as “weighty Friends.” As a
young Friend, I observed that these awesome creatures were mostly old and
mostly men. Since then, my perspective has shifted and I recognize many women
who gained this reputation, not all of them elderly.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Quite a few years back, in an
elders meeting, someone referred to me as a weighty Friend, and everyone
solemnly agreed. No one even snickered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first reaction was shock
(unexpressed in typical Quakerly fashion). My second reaction was laughter (silent,
of course). I thought of “Fat Quaker” as a likely synonym, but my need to diet
was not extreme at the time. If the pudgy-cheeked man on the oatmeal box were
only frowning, he would be the perfect model. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My third reaction has been a lot
of pondering and reflecting. I still don’t have it all figured out. I realize
that although “weighty Friend” is a uniquely Quaker term, the concept is
universal. There are those in every denomination, social group, or extended
family whose wisdom is obvious. They are people who have earned wide respect
through a life well-lived. They carry a certain moral weight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But I am a Quaker and “weighty
Friend” is one of those delightful Quaker terms that’s fun to say, although the
exact meaning slips and slides around a bit. I ask myself, is this remnant from
early Quakerism still meaningful? Helpful? And what does it mean in reference
to me?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I love the old traditions, even
the archaic words. Some of them carry an ambiance of holiness, order, and, yes,
Quaker culture. Some still manage to be useful, even after all these years.
Maybe “weighty Friend” is one of them?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How am I to hold this term in
reference to myself? To be honest, I don’t feel ready to adopt this as part of
my identity. Perhaps this just shows my occasional resistance to growing older.
Do I also have to grow more solemn, stern, and stereotypically Quaker? I
certainly don’t always feel wise. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-AYbGv0Fdqdzvf6V9vrjQpCrAig_NgjrVDwhOOIwA0lf_UHSuzQBzWz0i6pvT3NWf3KLPzy55k7-Je3HR4e7KKcsYgEaaBPNBGoLPvWAm5YiRa9-lE3Eh0pSkakdRBtL3TuLPiBh5qDrnk57dSpJEmT0z8wwlpQDXTRb_7XayWn-00Cb8BP-BbLGzkGk/s225/oat%20meal%20Quaker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2-AYbGv0Fdqdzvf6V9vrjQpCrAig_NgjrVDwhOOIwA0lf_UHSuzQBzWz0i6pvT3NWf3KLPzy55k7-Je3HR4e7KKcsYgEaaBPNBGoLPvWAm5YiRa9-lE3Eh0pSkakdRBtL3TuLPiBh5qDrnk57dSpJEmT0z8wwlpQDXTRb_7XayWn-00Cb8BP-BbLGzkGk/s1600/oat%20meal%20Quaker.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Actually, I’ve known some older
people who were not only wise, they were funny as well. Sometimes hilariously
so. Maybe humor is a part of wisdom? If asked if I wanted to be known as funny or
as wise, I think I’d answer, “Both, please!” Could one be both weighty and
light-hearted at once? I hope so.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As to whether or not I’m really
becoming “weighty” as I age, some words from the Apostle Paul come to mind. (By
the way, if Paul had had the foresight to have become a Quaker, he would have
been a weighty one.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here are his words: “By the grace
given to me, I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly
than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance
with the measure of faith God has given you” (Romans 12:3). And, “Do nothing
out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better
[weightier] than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This gives me perspective. I think
“weighty Friend” or even “weighty older person” may be a helpful concept, as
long as I apply it to other people. But I don’t need to wonder whether I am or
not. It’s not for me to say. If anyone ever calls me that again, I’ll either chuckle
out loud or keep my chortle silent, depending on the sensibilities of the
person addressing me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Having worked that through, I feel
so much lighter.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Nancy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12660294694426043259noreply@blogger.com0