Psalms of old age

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

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

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

Thirsty
I thirst for you….  Psalm 63:1

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

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

Please, Lord,
make me thirsty for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can I tell you a secret?

[The following reflection was first published in “The Evangelical Friend” in 1984, but the concepts are still relevant. It’s part of a book of collected stories and essays that will be published in 2026 under the title, “The Richest Kid on the Block: reflections from an ordinary life.”] 

In a conspiratorial tone of voice, my seven-year-old daughter asked, “Mommy, can I tell you the stupid part of a smart secret?” Intrigued, I nodded, and Kristin cupped her hands around my ear and whispered, “Timmy Smith likes me.”

There. It was out. The stupid part of a smart secret. Another shared bond between us.

Secrets are important. Children instinctively know this. I remember often saying as a child, “If I tell you this, will you promise not to tell anyone? Cross your heart?”

I belonged to a secret club in the fifth grade. We had secret names, a secret written code, and a hiding place for our buried treasure (a huge collection of popsicle sticks). We sent secret signals to one another across the classroom and engaged in a secret post-recess contest to see who could hold a mouthful of water the longest. Our club had no theme or purpose; its most crucial element was its secretness. It said, “We belong.”

Secrets have their negative side. They can be used to exclude those who don’t belong. Whenever Kristin invites a group of friends to the house, sometime in the course of the day, some little girl inevitably whines, “No fair telling secrets!” And she’s right. Secrets used to exclude other people are definitely no fair.

Knowing a secret grants a certain superiority. I like Robert Frost’s little poem:

We dance around in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Have you ever been in a group of people who are pondering something that you know the answer to? You’ve pledged not to speak, so can only sit there and silently know. I may be perverse, but that’s my idea of fun, especially if the secret is a pleasant one.

I’m not a child anymore, but I still believe in secrets.

Just the other day I was thinking about a past experience, remembering how important it was to me. I suddenly realized that almost none of my current friends even knows about that experience. There are areas of my life—people I’ve loved, places I’ve been, adventures I’ve had—that are still my secrets. For some reason that knowledge gives me satisfaction. People don’t know all there is to know about me. I have a few surprises up my sleeve.

But having secrets is probably not as important as appropriately sharing secrets. Shared secrets create bonds between adults as well as between children, although we don’t use the same vocabulary. I belong to a small accountability group in my church. Our closeness is measured by the degree to which we openly reveal ourselves within the group. James 5:16 says, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.” We try to do this in our meetings, not only confessing our sins and faults, but sharing our joys and dreams as well. The bond between us is growing.

I don’t believe in telling all my secrets to everyone I know. That would be inappropriate, and I would soon have no secrets left to tell. But as I make a new friend and we begin to grow in our friendship, being open and honest about ourselves is part of the process. And keeping confidences is one measure of loyalty in a friendship.

The depth of a relationship usually equals the degree of shared secrets. My husband knows me better than any other person. We’ve talked together, prayed, walked the same paths, wrestled with the same problems. He knows my ups and downs, my pettiness, my joy, my hurts, my dreams. And I know his. Just as with children, sharing secrets is a part of our being best friends.

This carries over into our relationship with God. Although he relates to all of us in community as the church, he also knows and loves us individually. My relationship to God and awakening into his love are unlike anyone else’s. He’s my closest friend and our friendship is intimate and secret.

David writes of the wonder of the intimacy of a relationship with God:

“O Lord, Thou hast searched me and known me.
Thou dost know when I sit and when I rise up;
Thou dost understand my thought from afar.
Thou dost scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And art intimately acquainted with all my ways.
Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O Lord, thou dost know it” (Psalm 139:1-4 NASB)

In Revelation God promises that to the person who overcomes, “I will give … a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (2:17). For all eternity we’ll have a name that will remain a secret we share only with the Father. However our other relationships in heaven will be (and I imagine they’ll be wonderful in the full sense of the word), each one of us will still have a unique relationship with God. We’ll share a secret no one else knows.

If you see me looking somewhat inward, smiling to myself, you’ll know it’s because—I’ve got a secret!

The tree or the insect: differing views of old age

 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.

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.

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.

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!

Take Your Choice
Ecclesiastes 12:1-8; Psalm 92:12-14

Who am I to believe?
The psalmist has one view of old age,
the teacher, another. Poets both.

The sweet psalmist sings for joy
and flourishes like a cherry tree in spring.
Fresh, green, productive,
ever strong and full of the Holy Spirit
right up to the end, something
to look forward to. Peaceful sleep
followed by unending bliss.
It makes one want to grow old.

The teacher, on the other hand
(why is there always another hand?),
calls the final stage of life
the days of trouble.
I find no pleasure in them,
he grumbles. Rightly so.
Blind, deaf, toothless, and full of fear,
the old lady drags herself
along the floor of the nursing home
like a grasshopper with a broken wing.
Meaningless. The teacher again
uses his favorite word.

So which is it—
the blooming tree or the injured insect?
I choose the tree
(but I have my suspicions).

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.

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.

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.

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).

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!”

Absolutely astonishing.