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.

Up from the pit--I hope

 Last week was dark. It started out well. On Monday I wrote my blog on envisioning our final years with purpose and hope. I told about my life purposes as being Prayer, Poetry, and People. Writing it was a reminder of why I’m here. It gave me hope. I posted it on Tuesday, a day that turned out to be full of prayer, poetry, and people. My life was moving ahead nicely.

And then came Wednesday—and the rest of a grim week. My vestibular migraines kicked in with intensity, leaving me drained of energy. I wondered if this is a reaction to the latest medical experiment. I wonder if this is how it will be for the rest of my life.

I struggled with the possible failure of a project I’ve been working of for eight years. A group of us began a journal for our retirement community, with residents sharing their stories in writing. People here seemed to love it and I had a sense of contributing to life in the community. But lately it’s be difficult getting people to write. Right now it’s time to get the next issue ready for publication, and I’m realizing I don’t have enough stories. So we’re exploring our options, even wondering if this is the time to end the project. I’m losing sleep over this.

Dylan Thomas’s wonderful poem about death urges me, “Do not go gentle into that good night!” Resist! Resist! (I’m not sure that’s the best advice, although I love the poem.) So—do we resist the death of the journal, find a new way of doing things, fight? Sometimes (like last week) I just want to go gentle into that good night. Say, “It’s been good. Goodbye.”

I read through a collection of poems I’m readying for publication and decided that they were no good, that I should not waste people’s time with another mediocre book, that I should probably give it all up.

And then there’s the war in Iran, current American politics, and on and on. I really do care about all of this, but last week my reactions accelerated—mainly anger, fear, and hopelessness.

The worse part of the week was leaning of the unexpected death of good friend. Linda was my age and, although experiencing the onset of Alzheimer’s, still recognized her friends, still gave us her loving smile, still knew who loved her. It was a shock that I continue to deal with. I can only imagine what this is like for her husband, daughters, and granddaughter.

I’m having trouble gently accepting this death. I want to fight it. I keep saying NO in my spirit. While death is such a part of life, especially in this retirement community, it’s no less of a shock when it happens to someone you know and love.

So—after Tuesday, I did not engage with prayer, poetry, or people. I isolated myself in my room and binged on a Netflix series. This is especially wicked of me because, guess what I gave up for Lent? Right. Netflix. 

Sorry for all the whining. But since I was so cheery and positive on last week’s blog, I thought some honest confession might be in order. Plus, writing is my way of working through issues.

So—I’m choosing to hope. I’m going to make a list of all the bright spots in my life that bring hope if I can manage to notice them. Here’s the list that I’m creating as I write:

--I know there are more decent people in our country than bad apples. This country is full of men and women of integrity who want to serve their fellow human beings. Women and men who hunger after righteousness, as the Bible puts it. And I believe that some of them are members of the US Congress. I pray for them to have courage to speak up. I hope they do. I hope we all do.

--One of those decent human beings happens to be my brother Tom. His decency is mostly unnoticed. He’s a quiet, gentle person. But he blesses the homeless and addicted men he has befriended, with whom he meets every week. He loves his wife, kids, and grandkids. He loves books, is probably addicted to them. But that’s forgivable. Knowing there are hidden saints all around us gives me hope.

--I affirm that, although I’m not in the running for a Pulitzer Prize, some of my poems are good. If I keep writing, maybe the good will cancel out the poor stuff.

--I love my current doctor. She’s not only a skilled neurologist, she’s a medical researcher and, as one of her clients, I’m part of her database. There’s always hope for new discoveries. (And I’m not discounting miracles.)

--Even on my bad-hair, sour-mood, binge-watching days, my husband tells me I’m the best thing the twentieth-first century has going for it. (That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I don’t mind hearing it.)

--My great-grandson is learning to talk, one of the greatest miracles known to the human race. It’s amazing and wonderful to witness. That just has to be a huge source of hope. Life!

--I find great hope in recognizing where Linda is now. I imagine the restoration of her mind. I imagine her joy.

--I find hope in recognizing my humanity. God knows it and is not appalled when my responses to life are immature and ungrateful. I’m human, created by God with options and choices. While I’m capable of evil, I’m also capable of doing good things. Of creating beauty. Of loving well and blessing others.

Capable of climbing up out of this pit, so long as my Lord gives me a hand. And He does.

Hope restored.

Pilgrims in old age

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope to see Michael again when I arrive.

Something to think about.

1976

1984

2013 ?

2023

The irrelevance of death

As I write this, on Monday, September 29, it’s the actual day of my 80^th birthday. I’m entering into a new decade and a new phase in the adventure that is growing older. It’s hitting me today—80 years old. That’s up there. The thought that occurred to me in the early hours was that, from here on, death will not be a tragedy, but rather a normal part of life. It’s coming closer all the time. That’s natural. People might say, “Too bad she’s gone, but she lived a good long life.” And it would be true.

What a strange combination—celebration and death. But that’s how my mind works sometimes.

Hal and I are memorizing Psalm 16, a passage full of encouragement and bright promise. I encourage you to taste it, too. Concerning death and the future, the last three verses read,

“… my heart is glad and my tongues rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful one see decay.
You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

The words about not leaving us in the realm of the dead nor letting us see decay are said to be about Jesus and his resurrection from the dead. But I think they speak of us, too. They tell us that, for God’s faithful followers, death is irrelevant. It’s not the final word. At 80, I may be closer to that big transition, but that’s what it is—a transition from life to LIFE.

I need not be afraid.

Now on to the poem that I come back to every September 29, which, on the liturgical calendar, is the Feast of the Archangels. What a day to be born!

 

September 29
(The Feast of the Archangels)

Every year on September 29
they gather.
Raphael brings the drinks,
while Michael and Gabriel
raid the pantry for caviar and taco chips.
They congregate in the fireside room,
spread the food on the table,
pull out the Parcheesi board,
and take off their shoes.
Then they sing.
They start with the old songs
--Psalm 100, the Magnificat,
"Behold, I bring good tidings"
(a favorite after all these years)--
work their way through Gregorian chants
and Martin Luther to New World
Yankee Doodle, Southern gospel,
and somewhere in the process
they sing Happy Birthday to me.
With voices like whales
or arctic wolves,
strange, far, and wholly holy,
the archangels celebrate.
"Don't be afraid," they tell me.
Planets realign.
The juice of the sun flows free.

Celebrating life

 Saturday a week ago, I celebrated a joyful wedding as my grandson Aren married his Anna. Saturday, two days ago, I celebrated another major event—the memorial service of a dear friend. The two celebrations were similar in many ways, but also very different.

Actually, in the last few weeks, we’ve worked our way emotionally through the deaths of two good friends. Strangely, both their services were on Saturday at 10:00. So Hal attended Linda’s service and I went to the one for Deloris. Each of the two memorial services genuinely celebrated a life well lived.

But still, it wasn’t the same as a wedding. We’ll continue to enjoy our grandchildren for years, God willing, participating in their joys, celebrating the birth of their babies (again, God willing), supporting them in their trials (inevitable), and relishing all we see God doing in and through their lives. With Linda and Deloris, we said goodbye. I will miss Linda’s sense of humor and her constant reminders to pray for our grandchildren. I can hardly imagine being without Deloris’ encouragement, her telling us how blessed her life has been, even as she was suffering pain that increased to the day of her death. Linda was about two years younger than me; Deloris, ten years older. Their life celebrations were joyful and sorrowful at the same time.

I find the difference between the terms memorial service and funeral interesting. Google tells me that the basic difference is the presence of the body in a funeral. In the memorial service, the physicality expresses itself in the photos of the person who has died.

When I was growing up, my parents didn’t take us kids to funerals. I think now that they probably should have. Seeing the body might have been traumatic, but so is death and children need to learn to accept it.

Or maybe not. Do we ever come to accept death? I’m not sure I do. Yes, I know it’s inevitable. It’s part of life, as some experts tell us. And that’s probably true. But the shock and the sense of void tell me it’s not entirely acceptable. St. Paul calls death the last enemy that will be defeated when the kingdom of God comes in its fulness.

The adjective, funereal, is defined as glum, morbid, sorrowful, and other such words. In literature the word is used for more than funerals. Uriah Heap had a funereal face. Dark and stormy nights are sometimes referred to as funereal.

Even so, funerals can be meaningful times, punctuated with joy if the deceased was a Christian. In Latin America, where I lived for many years, people usually commemorate their dead with funerals, preceded by a wake with the body present. Whole families, including children, gather to express their grief, sometimes loudly. It makes death real and probably helps the mourners move forward.

And, of course, faith in that good place the dead in Christ go to comforts. The stronger our belief, the greater the comfort. But comfort sometimes comes gradually and grief can take a long time.

In any event, I’m glad for the preponderance of memorial services these days.

In both memorial services Hal and I attended on Saturday, the grown children of the deceased gave testimonials about their mother. Both were beautiful tributes. In Deloris’ service, her youngest son ended his tribute by quoting from the ending of CS Lewis’ The Last Battle, the final book in his Chronicles of Narnia. Its words bring me great joy and anticipation:

And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before. 

Amen.

 

"What's up, Mom?" The elderly and their families, Part 1

 Louise Aronson, geriatrician and author of the best-selling book Elderhood, was once asked for the “recipe” of a good old age. She replied with a list: “good genes, good luck, enough money, and one good kid, usually a daughter.”

In my case, I’m not sure about the good genes; both my parents died young. As a Christian, I’m not sure I believe in good luck. Enough money certainly doesn’t apply. But in terms of “one good kid,” I struck it rich, actually having two good kids.

Another leading geriatrician and old-age researcher, Joanne Lynn, writes that, “In our current system … unless you’ve got three daughters or daughters-in-law, you should count on being an old person in a nursing home.” Since Hal and I voluntarily entered a long-term retirement community, we don’t have to worry about the nursing home. But I get her point about the importance of a family that cares for and about its elderly parents and grandparents.

I remember my parents as they entered old age. My mom had long-term rheumatoid arthritis and was disabled for most of my childhood. I actually got used to it, partly due to her cheerful and nourishing nature.

When she was in her mid-fifties and completely disabled, Hal and I left as missionaries to Bolivia, taking with us one-year-old David, the light of my mom’s life. My dad was healthy and an excellent care-giver, but still, I struggled with not knowing if leaving was the right thing to do.

In the middle of our second year abroad, my aunt called to tell me that if I were ever to see my mom again, I would have to come home right away. Our mission board made it financially possible for me to fly back to Oregon, leaving Hal and David to carry on in Bolivia. I brought along with me ten-month-old Kristin.

I have never regretted those six weeks I spent in my parents’ home. Although bed-ridden, Mom had all her mental capacities and her ever sweet attitude. My parents and I had wonderful conversations. I watched a lot of Sunday television football with Dad. And, of course, they were completely enthralled with Kristin, a very lively, vocal baby who entertained us all with her zest for life.

Although death was inevitably approaching, it didn’t seem to darken the time we spent together.

Mom lived seven months after my visit, dying at the age of 57. We didn’t have the means for me to fly home for her funeral, so we had our own private memorial service in Bolivia, with our co-workers joining us, bringing the refreshments and flowers.

Several months later, it was time for us to come back to Oregon for our year of “furlough,” only to discover when we arrived that Dad was in an advanced stage of colon cancer. Wanting to spare me any worry (he was always a very private man), he hadn’t told me anything. Actually, he had been in remission during my visit home and I never even suspected.

The first few weeks in his home frightened me. I hardly recognized the man who had always been so strong and capable. I wrote this poem during those weeks:

Stranger

Your eyes miss my eyes
and stare
    over my shoulder
without aim 
without focus.
Your silence scares me.
Your trembling hands
bewilder,
you, who were so huge
and strong.
    Your teeth
    (and your dignity)
    soak 
    in a green plastic cup.
They wheel you
and feed you,
croon to you
as to a baby.
It fits you ill.
All the lights have gone out
and
    I
        stumble
in this dark.
Name yourself—
lest I flee from you
in horror.

Dad took the rest of our furlough year to slowly die. My brother and I took turns, along with an uncle, to stay in Dad’s home and care for him. Although hard, this was sacred time.

We were able to keep him in the family home, according to his wishes, up until the last two weeks of his life when his care became too hard for us to handle and we put him a nursing home. At the time of his death, all of us—Hal and I, David and Kristin—were staying in his home and visiting daily. Hal was with him at the moment of his death, giving verbal encouraging for him to let go and be with Jesus.

So now I ask myself, was I a “good kid”? Was it right for me to leave home with Mom so disabled? Should I have tried harder to attend her funeral? What about putting Dad in a nursing home the last two weeks of his life? Could I have done better?

At any rate, after the memorial service, Hal, I, and the kids returned to Bolivia for our second term of service. I felt the empty place in my heart, but eventually I came to peace, knowing both my folks were in a better place. I wrote this poem in the year after my father’s death:

Unanswered

You’ve crossed over.
October’s other country claims you now.
Through what strange and lovely landscapes
do you now wheel? What hills, what trees
or cities make you stop and stare?
What new fruits refresh you
and what music fills your soul?
What books, what ideas corral your thoughts,
and with whom do you now discuss
destiny, man and movements?
What balm for your pain,
what opiate for the memories
do they offer you? What shards of light
bleed your spirit into wholeness?
And tell me, have you seen his face,
O my father?

Only God knows if I fulfilled the role of a good daughter, but I was at peace.

Liturgy for missing someone

 A good friend died yesterday. This is a common experience here in the retirement community. But it doesn’t seem at all common, ordinary, or even acceptable when it happens to someone we love. And even though as Christians we know that this beloved person is rejoicing in God’s presence, our joy and gratitude are tempered with sorrow. It’s as though something bright, beautiful, and good has gone out of our lives. We—I—miss her.

I didn’t have a long-time friendship with Marcile. I admired her from a distance and then, a few years ago, I invited her to share a meal and we enjoyed our conversation so much we decided to keep it up. We shared many meals in the dining room and good conversations in her apartment. We talked about our families, our marriages, our struggles, growing older, and the books we were reading. She loved to read. We found mutual joy in our friendship. Words I would use to describe Marcile are gentleness, kindness, compassion, and encouragement.

We learn, somewhat, to accept death as a part of life. Belief in God’s grace in giving eternal life helps. Life goes on, and so do we. Yet I find that with some people, I continue to carry a certain sadness with me. They played such an important role in my life that I don’t get over missing them. I don’t call it sorrow, but rather a gentle, wistful sense of gratitude. Bill, Anita, Arthur, Mom, Dad—thank you, thank you, thank you.

Of course, the “bright, beautiful, and good” has not disappeared from my life. God promises that his goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life. Jesus preached from the passage in Isaiah where God promises his people that he will “comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning….” (Isaiah 61; Luke 4)

I love Douglas McKelvey’s book of liturgical prayers, Every Moment Holy (vol. 3), for times of death, grief, and hope. The “Liturgy for Missing Someone” focuses on the redemptive, transforming aspects of grief that God works out in our lives. I quote part of this prayer:

 

A Liturgy for Missing Someone

O Father,

You created our hearts for unbroken fellowship.
Yet the constraints of time and place, and the
stuttering rhythms of life in a fallen world dictate
that all fellowships in these days will at times be broken
or incomplete. We acknowledge, O Lord, that it is
a right and a good thing to miss deeply those whom
we love but with whom we cannot be physically present….

Therefore we praise you even for our sadness,
knowing that the sorrows we steward in this life
will in time be redeemed….

Use even this sadness to carve out spaces in our souls
where still greater repositories of holy affection
might be held, unto the end that we might better love,
in times of absence and in times of presence alike.
We now entrust all to your keeping.

May our reunion be joyous, whether in this life
of in the life to come.
How we look forward, O Lord, to the day
when all our fellowships will be restored,
eternal and unbroken.

Amen.

(From Every Moment Holy, Vol. III, Douglas McKelvey)

Goodbye, Marcile. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

A psalm for growing old

 “David sang to the Lord… when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies.” 2 Samuel 22:1; Psalm 18

My enemies were like the waves of a stormy ocean.
They threatened to overwhelm me:

--my failing body
--the death of loved ones
--a downsizing that seemed to diminish
--loss of my place of service and contribution
--going from limelight to invisibility
--losing my home, my job, my place in line
--not knowing where I fit in my family
--fear of losing my memory, even my personality
--the ever-present approach of death.

But you, O Lord, drew me out of the deep waters,
lifted me from the chaos, lit the darkness,
opened the snares of death that threatened.
You rescued me from the fear
of illness, obscurity, dependence, and loss.

Thank you for getting so angry at the attacks against me
that you thundered, quaked, and stormed!
You terrified them all even as you held me in gentle hands.

The wall of stigma, of being white-headed, wrinkled,
stooped and stupid—look! I just leaped over that wall!
Where did all this juice come from?

Instead of a nursing home, you set me in a spacious place
of beauty. You opened the windows of my heart.
You enlarged my imagination and the scope of my understanding.
You gave me eyes to see. You are my Lamp.

You, O Lord, are my Rock,

--a solid place to stand
--a space of belonging
--a room with a view
--security
--safety
--hope.

The difficulties remain.
I’m growing older, stiffer, less energetic.
I use a walking stick that someday will become a cane,
then a walker and a wheel chair.
One day I may decide to just stay in bed.
Yet you lift me high! You give me courage and hope.
I will not despair.

I will bless you, my Rock, my Lamp, my Redeemer!
I will sing! I will give thanks until the day of my death,
the day of my deliverance, my beginning.

Bless the Lord, O my soul! Let all that is within me
bless his holy name!

(Note: This prayer is based on 2 Samuel 22, also Psalm 18, a psalm David wrote near the end of his life.)

Death, choice, and mystery

 I come from a large family. While I have only one brother and one sister, my parents lived in more generous households. There were 13 kids in Dad’s family, raised in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, and seven kids in Mom’s family, raised in Des Moines, Iowa. That makes 18 aunts and uncles, not counting spouses. And these all reproduced, some prodigiously. My sister Becky and I added up at least 50 first-cousins, again not counting spouses.

As the kids grew up and formed their own families, they scattered. Now my extended family lives all over the country and is no longer united. The few family reunions have been geographical and not well attended.

A few years ago, Becky and I decided to take cousin-trips every other year, in order to get to know our family. The first trip had us staying in homes in Iowa, Illinois, and Wisconsin where we were warmly and enthusiastically hosted by our only living uncle (Illinois) and aunt (Wisconsin) and four cousins. Everywhere we stayed, it felt like family to all of us. Instant rapport.

We took our last trip in February 2020, just before the pandemic forced us all into isolation. We spent time in the homes of three cousins in Florida and South Carolina. Since the pandemic lifted, my body is no longer happy about long trips. That’s sad.

My parents had strong family ties and made sure we kids knew our aunts, uncles, and cousins, even if it meant long car trips across the country. I loved it. I remember our periodic trips to Phoenix, Arizona to visit Dad’s sister, Cusie, and her four kids. Cousin Diane and I were especially close, being the same age and of the same mischievous temperament. The two boys and the older sister largely ignored us. But I admired my older cousin Loretta from a distance. Diane and I were around twelve that one vacation, while Loretta was in college and engaged to be married. I looked up to her as beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant, and now, about to join with her Prince Charming. Loretta was kind to me, but I’m not sure she perceived me as an actual person. More like a pesky little cousin.

One afternoon, Diane discovered a book Loretta kept by her bedside. It was entitled Ideal Marriage and was a sex manual for young virgins about to be married. While Loretta was out of the house, Diane and I lay on Loretta’s bed and began reading parts of the book and devouring the drawings. If not totally new information, the book literally fleshed out details that surpassed our previous imaginings. We founding ourselves giggling hilariously at the astoundingly shocking things we were learning. (Today, 12-year-olds would already know this stuff.)

We stopped laughing when Loretta walked in and caught us. She was not happy. The last memory I have of her is the anger in her eyes as she made us leave her room. Can’t say I blame her. That was years ago.

Last year I learned that Loretta was battling cancer, but I didn’t know the details. Then just last week I received a letter from my cousin Cathy, conveying information from a phone call with Loretta.

Cathy wrote, “Loretta wanted me to contact you and to convey how much all of you in our Forsythe clan meant to her…. Her cancer has progressed. And so she has made the decision to engage in physician assisted dying, which is legal in New Mexico. The “ceremony” (she called it) will take place Friday morning….

“I am so sorry to have to convey this news. She clearly gave this decision careful consideration, a very intentional and thoughtful decision…. I can only imagine what pain she has been in.”

As I write this, the “ceremony” was yesterday morning. Loretta, my beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant cousin, is no longer in pain. I felt sorrow all day, and it lingers now. O, Loretta.

My emotions are mixed. I will not judge my cousin and I will not call her act “suicide.” That word carries a stigma, especially in Christian communities. Many of my friends would label her decision sinful and consign her to hell. That makes me shudder. I find no support for that conclusion in the Scriptures.

Most of us don’t know ahead of time when our death will come, just that it will. Loretta chose her time. She had her reasons, and whether or not those reasons were morally sound, I can’t say. I don’t know where Loretta stood in her relationship to God, but I believe in where God stands in his love for her. A mysterious mercy.

This is all mystery to me. I cling to David’s agonizing prayer in Psalm 139:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

My Lord, I bow before the mystery of your love for all of us. Without understanding and without knowing what I’m praying for, I ask that your presence be with my cousin, wherever she is. Let her know your love. Hold her fast. Turn the darkness to light. Amen and amen.

The Nursery Tree Effect

 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.

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.  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.

June 1979

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.

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.

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.

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.

March 30, 2016

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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?

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)

Gruesome perhaps, but necessary and worthwhile

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.

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.

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.

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.

The book is a memoir by Judy Melinek, M.D., assisted by her husband, T.J. Mitchell. It’s called Working Stiff: Two Years, 262 Bodies, and the Making of a Medical Examiner (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:

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”

This gave me an entirely new perspective on 9/11, just as the whole memoir gave me a new understanding of forensic pathology.

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

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.

      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.

For a friend in hospice care

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.

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.

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.

Following is the prayer/poem I wrote and read to my friend. It flows from images in the 23^rd 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.

 

Prayers for a Friend in Hospice Care

-1-
I hold you in my heart
which is a good place, my friend,
because Christ is in me,
the hope of glory.
You and Jesus are at home
in my heart, surrounded by glory.
Brian is there, too, of course.
Jesus has his arms around
you both. My prayers
blow in on a Spirit wind,
ruffle your hair, carry
the fragrance of hope.

Breathe in that fragrance, my friend.

-2-
What started out as the valley
of the shadow of death turns
out to be a glen in a redwood forest.
Morning light streams through the trunks,
floods the small space where you stand,
listening. The tall trees around you
are all at prayer.

-3-
I see a table in the forest, set
with beautiful dishes, real silver, and crystal
goblets. You and the people you most love
are seated, expectant, and, yes,
hungry. Soon the food appears.
The united chefs of The Red Lobster,
The Olive Garden and Tenderloin
seem to have collaborated, as angelically
gorgeous waiters carry in all
your favorite food. After a brief thankful
prayer, you dig in, conversation
temporarily suspended, though the sense
of companionship remains.

Somehow you all manage to ignore
the others, those peeking at you from around
the trunks of the surrounding trees
--pain, fear, death, defiance, defeat.
As your satisfaction and gratitude grow,
those others turn to mist, fade into the ground,
vanish. Soon all is light, all is beauty,
all is joy.

-4-
I ask the Lord to fill your cup with

Faith

in who he is, who he has always been
for you, who he promises to be in your future,
forever and ever, life without end.
Let faith light your way forward.

Hope

that all the faithfulness of the past
and all the promises for the future
shine here in this present moment.
Let hope’s light flood your being today.

Love

clearly revealed in the people
who surround you, who have become
God’s hands, arms, feet, and face.
May your love be released to bless
them back. To bless your Lord.
Let love’s light shine into
and out from your heart.

May your cup overflow. Faith. Hope. Love.

-5-

I see your friends, Goodness and Mercy,
sticking with you through the thick
of plenty and the thin of want.
They’re always there,
sometimes giggling, sometimes weeping,
sometimes running ahead
to hack a new path
through the brush,
sometimes walking alongside
to talk and laugh and wonder with you.
Often they follow close behind,
not always perceptible, but there
nonetheless.
They’ll be with you,
they tell me,
for the rest of your life.

-6-

And you will dwell
in the house of the Lord
forever.