Two celebrations plus a sea otter

 Celebrations restore the spirit, no matter how young or old we are. My spirit has been restored twice since my last blogpost. The celebrations span the generations. My grandson and his new wife are beginning their life of adventure in North Africa, and many of their supporters and friends gathered to pray for them as they prepare to leave us soon. And, on the other end of the age spectrum, the family gathered to celebrate my 80^th birthday. Can you imagine? Grandson and Grandma, whooping it up.

Aren and Anna were married in June and now they’re preparing for what might be a long-term adventure in a North African country, helping set up local businesses. They’re planning to travel light, and purchase locally all they need to live on which will probably be minimal. They’re very idealistic and totally committed.

Last week they invited a group of their supporters and prayer partners to a barbecue, with dishes they prepared from their new adopted country. These kids could set up a restaurant business if they wanted! Delicious food. It was a time for them to express their appreciation for all the support people have shown them. And it was a time for us to celebrate their dedication and commitment and to pray for them.

Like a typical Grandma, I couldn’t help but remember when Aren was a baby, very cute and often very serious, a determined but totally funny toddler. As he grew up, we didn’t understand what ADHD was, but when he finally received the diagnosis, all his restlessness and hyper-activity as a young boy made sense. Not that he was always restless. He showed great powers of concentration when building things, first with blocks, then graduating to Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, and finally to elaboration Lego constructions. Now armed with a degree in mechanical engineering (a natural!) he’s off to change the world. We couldn’t be prouder.

Then on Sunday, it was my turn.  In the middle of a sea of sunny days, this was predicted to be the one day it rained. As it turned out, the sun did his usual beautiful thing. The celebration was in a covered pavilion in a public park and four generations converged, with Hal and me being the oldies, and our two and one/half great-grand-babies bringing up the tail (and hogging most of the attention by being their adorable selves).

The day before, I mentioned to Hal at breakfast that I feared our son David was going to ask me to say some words of wisdom to the group. So I asked Hal to help me think up some wise words beforehand. We thought a while, but both of us came up blank. Then I remembered the three words. Earlier, in a time of quiet meditation, I had asked God for three words that I could live out in my 80^th year of life, something to encourage and inspire. The words that popped into my brain (or were placed there) were courage, humor, and beauty. My spirit said YES. So these are my words for 2025-2026. I’m not sure just how I will live out these words; I’ll have to let you know later. But I decided that if asked for some wise words at my party, I could toss these into the air.

It was all such a happy time and I was given the gift of a family glad to celebrate the life of this 80-year-old lady. We ate well, got caught-up on news, laughed, celebrated, and had birthday-cobbler (my not being a fan of cake). I did not have to blow out 80 candles. But I warmed my heart to more than 80 words of memories, gratitude, and celebration, all gifts from them to me. I shared my three words and my daughter added two more for me to take into the year: grace and joy. I think it will be a good year. Maybe not always easy, but good.

I encourage you to take any chance you get to celebrate life and the ones you love. Maybe even let God give you some new words to live by. It certainly makes growing old easier. Joyful even.

 

Note: I promised in the title I would say something about sea otters. By the way, this has nothing to do with the rest of the blog on celebrations. It’s just that I thought you should know that this is National Sea Otter Awareness Week. In order to become more aware of sea otters, I did some Internet research. Among other facts, I learned that Alaskan sea otters often float out to sea on thin ice rafts. If two otters float out, each on a separate raft, they hold hands (paws) to stay together. That’s inspiring. Aren’t you glad you know?

Ageless birthdays

 It all started the day I turned one-year-old. My parents threw me a party. I don’t remember any of it, but I love the story they told me. My father was the high school football coach and he invited some of the varsity team to my party. They gave me a big porcelain porker (meaning a piggy bank) and then plunked in their nickels and dimes. Apparently I loved the sound and laughed out loud. Good story.

My family made a big deal out of our birthdays, making my brother, sister, and me feel very special on those very special days. We got to pick what to eat for dinner and there were, of course, cake with candles we blew out and, the best part—presents!

But my parents were not party people and the next actual birthday party I had took place years later, when I turned 12. It was a princess party, and the ten school friends I invited all dressed up as princesses. Long skirts, gauzy curtain capes, and card board crowns—we were gorgeous. All girls, of course. No boys allowed! (Times have changed. Girls seem to get crushes on boys at a younger age these days.)

That was my last birthday party as a young person. I found other ways to celebrate my special day. After Hal and I married and then began our family, it was mostly family-only celebrations, sometimes including going out to eat. Actually, with our kids, we did begin to invite their small (and then bigger) friends over. Often the whole missionary family gathered to celebrate the life of the child growing one year older.

When we lived in tropical Santa Cruz, Bolivia, other customs entered the story. On the birthday morning, our Bolivian friends gathered outside our bedroom window and woke us up with serenades. Loud and happy, accompanied by guitars, it woke up the neighbors too, but that was part of the fun. The birthday person was required to appear at the window, or at the front door, to receive the generous gift of music and friendship. Sometimes the celebrants came in for hot cocoa and pastries, bringing the goods themselves. It was a great way to start the day.

Some people seem to think that as we age, the magic of birthdays and parties diminishes. Birthdays are to be dreaded. Certainly not celebrated. One year older?! That’s scary.

Not so!

At least not for me and not for my friends around this retirement community. It feels good to be celebrated by family and friends, an affirmation that we matter, that people love and appreciate us. Who doesn’t need that kind of affirmation? Do we ever outgrow it? I haven’t.

Here on the fifth floor of the community, we have a special way of celebrating birthdays. My friend Francie creates a large colorful poster, usually featuring a baby picture of the birthday person, and the poster covers most of the apartment door. A birthday bear sits outside the door, on loan for the day. Then at an appointed hour, all the residents on the floor gather to serenade the life we are celebrating, wearing glittery crowns and other funny hats.  In addition to Happy Birthday to You, we have a series of silly birthday songs we always sing. It’s become a ritual in the positive sense of that word.

Yesterday we celebrated Francie’s 80^th birthday. Of course, no one is surprised anymore. The ritual is anticipated and sometimes we fake surprise just for the fun of it. And it’s always fun. In addition to the traditional Happy Birthday To You, we sang all verses to Blessed Be the Tie That Binds, and sensed the truth behind the words. We’re a family. And families celebrate birthdays.

No matter how old we are.

The very worse grandma ever

As I write this, preparations are under way for our grandson’s wedding. It’s an exciting time, a time for dreaming of the future, but also a time for remembering the past. And getting a bit sentimental about it.

We’ve enjoyed each stage in our grandkids’ growing up years, from the thrill of the newborn babies and our shock at becoming grandparents, to the cute little-kid stage, the challenges of adolescence, then watching each one mature into an adult. And of course our relationships changed as they grew older.

This morning I’m remembering our grandkids as cute little-kids. We loved being with them, relishing their adoration of Grandpa and Grandma. For the most part, this was easy and fun. It was their parents’ turn to do the hard stuff, especially the disciplining.

“For the most part,” I write. From time to time we volunteered (or were asked) to care for the kids while their parents traveled for some reason or other. (Sometimes it was to have time off, away from their kids!) That was when it got harder for us. Our grandkids were all normal, active, sometimes mischievous kids who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity to get away with behavior their parents might not allow.

I remember one time 15 years ago when our daughter asked Hal and me to spend a week taking care of our three grandchildren, ages 2, 5, and 8. Their parents were leading a group of middle-schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.

I approached the week with both fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules and household routines their parents followed and determined to lovingly but firmly carry these out.

All this preparation helped. But I was again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially little children. They can be tough critters.

One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box, trips to the park, and on and on and on.  Not to mention the special needs of our two-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeated every demand until he knew without a doubt he held our full attention.

I simply did not have the energy to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the 8 and 5-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt like the world’s worse grandma.

But eventually my mature self kicked in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.

Many highlights brightened the week, like the morning Paige and I spent outdoors building a fairy house. Her idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house.

At one point, Paige turned to me, totally serious, and said, “I have to tell you something, Grandma. Fairies aren’t real.”

“Oh?” I responded, waiting for what would come next.

“But I think God could make some fairies if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he probably could,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”

Yes, Paige, I do wish that.

And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma.

The kids were glad to see their parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was encouraged when Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”

All that makes me smile in memory. Our relationships are different now, appropriately so. Paige is a sophomore in Western Oregon University, majoring in theater, putting her imagination to good use. We drive over once a month to take her out to lunch. I delight in her wisdom as a young adult and in the person she’s becoming.

Our son is now a grandpa himself. We love watching our great-grandchildren as babies, knowing we will probably only have a peripheral role in their lives. Our grown kids get to be the grandparents; it’s their turn.

And that’s the way it should be.

Still open to dazzle

 None of us want to become obsolete, although it does seem at times that life is passing us by. New discoveries, new songs, new fashions, new ways of being in the world surround us. And our kids and grandkids get it. Take an obvious example—technology. I love what my computer does for me and I’ve explored the Internet, to a certain extent. But when something goes wrong or when I need help to find something out there in cyberspace, I have to call on my grandson. Because he knows. I don’t.

And I’m glad for it. Those of us with grown kids and grandkids want them to be able to surpass us. We want them to travel down roads we didn’t know existed. We gladly pass the torch to the next generation and ask them for help when we need it. We’re glad for all that, aren’t we? At least most of the time.

My kids have gone beyond me in many areas, including spiritually. The image of the old wise elder going on before, showing the way, is maybe sort of true. But not completely. Both my son and my daughter are experiencing spiritual discovery and growth that almost seem exponential. Some of the grandkids are following the same path. It delights us, their parents. It also makes us somewhat nostalgic.

I remember in our young adult years, and even up into middle age, all that we were discovering and experiencing about the work of the Holy Spirit, spiritual gifts, ministries of healing, and so on. We believed in miracles and prayed huge fantastic prayers. We became lost in the wonder of worship. It was beyond exciting.

Oh, we came down for air often. Life on the spiritual heights is not sustainable for long periods of time. But the mountain of new spiritual experience was there and we were believers.

We did, indeed, suffer a few extremes that needed tempering. I remember a book a small group of us were reading about the ministry of exorcism, new territory for us. I believe the title of the book was Pigs in the Parlor, and it focused on demonic activity even in local churches. It taught us our authority in Christ and how to cast out demons.

Sound scary? It was. But we took it all to heart and began to practice, first of all on each other. We discovered new freedom from fears and traumas from the past. But I think we took the whole thing too far. For a time, we were finding and casting out demons everywhere.

For me, it all came to a stop one afternoon on the Bolivian altiplano. We were participating in a small church gathering of rural believers. The teacher, a local pastor and good friend of ours, was giving an early afternoon sermon. A little old lady, sitting on the ground in the front row, had gone to sleep. A normal thing for an older person to do after lunch. But Pastor Germán wasn’t going to put up with it. So, in a loud voice that startled the poor lady awake, he cast out the demon of sleep.

At that moment something popped in my brain. “This is ridiculous!” I said to myself. And it was. That dear woman was no more demon possessed than the blanket she sat on. From that point on, Hal and I began to pull back and apply some rationality and common sense to all that we had been learning and experiencing.

Now in my latter years, I find that I still believe in a God who heals. I even believe in the ages-old Christian ministry of exorcism when that’s appropriate and necessary. I still believe in miracles, but I prefer the more hidden everyday kind, the ones you miss unless you’re very attentive.

But our kids are on a different path of discovery and I think they’re traveling with more wisdom than we had. And, like I said, it all makes me a little nostalgic. Excitement is fun, if you have the energy for it.

A few months ago, I was preparing for a doctor’s appointment. My doctor had been experimenting with different drugs to help alleviate the condition I had been suffering [see last week’s blog]. I wrote this “Pre-Appointment Prayer,” wrestling with some of my faith/healing/miracles questions.

Pre-Appointment Prayer

I used to think miracle meant
water to wine,
weather control on a massive scale,
taking tea on the lake without benefit of a boat.
In order to be legitimate,
miracle had to thunder, blaze,
astonish and dumbfound.
Nothing short of amazing would do.

Now my imagination has simmered down
and my prayers for healing
are less demanding. I’m willing
for miracle to mean the discovery
of a medication that helps.
I’m OK with a lightening
of the symptoms without knowing
the causes. Mild miracles might
be within faith’s grasp these days.

In other words, I’m willing to settle.
But, and please hear this,
I’m open to dazzle.

Willing to settle but open to miracle. That’s me these days. I wonder if my tempered spirituality is a sign of a wise old age. Or is it a signal that I need a new out-pouring of the Holy Spirit? Or maybe both?

I do know that I’m not willing to settle for obsolete. Maybe it’s time to follow my kids.

“Let’s do lunch, Mom.”—The elderly and their families, Part 2

 In my previous blog, I quoted geriatrician Louise Aronson giving the “recipe” for a good old age: “good genes, good luck, enough money, and one good kid, usually a daughter.” I told the story of me trying to be a good daughter to my elderly parents.

I now find myself in the elderly role with grown kids, grandkids, and a few tiny greats. I have the blessing of two “good kids.” Proximity helps. My son David lives in the same town and my daughter Kristin lives in a town a couple of hours down the freeway. Hal and I live here in the retirement community. Part of our decision to move into the community at a relatively young/old age (early 70s) was specifically for our kids, not wanting them to have to take care of us when we got to the place of not being able to care for ourselves. I’ll admit that the options of fighting through to a glorious independence on my own or living semi-independently in a grandparent suite in the back of a kid’s big house both make me wistful at times. I wonder if we made the right decision.  But, yes, we did.

I also wondered when we moved here how our relationships with our family would change. Would this move free them up to ignore us and get on with their lives? Would they no longer feel the need to concern themselves with our challenges and struggles? This situation really does happen to some.

But, thanks be to God, it did not happen to us. Our relationship with our kids, their spouses, and our grandkids, is growing. It’s different, having taken on more of the hues of friendship, although we’ll always be parents. They’re all glad to know Hal and I are well taken care of. There’s sense of freedom, now that obligation and duty are out of the way. While still with its challenges, relationship is a choice.

In the future, the role of my kids will be more important and they will participate in decisions about changes in healthcare, for example when we need to move to a new level of assisted living. That’s a major decision and a huge change in life-style; family involvement is crucial. I hope we’re smart enough to give up driving at an appropriate time, but if we’re not, I’m sure they’ll be instrumental in persuading us to take that step.

I don’t take any of this for granted, knowing our blessing is not the experience of many of my friends. I’ve noticed in this community there are all sorts of ways the elderly and their families relate. Families and human relationships are complex.

My friend Mary (not her real name) is today moving from her apartment in my independent-living neighborhood down to an assisted living unit. Her decision surprised me, as it seemed so sudden. But it makes sense, following her recent health challenges. I remember when she moved here a few years ago. I remember her sons carrying in furniture and boxes. And I remember their frequent visits since then and the concern and love they always expressed. Mary tells me her sons were instrumental in helping her make this decision. They’ve been here this past week, packing boxes, not letting her do anything. And they’re here today, moving all her stuff downstairs to her new room. Seeing this makes me happy; Mary deserves it.

Not everyone gets what they deserve. Some of my friends have “good kids” that live far away. They keep up relationships through phone calls, photos, and vacation visits. Still, it’s not the same as living close. Several people in my neighborhood have left the community to move closer to family. It’s that important.

Some people have kids that live within reasonable distance but whose lives are so busy they rarely see their parents. I notice that some in our neighborhood hardly ever get visits.

And then there are those who are estranged from their kids for one reason or another. This is the hardest to deal with. How people respond to this heartache depends partly on personality. One neighbor is bitter about her daughter’s neglect, blaming her daughter and taking on the role of victim. Her complaints make it hard for people to be with her. I constantly need to pray for compassion and patience. 

Another neighbor, although saddened by her son’s neglect, doesn’t let it rule her life. Her optimism and out-going personality draw people to her and she abounds in friendships. But the sadness and longing for reconciliation are still strong.

One resident literally has no family. No living brother and sisters, apparently no cousins. She never had kids. She has no living blood relative. Janice is a quiet woman and often just keeps to her room. Yet she communicates such a sense of peace and well-being. Her room is decorated with her paintings and crafts, plus numerous pictures of cats, one of her passions. She has a few close friends here in the community and they regularly share meals. Another young friend from her past has adopted Janice as an aunt. She’s making a family on her own.

Being part of a family is a need that doesn’t diminish as we age. In our neighborhood here in the retirement community, we’ve cultivated caring relationships and have learned to call each other family. We have a buddy system for checking up on each other. It’s not perfect, but what family is?

I’ve just read a novel by Jennifer Ryan called The Kitchen Front, based on a real BBC radio program in England during World War II. The program presented recipes using only the war-rations housewives received. In a cooking contest the BBC held, the four contestants started out as fierce competitors but through unusual circumstances ended up as friends. They learned to consider themselves family. One of the women, Gwendoline, remarks at the end of the contest, “One thing I’ve learned through this is that family is incredibly precious. Other things may change us, but we start and end life with our family, whether it’s the one we’re born with or one of our own making. It means that you love and are loved, whoever you are…. And you know that you’re not on your own.”

I love the phrase, “the [family] we’re born with or one of our own making.” I recognize as family many people not related to me by blood, most of them closer to me than many of my relatives. I sense the need to be forming this kind of family here in the retirement community. I feel drawn to reach out to those with less-then-perfect family situations and include them in my circle of love.

We all need family, whatever our age. The family we’re born with. Or one of our own making. Or, in a best-case scenario, both.

The trauma of fire

 I had intended to write about something else this week, but the fires in Los Angeles have grabbed my heart and I need to reflect. The news today has the combined fires covering an area as big as Washington, DC. That’s huge. More than eight million people are under critical fire risks and around 105,000 people are under mandatory evacuation order, with another 89,000 under evacuation warnings. More than 12,000 structures have been destroyed.

These are the statistics and numbers, but they don’t bear the weight of the trauma people are experiencing.

I grew up in San Diego County and the Santa Ana winds were a yearly part of our experience. I remember being frightened at the sound of the wind, with tree limbs falling near the house. I especially remember the year when the wild fires burned in the hills close to our town. In bed at night, I could actually see the reflection of fire pulsing on the walls. The smell of smoke filled the house, not enough to cause evacuation, but just enough to terrify one nine-year-old girl. The fires always skipped our town, thanks be to God.

During those years, my grandparents and a favorite aunt and uncle lived in Altadena, and I loved spending time in their home. They always made me feel special, especially Grandma. Several other aunts, uncles, and cousins lived in the area; Altadena was a Forsythe family gathering place. The grandparents, aunts and uncles all died years ago, but the memories are strong. I don’t know what area of Altadena they lived in—being a kid, that wasn’t important—but it’s likely that it has been affected by this fire.

Years later, Hal and I attended Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. Many of our friends and professors lived in Altadena, just up the hill from the seminary. Every summer we house-sat for Professor Colin Brown and his wife Olive. Dr. Brown was British and they went home to England for three weeks each summer to be with family. So we got to live in their lovely house, enjoy their pool, and, especially, care for their large rose gardens. In addition to New Testament theology, Dr. Brown was passionate about his roses, and we took our responsibility very seriously, watering according to a precise pattern he had set up and carefully documented for us. It was a pleasure to be so immersed in the beauty of the roses. It has been years since the Browns retired and moved back to England.

Just down the street from the Browns, our friend and colleague in the doctoral program, Stuart Dauermann, lived. Stuart is a Jewish Messianic rabbi. We spent some time in his home and even attended his synagogue one Saturday morning.

And a few blocks over, my doctoral mentor, Dan Shaw, lived with his wife and a houseful of books and mementos from his service as a Wycliffe Bible translator. Family photos covered the walls. Dan and his second wife, Georgia, have since sold their house and moved to a smaller home.

I have warm memories of time spent in Altadena homes.

Stuart and his wife, Naomi, moved to New York City last year. He now serves as rabbi to a Messianic synagogue in that city. Needless to say, news of the fires has devastated him. He found out from a friend that the entire block where they lived was destroyed by the fire. That means the home where they lived for many years, Dr. Brown’s home, and Dr. Shaw’s home. I think of those roses burning.

Recently Stuart wrote the following in Facebook (I’ve asked permission to quote him):

“In July 2023, I went for a walk in Altadena and prayed. I told God that my wife is a California girl and loves her gardening and hiking, and I’m a New York guy and I love New York, and we have three children and a grandson there. I said I don’t even know what to want. I know I can’t afford to live in New York! I told God, “I don’t even know how long I’ll live. But what I do know is my times are in your hands.” Then I told him, “all I can really say is that I want whatever time that remains to be fruitful.” And when I said that, I had a sense of profound confirmation as though I had touched the most foundational of concerns. 

“A short time after that, I got a phone call about this position in New York. Because I thought that God was in that prayer, Naomi and I said yes to moving across country within six weeks. 

“If I had not prayed, and if God had not spoken, and if [several other events had not happened] today Naomi and I would be picking among the embers for the remnants of our shattered lives. 

“It is extremely sobering, and I feel a hushed and chastened awe.”

                                                        Altadena, 2025

I share this because it gives a personal connection to the fires. Of course it’s far worse for the people directly affected, for those who’ve lost their homes and photos and family treasures, not to mention furniture, clothes, and all the other stuff necessary to live a normal life. Their lives have passed beyond normal and will be forever changed.

Which leaves me asking what more I can do besides watch the news, lament, pray, and give to help meet the needs of the new homeless. We live in a dangerous world and I know I can’t take my personal safety for granted, even here in this lovely and protected retirement community.

I take comfort in the heart-felt prayers in the Psalms:

I love the Lord for he heard my voice;
he heard my cry for mercy….
The cords of death entangled me,
the anguish of the grave came upon me;
I was overtaken by trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“O Lord, save me!”
The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is full of compassion.
The Lord protects the simplehearted;
when I was in great need, he saved me.
Be at rest once more, O my soul,
for the Lord has been good to you.
(Psalm 116:1-7) 

While I thank God for his goodness, I ponder how he can use me in responding in this present time of trauma.

A criminal Christmas

 I spent one of the most memorable Christmases of my life under house arrest.

Hal and I were first term missionaries in Bolivia and ready to head off on a well-earned vacation on the Peruvian coast. We had our two toddlers with us and were looking forward to giving them their first time at the ocean, making sand castles, running in the surf, collecting shells—the whole bit. It was December, summer in South America. We were going to spend one night with our friends in the coastal city of Tacna, on route to the beach house we had rented.

Before crossing the border between Bolivia and Peru, Hal parked the car and began the legal red tape for entering the country. We noticed that the immigration agent who would process our documents was drunk, but he seemed to know what he was doing. After a few hours of going from one office to another, our travel permission was stamped and we were off.

The trip over the mountain pass and down to the coastal plains took the rest of the afternoon and we were tired when we reached Everett and Alda’s home. Everett suggested we exchange our money for Peruvian pesos that afternoon, so he and Hal headed off to the local bank. The bank clerk took our $250 traveler’s check, looked over our documents, then told Hal he would have to check in at the police station first.

Hal and Everett walked over to the police building. The police had been notified and were waiting. They immediately told Hal he was under arrest and made ready to lead him to a cell. Our crime—neglecting to declare our money at the border!—thanks to the drunk agent who apparently forget to inform us. Everett began reasoning with the officials and at one point actually got down on his knees and pleaded for them to place Hal under house arrest, promising to be a faithful jailor. It worked.

Back at our friends’ home, we noticed the security guard out in the street, keeping watch lest we should try to escape. We expected that we could resolve this snafu within a few days and head on to the beach. That was not to be. We remained under house arrest for six weeks. That included Christmas.

By God’s grace, we all found ways to cope with the situation and enjoyed our time together in the small house. We spent times in agonizing prayer, other times playing board games, with lots of good food and conversation. Even the kids seemed happy (not knowing what they were missing).

After about three weeks, city officials apparently decided we were not hardened criminals about to flee. The security guards in the street disappeared. We were given permission to visit one particular beach just outside the city limits. That meant we were able to celebrate Christmas day with a beach picnic in the summer sun of a Peruvian December. I wrote this poem:

Christmas, 1974
Tacna, Peru

Not snow, but foam
blankets these gentle slopes.
Shells and sand crabs
adorn the ground
and announce the season.
God’s glory spews skyward
in a sun-spangled spray
and gulls cry out
our carols today.
Squatting here before a
baloney-and-bread banquet,
it seems not incongruous
to celebrate the Babe
in this place,
to sit in the sand,
join hands
and sing out,
“Joy to the world,
the Lord is come!”

To make the rest of the story short, we were eventually pardoned and able to head back home. We never did make it to the beach cabin. But now, these many years later, the memory is a happy one. It reminds me that Christmas is more then snow and presents and being in familiar settings. We were with friends, we celebrated the birth of our Savior, we banqueted on baloney. It was truly one of my most memorable Christmases.

For flexible fingers and white chocolate—thanks!

 Several years ago, as a spiritual exercise, I chose seven values that I wanted to describe my character. All these traits are faith statements, something to grow toward. The first value on my list is gratitude. Some days I find it easy to be grateful. Other days I don’t. Gratitude when times are hard or I’m feeling especially tired is something good to aim for.

Today I’m both dizzy and grateful. It’s thanksgiving week. It seems ironic that we give only one day of the 365 to officially designate as a day of thanksgiving, but at least our culture does that much. I’m aiming for 365 unofficial thankful days, although without the turkey and cranberry sauce.

I made a short list this morning of some specific things I’m grateful for at this time.

I’m grateful….

--for a grandson who wants to include his grandparents in his life. Friday night we gathered with some of his friends at his house to begin our annual Lord of the Rings marathon. Last night he invited us to come with other friends to see the movie Bonhoeffer. All these young adults seemed to enjoy including us grandparents. He comes to the retirement home to eat lunch with us every week. I don’t take any of that for granted.

--for a husband with flexible fingers. Hal suffers from trigger finger (and he doesn’t even own a gun). It’s a strange and painful condition where his fingers curl in toward the palm and he has to force them to unbend. He is currently recovering from an operation in his left hand that is already correcting the condition. We believe in prayer for healing. We’re also thankful for advances in modern medicine that bring about this type of miraculous healing.

--for white chocolate and SWP coffee. I have a chronic condition called vestibular migraine and two of the food triggers that intensify the dizziness are chocolate and coffee. Can you imagine? Two of my favorite foods! But, and this is the thankful part, I’ve discovered the exceptions to the rule: white chocolate and SWP coffee! I’ve found a German white chocolate that is just as good as the real stuff. And, better yet, SWP (Swiss Water Processed) decaf coffee also tastes like the real thing, because it is real coffee. My early morning comfort drink.

--for a quirky orchid plant that won’t give up. My son gave it to me for some occasion earlier this year, a tall plant with lovely purple orchids. It bloomed for several months, then the flowers dried up and fell off. But I continued to water it once a week and kept it in the bedroom, out of sight because it looked so strange: broad leaves low in the pot, and three long stems (12-18 inches) fastened to sticks. No blooms. But a week ago I noticed eight buds at the end of the long stems. Today two flowers bloom and six buds are about to open. I’ve put it back in the living room. Beautiful. I’m sure there’s a good moral lesson in this. Maybe I’ll think of it tomorrow.

--for the expectation of a wonderful thanksgiving dinner with eleven family members. I’m hosting it, but I don’t have to cook, and I can’t adequately express how grateful I am for that. Our retirement community puts on a marvelous thanksgiving spread and encourages us to invite family. One of the many perks of living here.

--for God’s sovereignty over history—world history, national events, and my own small story. I’m stirring up my faith to rest in the fact that God knows what’s happening in our nation at this time, and that no matter how disappointed or nervous I feel, I can trust that the Spirit of God is on the move and will watch over all his people.

In our Sunday school class this week, the convener told of an exercise that I’m going to try this year. At the end of each day, I’m to write in my journal one specific thing I’m grateful for in the last 24 hours. I will try to do this for a year (or at least until the end of this year). But the thing is, I can’t repeat anything. It has to be something new each day. That sounds challenging, which is what an exercise is supposed to be. I anticipate it will cause me to dig and find more things to be grateful for, things or experiences or people I wouldn’t normally consider as blessings. I plan to read back over my list at the end of every month. (The plan is to read the list after a year—but each month sounds like more fun.)

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

What are you grateful for? Be specific!

On being married to an 80-year-old

 This past weekend, Hal turned 80. It was a milestone. The last milestone was the 50^th birthday, a sense that we were now in a new phase of life. Fifty was awesome. Eighty, breathtaking. This is higher ground indeed.

We’ve heard it said that growing older is gradual, passing through three stages: young old age (roughly from retirement to 80), middle old age (80-90), and really old old age (90 to whenever). The numbers vary with different experts on the subject. I’m not sure how helpful these categories are, other than to say we both felt rather smug about being in the young/old category.

Hal and I used to ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” We asked it upon retirement, and then again on entering the retirement community. Now, as far as Hal goes, we don’t have to ask it anymore. He’s old. Clear and simple. (Actually, none of this is clear or simple.)

On the other hand, I’m still young, in my 70s. But I have entered a new category—that of being married to an 80-year-old. Will I have to make some changes? Do I treat him differently? Are we now an unbalanced couple? Will we topple if I don’t hold up my end?

(Let me interject here the fact that many of you have already passed the 80 milestone and are probably thinking, “Why is she making such a big deal of this? It’s nothing. No major change at all.” If you’re thinking that, I respect your perspective, but, please, just humor me. I’ll get there, too, in time.)

We celebrated, thanks largely to the efforts of our son. All of it surprised Hal. That always makes it fun. On Friday, David took us to the local small airport, where a friend was waiting to take us up for a ride in his little prop plane. For about 40 minutes we looked down on our town, the surrounding fields, the mountains, and the big river before descending back to the airport. Mid-trip, Jon, the pilot, turned the controls over to Hal who wasn’t quite sure he wanted them. I, in the back seat, was sure I didn’t want him to have them. But he eased into the task and had fun learning about the different gages to pay attention to as he turned the plan in different directions, lost and gained altitude, and really did fly the plane. It was a great birthday surprise! Something one doesn’t imagine an old man doing.

Saturday morning, we opened the door to our apartment to see it decorated with an elaborate birthday poster complete with Hal’s baby photos. Later our neighbors on the floor gathered to sing Happy Birthday and clap, hoot, and holler.

On Saturday noon we arrived at David’s home, expecting the usual family lunch and small celebration. But it turned out to be regular birthday party, with friends, family, balloons, songs, and a feast worthy of 80 years! We practiced all the time-honored rituals: a birthday apple pie (our tradition) with eight candles that Hal blew out. The Happy Birthday song, of course, and lots of photos. Now that I look back, we forgot to ask Hal to make a wish. We’ll have to do that part tonight. Different people shared memories of Hal, most of them funny. Then Hal told stories of his time in Guatemala; the night he was attacked by vampire bats was a favorite.

Saturday night Hal told me how affirmed he felt and how downright happy. A good celebration, worthy of a milestone.

Now it’s Monday morning and back to normal life. I find myself married to an 80-year-old man. But, of course, it doesn’t feel any different than the mornings that went before. He doesn’t seem radically changed. We’re still both growing older, slowly and not by leaps and milestones. I’m glad for gradual. We’re still enjoying this phase of life which has its joys as well as its challenges.

We’ve stopped asking, “Are we old yet,” because it seems like an irrelevant question. We’re alive and well. God is good. We’ll take one day at a time for as long as we have.

(But hurrah for celebrations!)

Mighty Mouse saves the day

It’s Saturday morning as I write this, approaching 7:00. I’ve already been up several hours. This is my favorite part of the day, setting the stage for whatever else happens. If it’s gone well, as it usually does, my heart is at peace and my mind awake. My body is as ready as it can be for the challenges of the day. And I’m hungry.

I think back to the Saturday mornings of my childhood. That was one of the happiest parts of the week, but entirely different from what my mornings are like now. Saturday mornings meant—Saturday morning cartoon time! My parents exercised strict control over our family’s big, boxy, black-n-white TV set. They decided what we would all watch together in the evenings, mostly comedies like “The Honeymooners,” “I Love Lucy,” or “The Jack Benny Show.” We liked being together and we kids learned to laugh at the same jokes my dad laughed at. But TV time was strictly limited.

Saturday morning was the blessed exception. Beginning at 7:00, Tommy, Becky, and I, still in our pajamas, would sit on the floor in front of the Big Box. Mom would turn it on and the marathon would begin. Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Daffy Duck, Tom and Jerry, Popeye the Sailor Man, Betty Boop, and a score of others entertained us, made us howl with laughter, passed on to us some of our culture’s precious values. For several wonder-filled hours.

The variety was good, but I had my favorites. The following poem tells about one of them:

Saving the Day

‘Here I am to save the day,’
means that Mighty Mouse is on the way!

Every Saturday morning
Mighty Mouse saved the day,
even though the day
didn’t know it needed saving.
We three kids sat on the rug
in front of the old black ‘n white
TV, cartoon-happy.
We grinned in wonder
at the Mouse’s amazing feats.
Not at all like the grinning Mickey
or the simpering Minnie,
Mighty Mouse swooped down
from the sky, his puffed out
chest and hero suit a sure sign
help was coming.
Time and time again Mighty
saved the day, rescuing it
from the clutches of night
and from all that was dark
in the world of animals
and little kids.
This minuscule
but valiant rodent
let us know that justice
would prevail,
although at nine-years-old,
I didn’t know what that meant.
But he did, indeed,
save my day.
Every Saturday morning
at 8:00 am.

I’ve always loved movies. Occasionally our parents took us three kids out for a drive-in movie night. We saw all the Walt Disney movies. Enchanting. In the adult years when we lived in Bolivia, movies were a thing of the past, partly because of the legalistic nature of the churches we were working with. (We made an exception when “The Gods Must Be Crazy” came to town.)

Since then, things have changed for the better. There came the time when we purchased a video player. A few years later it became a DVD player. Now, of course, we stream movies directly through the internet. We have to discipline ourselves not to overdo what we’d previously been starved for. (Actually, I had felt the lack, not Hal. Movies were not part of his growing-up years.)

And now we’re retired. If I wanted, I could completely indulge. I’ve got the time. And sometimes, I do indulge, especially if I let myself get hooked into a good series, like “Madam Secretary” on Netflix. I confess I’ve watched “Downton Abbey” several times.

But there’s something inside me that checks this indulgence. I’m not sure I’d like the person I might turn into if I watched too many movies—overweight, flabby muscles, lazy brain. Am I exaggerating? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

It’s not so much that as it is there are better ways to spend my time. Even though I stay seated to read a book, my brain stays engaged. I could also walk outside under the trees, visit a friend, join an exercise class, play in the garden, write a poem, etc., etc. You know the list. But it’s true. It’s good to be reminded.

Not that I’ll give up movies. No need for such an extreme reaction. A good movie relaxes me, makes me laugh, and can even give me something to think about. But I’m determined not to let characters portrayed on the screen become my chief form of relaxation, laughter, or food for thought. People do that for me. Real right-here-in-the-flesh people. Actual life lived rather than watched.

I need more than Mighty Mouse to save my days.

Notice: What I’m about to say now has nothing to do with movies or Mighty Mouse. But I just have to announce that yesterday I met my brand-new great-granddaughter, Ariah Hope Burgi. Very little at just under five lbs., but heathy and growing. Such a miracle. Life just goes on and on. Welcome to the family, little girl. We love you already.

Gifts of Sight

 The venue seemed to be a large room in a warehouse. Or a barn. Antique stuff on the walls around the room surrounded a spacious area with tables here and there. If it were not for the furniture, I could imagine a square dance happening. Very western and homey. A small crowd was already there when we arrived and over the next hour more people drifted in and soon the place was full.

We were there for a literary event, something I am naturally drawn to. The occasion was the launching of a new book. The author—my daughter Kristin.

At this point I am going to claim my God-inspired, constitutionally-defended bragging rights as a mother. Kristin has never considered herself a writer (although I have a bundle of interesting, funny, and well-written letters collected over the span of 30 years). This whole project has surprised her more than anyone else. Over a year ago she began sensing an inner nudge to write down certain experiences and insights that had been deeply touching her life for some time. A few friends also suggested she write them down in a book. At first the idea seemed preposterous, but the nudges didn’t stop. Kristin has learned to listen and sense from where (and from Whom) a nudge is coming.

So she said Yes and began to bring together the thoughts, stories, and memories that would be the building blocks of her book.

The beginning of any big project is chaotic and messy. And sometimes discouraging. And so it was with this huge (to her) project. But Kristin is not a lone-ranger type. From the start, she had editors and experienced writing coaches by her side, and this made a difference. She gave me the privilege of being one of her coaches. Tenacity, courage, and lots of reorganizing and rewriting went into this year of hard work. And all of it alongside her fulltime profession and involvement in family life.

And now it was time to celebrate and formally present to the public Gifts of Sight: Discovering God’s Love Through the Lens of Visual Impairment. And celebrate we did! After about 45 minutes of socializing and snacking, Kristin’s editor Jesse called the group to attention and introduced Kristin (whom everyone knew) and her new book. Enthusiastic applause. Then Kristin took the mic and told the story behind the book. With laughter and a few tears, Kristin walked us through her journey, beginning at birth actually and leading to this evening and this celebration. I found it very moving and so did everyone else.

Then followed the book signing (with a healthy line of people wishing to purchase), more snacking, and visiting. My assignment for the evening was to take as many photos as I could. Throughout the evening, Kristin couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could I.

Let me tell you a little about the book. Kristin brings together three streams -- her profession as a teacher of the visually impaired, her personal life story, and insights on life lived as followers of Jesus. She uses the science of sight and visual impairment as a metaphor for how God sees, knows, and loves us, showing how this understanding has been transforming her own life. The combination of professionalism and personal vulnerability makes this book compelling and deeply encouraging.

That’s my objective opinion, in case you’re wondering. And, yes, with a little bragging mixed in.

Those babies we hold in our arms all start out as possibilities. After years of nurturing and prayer, with a batch of mistakes thrown in, how wonderful to see those possibilities come to fruition and shine.

I’m both humbled and grateful. And I’ll probably keep on bragging.

The Big Thing--remembering my father

 When I was in junior high school, a Big Thing happened in the high school across the street. Really Big. The football team, the Ramona Bulldogs, won the California State Championship. At the time, I didn’t know anything about leagues or levels or any such official classifications. I realize now that we had to have been in a league of small high schools. The smallest. All I knew then was that we were #1 in the state. The best! The winners!

Ramona was definitely a football town with the Friday night games the biggest event of the week. Even for away games, people filled buses and cars to get there and yell.

The thing is—my dad was the coach. He was actually famous. His picture graced the front page of the Ramona Sentinel more than that of the president of the United States, whose name I don’t even remember.

The night the mighty Bulldogs growled, clawed, and scrabbled their way to the championship went down in history. At the noisy conclusion of the game, the team carried my dad off the field on their shoulders. Everyone was yelling and stomping and throwing their hats in the air. Pretty impressive for an adolescent daughter. I just sat in the bleachers, feeling warm and happy. I knew Dad was pleased.

The thing is—I never liked football all that much. I thought it silly how all those big boys in their stupid outfits ran around bumping into each other, then throwing other big boys on the ground and jumping on top of them. The rules didn’t make sense and sometimes people really did get hurt.

The thing is—my dad knew I thought this way, but he never seemed to hold it against me. 

He was also the Senior class English teacher. He was a writer and he liked literature even more than he liked football. He admired classical Greek culture and he told me once his job in the high school was a good Greek job. He loved the old Greeks plays and epics and he admired the Greeks for beginning the Olympic Games. He said the motto of the Greeks during their Golden Age was “a sound mind in a healthy body.” He reasoned that when he combined sports with literature, he was like the Greeks. A real Renaissance Man.

As was required of high school teachers in California, he took classes during the summer for professional enhancement. Instead of coaching or sports classes, he studied literature. He favored the University of Arizona as his sister lived in Phoenix. One summer he drove across the country to Massachusetts to study Shakespeare at Harvard.

I took Senior English from my dad. I remember as a class we read through “Romeo and Julliet” out loud. He made it come alive. Even the football players in the class became lovers of Shakespeare.

Actually, he was mostly like himself. And he let me be like myself, even though I was not Greek-like, nor did I enjoy football. For my 16^th birthday, he gifted me with a poetry book and wrote on the flyleaf, “To Nancy, for being Nancy. Love, Dad.”

So, I felt OK about the football team carrying him off the field. I would have liked it better if a bunch of writers could have carried him on their shoulders for writing the Great American Novel (a phrase he sometimes used). That never happened.

On Father’s Day I have no problem celebrating my memories of Dad. I recognize that many of my friends and colleagues have to work hard at forgiveness, at facing and bringing peace to their memories of fathers that were not so loving or appreciative. I feel privileged and blessed.

I’m grateful.