My unfaithful episcopagus

 My husband Hal was a precocious little boy. He learned to read early and he loved science. His parents had received from a friend an old set of Encyclopedia Britannica volumes and he discovered the section on human anatomy. It fascinated him. His sight-reading ability was not quite up to the level of anatomical vocabulary, but he did the best he could, coming to his own unique pronunciation of certain words.

At dinner one night, he informed his parents that the food they were eating was going down their episcopagus to get to their stomach. The word delighted them and they adopted it. For the next couple of years none of the members of the Thomas family had an esophagus. They each had an espicopagus (pronounced e-pis-co-PA-gus).

Years later I wrote a poetry book for my grandkids based on actual funny things they or their parents said when they were kids. Here’s the poem about their Grandpa’s hilarious mispronunciation:

MY FAITHFUL EPISCOPAGUS

Yes, of course, I love my lips!
My belly button gives me flips!
I like my feet,
my eyebrows are neat,
and my little toe is really sweet,
but the body part I like the best
is my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It’s hidden inside me, after my mouth,
behind my throat, but further south.
It’s long and round,
and without a sound
it carries my food, every pound,
‘til it lands in my tummy a while to rest.
Oh, my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It carries jelly beans, spinach and peas.
It transports mango sauce and cheese,
all of my lunch,
my breakfast and brunch,
the yummy granola I love to crunch.
There’s none to compare in all the west
to my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

Had enough?

I’ve had a different adventure recently involving my esophagus. For several years I’ve had trouble swallowing. I coughed and gagged frequently and had trouble sleeping with all the phlegm and other stuff coming up. I usually ended up spending the night in a recliner with my head raised.

This started during Covid and the medical people I could get to online misdiagnosed allergies, sinus problems, gastric reflux and other common maladies. They recommended a variety of over-the-counter remedies, none of which worked. I’m sure people began suspecting me of being a hypochondriac and chronic complainer.

Then late last year my primary-care-physician had me take a barium-swallow-test, and the two medical technicians found my problem five minutes into the test. They showed me the shadow on the X-ray and told me it was a large diverticulum (pouch) attached to the top of my esophagus. I had thought diverticuli developed only in the colon (where my husband harbors his), but no. They can also pop out on the esophagus. I was glad to finally have a name for what was happening in my body. I had an unfaithful episcopagus.

After the test, things happened relatively quickly (I’ll spare you the details), and at the end of January I had an operation on my esophagus. (To be medically precise, it was an Endoscopic Zenkers Diverticulectomy. Is that not impressive?!) The end result of it all is that I returned to normal. I can swallow again. The gaging is gone. I can sleep lying down all night long.

Normal is good.

It’s good to know that, even as we age, there are serious bodily ailments that can be fixed. In some areas of our lives, normal is possible.

I thank God for modern medical wonders, for non-invasive (though the mouth) procedures that were unthinkable even a decade ago.

I thank God for normal.

In addition to that-----

I’ll sing up high.
I’ll sing down low.
And all of my days
I’ll give high praise
for my faithful episcopagus!

illustration for the children's book

The dark part of the forest

 I usually know ahead of time what I’m going to blog about, but I began this day with a blank page and a blank mind. All of it reflecting a blank emotional state. Not so black as despair, but neither with a bright degree of hope. I’m comforted in knowing that the Psalms reflect lament almost as much as they do praise.

The thing is—I’m sick of being sick. And I’m not even gravely ill. But several chronic conditions continue to deplete my energy, making any kind of activity cumbersome. I figure I have around two hours a day to express my creativity, then I resort to books, movies, and naps. To some people that might sound like the good life. But not to me.

I’m in process of giving up a leadership role that has brought me delight, as well as an avenue of service. My body is telling me I need to let it pass to someone else, and I’ve chosen to listen, but not without a sense of grief. And I wonder what I’m to let go of next.

My purpose for writing on this blogsite is to explore ways to face the challenges of aging with courage and humor. I include myself in this purpose which is why I use the word explore. My way of working through issues and challenges is through writing. Today my courage is low and I’m not finding anything to laugh about. But I sense that I need to write from the valley as well as from the mountain top.

About 30 years ago, when I was a mere 51 years old, I wrote a poem about my fears of growing older. (At the time, I didn’t realize how young I still was!) I find it still relevant in certain seasons. I borrow from the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale and the phrase “coming unglued.”

Coming of Age

“It's all right,” he assured me
as his ear slid
slowly
down the side
of his face.
His right index finger dropped
off
next.
He had always
known this would happen
someday.
His hairline had begun
to recede
years before.
We walked out of
the room
single
file.
I stumbled on
his left
foot.
He hobbled ahead,
scattering appendages
like
bread
crumbs.
About twilight
we entered the forest.

Grim, no? And a bit strange (like me).

Psalm 31 combines both lament and praise, going back and forth, showing the cyclic nature of our inward life. Mine at least. In lament, David expresses his anguish honestly.

Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
My life is consumed by anguish
and my years by groaning;
my strength fails because of my affliction,
and my bones grow weak.  (Psalm 31:9-10)

I detect themes of old age, chronic illness, and despair. But David knows where to take it. He cries out to the Lord in complete honestly. Later in the same psalm he writes, you heard my cry for mercy, and he ends the psalm with words to us: Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord.

I’ll do that today. I’ll take heart, even as I’m in the middle of the forest of age, going deeper every day. I may meet up with a wicked witch and an enticing gingerbread house. But probably not. I expect I’ll find light for the path, a light that grows brighter and brighter until the day when all is light, beauty, glory, and grace. And I may even have fun on the way.

I’m feeling better already.

Some really good stuff

 I’ve been spending time cleaning up my files. Sounds grim but I actually enjoying sorting, organizing, and, especially, tossing outdated papers, realizing that I don’t really need all those photo-copied handouts for a class I once taught and might again someday, but in all honesty, probably won’t. It feels good to throw it out.

I find that information that was once important no longer is: those recipes that I thought I’d try out but never did, letters from former students that no one else will ever want to read, summaries of books I once liked, a stack of publicity fliers for a book I wrote several years ago, song sheets, beautiful bird pictures, and on it goes. It might be initially hard to part with the bird pictures, but if I grit my teeth and just do it, I end up feeling better. It’s all part of downsizing, of trying to make life less complicated for my kids when someday it all goes to them to make the what-to-do-with-all-this decisions.

Most of my files are moderately well organized and alphabetized. They make sense to me and I can usually find what I need. But my intuitive brain can only handle so much logic and alphabetized organization. So I’ve developed some special folders for those items I don’t know how to categorize. It could be a good quote I heard on the evening news, a funny poem I found in the newspaper (often anonymous), a Reader’s Digest story—items that made me laugh, touched my spirit, inspired me to do some research, or broadened my perspective on a subject I was interested in. Items I don’t want to forget and lose, but just didn’t know where to file.

So here’s my system: I have files folders with the following titles: Stuff, More Stuff, Good Stuff, Really Good Stuff 1, Really Good Stuff 2, and Stuff To Think About. I realize that probably wouldn’t work for everyone, but it does for me. It lets my whimsical side tease my rational well-organized side, and the two end up getting along better together.

Every once in a while, I take out one of my Stuff folders and just go through it. I find ideas for poems or articles, illustrations for talks, funny memories, great ideas—in short, scads of snippets and tidbits. I love snippets and tidbits. So I’m going to share some of what I found today in one folder, the one simply labeled “Stuff.” 

*Here’s a news item that appeared in April of 1997 (sent to me in an email from a friend):

“Earlier this year, the dazed crew of a Japanese trawler was plucked out of the Sea of Japan clinging to the wreckage of their sunken ship. Their rescue, however, was followed by immediate imprisonment once authorities questioned the sailors on their ship’s loss. To a man they claimed that a cow, falling out of a clear blue sky, had struck the trawler amidships, shattering its hull and sinking the vessel within minutes.

“They remained in prison for several weeks, until the Russian Air Force reluctantly informed Japanese authorities that the crew of one of its cargo planes had apparently stolen a cow wandering at the edge of a Siberian airfield, forced the cow into the plane’s hold and hastily taken off for home.

“Unprepared for live cargo, the Russian crew was ill-equipped to manage a now rampaging cow within its hold. To save the aircraft and themselves, they shoved the animal out of the cargo hold as they crossed the Sea of Japan at an altitude of 30,000 feet.”

Not so good for the cow, but the confession freed the innocent Japanese prisoners. 

*I found a one-page book review for a volume called Oxymoronica: Paradoxical Wit and Wisdom from History’s Greatest Wordsmiths by Mardy Grothe. It looked good, so I just ordered the book on Kindle and am enjoying it now. A few of the choice oxymorons from the introduction: “The best cure for insomnia is to get lots of sleep” (W.C. Fields); “I am deeply superficial” (Ava Gardner); “Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else” (Margaret Mead).

*Here’s a gift idea: give someone an empty jar and say, “Here. I’m giving you space.”

*Some conversation starters (if you’re desperate):
--Coca-Cola was originally green.
--Barbie’s measurements if she were life size: 39-23-33.
--Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair.
--A duck’s quack doesn’t echo, and no one knows why.
--It is possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs.
--The youngest pope was 11 years old.
--The phrase “rule of thumb” is derived from an old English law which stated that you couldn’t beat your wife with anything wider than your thumb.
--An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.

*Here’s how poet William Stafford answered the question, “What do you do about writer’s block?” He answered, “I lower my standards.”

*A definition of the manger: “a feeding trough large enough to contain the Bread of Life.”

That’s probably enough stuff for one day. I’m afraid I haven’t reduced the volume of my Stuff file today. What would I throw away? When I’m too old to laugh (which will be never, I hope), I’ll just let my great grandchildren deal with it.

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?

What little children teach us about love

 We older people are supposed to be the ones with wisdom that we then pass down to younger generations. In many cases, that’s true, although being old doesn’t automatically bring wisdom in its wake.

Sometimes we forget that wisdom often comes from young people, even children. Wise old people know this. They know when to speak and when to listen. They know how to listen to children.

Recently my sister Becky sent me a list from a Facebook site called something like “Heart-warming.” I don’t often gravitate toward heart-warming stuff, like Hallmark greeting cards, but I trust my sister’s good taste. So I read it, liked it a lot, and will now pass it on to you.

A group of professional people posed an interesting question to children between the ages of four and eight. (The survey didn’t say what profession these professionals represented; they could have been plumbers or bee-keepers; they were probably some kind of social scientists. This information is important, but I’ll forward the results to you anyway.) The question was, “What does love mean?” Here are some of the answers:

 

"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore.... So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love.” Rebecca—age 8

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” Billy—age 4

“Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” Karl—age 5

“Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.” Chrissy—age 6

“Love is what makes you smile when you're tired.” Terri—age 4

“Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” Danny—age 8

“Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.” Bobby—age 7 (Wow!)

“If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.” Nikka—age 6 (We need a few million more Nikkas on this planet.)

“Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it every day.” Noelle—age 7

“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” Tommy—age 6

“During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn't scared anymore.” Cindy—age 8

“My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.” Clare—age 6

“Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.” Elaine—age 5

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.” Chris—age 7

“Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” Mary Ann—age 4

“I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.” Lauren—age 4

“When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” (What an image!) Karen—age 7

“Love is when Mommy sees Daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross.” Mark—age 6

“You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.” Jessica—age 8

And the final one: The winner was a four-year-old child whose next-door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.”

 

See what I mean about wise children? I notice that their definitions were all concrete—actions, demonstrations of love. Nothing abstract. There’s wisdom in that.

Sometime this week, if you can, have a conversation with a child you know. Listen more than you speak. Then do it every week.

Here are some photos of grandparents hanging out some wise little kids:

How weighty do I want to be?

In this time of life, the word “weight” has a double meaning. The most obvious refers to poundage. It seems that the older I grow, the easier it is to put on the pounds, and the harder to take them off. And what’s here on my body is distributed in strange configurations. It’s like a heavy weight (that word again) is pressing down from above, making me shorter and spreading me out. When buying new clothes, it’s not just color and style I consider, but what the garment is able to hide. I tell myself that at this age, none of that should matter. But for some reason, it does.

The second meaning of the word “weight” has to do with a serious dose of wisdom some older people exude. We respect these older gentlemen and ladies, not just for their white hair and slow deliberate manners, but because the experiences they’ve lived through seem to have given them a perspective worth heeding. When they speak, we listen. The weight of wisdom.

Quakers have a special take on this kind of weight. They refer to certain people as “weighty Friends.” As a young Friend, I observed that these awesome creatures were mostly old and mostly men. Since then, my perspective has shifted and I recognize many women who gained this reputation, not all of them elderly.

Quite a few years back, in an elders meeting, someone referred to me as a weighty Friend, and everyone solemnly agreed. No one even snickered.

My first reaction was shock (unexpressed in typical Quakerly fashion). My second reaction was laughter (silent, of course). I thought of “Fat Quaker” as a likely synonym, but my need to diet was not extreme at the time. If the pudgy-cheeked man on the oatmeal box were only frowning, he would be the perfect model.

My third reaction has been a lot of pondering and reflecting. I still don’t have it all figured out. I realize that although “weighty Friend” is a uniquely Quaker term, the concept is universal. There are those in every denomination, social group, or extended family whose wisdom is obvious. They are people who have earned wide respect through a life well-lived. They carry a certain moral weight.

But I am a Quaker and “weighty Friend” is one of those delightful Quaker terms that’s fun to say, although the exact meaning slips and slides around a bit. I ask myself, is this remnant from early Quakerism still meaningful? Helpful? And what does it mean in reference to me?

I love the old traditions, even the archaic words. Some of them carry an ambiance of holiness, order, and, yes, Quaker culture. Some still manage to be useful, even after all these years. Maybe “weighty Friend” is one of them?

How am I to hold this term in reference to myself? To be honest, I don’t feel ready to adopt this as part of my identity. Perhaps this just shows my occasional resistance to growing older. Do I also have to grow more solemn, stern, and stereotypically Quaker? I certainly don’t always feel wise.

Actually, I’ve known some older people who were not only wise, they were funny as well. Sometimes hilariously so. Maybe humor is a part of wisdom? If asked if I wanted to be known as funny or as wise, I think I’d answer, “Both, please!” Could one be both weighty and light-hearted at once? I hope so.

As to whether or not I’m really becoming “weighty” as I age, some words from the Apostle Paul come to mind. (By the way, if Paul had had the foresight to have become a Quaker, he would have been a weighty one.)

Here are his words: “By the grace given to me, I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you” (Romans 12:3). And, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better [weightier] than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).

This gives me perspective. I think “weighty Friend” or even “weighty older person” may be a helpful concept, as long as I apply it to other people. But I don’t need to wonder whether I am or not. It’s not for me to say. If anyone ever calls me that again, I’ll either chuckle out loud or keep my chortle silent, depending on the sensibilities of the person addressing me.

Having worked that through, I feel so much lighter.

Three conversations in the exercise room

Old people can be really funny. Soon after moving into the retirement community, one of my new neighbors told me he is making a special effort to get to events on time because he isn’t ready yet to be known as “the late Robert Yohr.” Bob was approaching 90 and since that conversation has become “late.” I miss him, but he still makes me chuckle.

I’ve taken on the role of resident spy. Sometimes I just listen in on conversations. Sometimes I participate. I try to listen more than I talk, so as not to miss anything. I’m collecting conversations, spontaneous jokes, and ancient humor. The understory of this old growth forest is thick with humor. It helps the small beasts (like me) thrive.

Before the pandemic shut us down, I was part of an informal early-morning exercise group. By informal I mean that we were all early-risers and spent time in the basement exercise room during the same morning hours. There were about six of us and we bonded over sweat and humor. The following three unrelated conversations took place on the same morning. I wrote them down and added a conclusion. While not exactly hilarious, these conversations still make me smile. 

Three Conversations in the Exercise Room

1.     City Chicken

“We had city chicken for our Christmas dinner. It’s a family favorite. Can any of you tell me what it is?”

“Does it have to do with where you eat it?”

“Nope.”

“Is it spiced with obscure herbs and served with tofu or something weird like that?”

“Nope. It’s skewered pieces of pork loin, oven baked in a cast iron skillet. It comes from the Ohio Valley.”

“Why that name?”

“Don’t know. It’s always been called city chicken. That’s just the way it is.”

 

2.     The Old Folks Do a Post-Christmas Spring Cleaning

“We cleaned our oven yesterday. It’s a Whirlpool and the manual says ‘self-cleaning.’ In quotation marks.”

“Was it? Self-cleaning?”

“Well. At the end of the day Carol told me she’d give up our trip to Hawaii if we would buy a new stove.”

“Are you gonna do it?”

“I’m thinking about it. Makes sense. My knees don’t like it when I’m down on the floor scrapping the oven with a knife.”

“I washed out our cupboards yesterday. Any mice we have will be mighty disappointed.”

“We’ve never done that in all our years of marriage!”

“I’m gonna clean the refrigerator today.”

“That’s funny. So am I.”

“Let’s have a potluck tonight. Bring together all our green left-overs.”

“Sounds fun. Grim, but fun.”

 

3.     In the Dead of Winter

“Why do they call this time ‘the dead of winter’? No one ever mentions ‘the dead of spring’ in April.”

“Or ‘the dead of summer’ in July.”

“Maybe we’re all just ‘dead to rights,’ whatever that means.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’ve never heard that phrase.”

“I have, but I don’t know what it means either.”

“Here. I’ll look it up on my i-Phone. . . . ‘Dead to rights’—It comes from the underworld of the mid-19^th century—the mob—and means ‘caught in the act.’”

 

4.     A Conclusion of the Matter

“What was he doing and how did he get caught?”

“He was foolishly stealing a Whirlpool oven. He was caught by the city chickens. In the dead of winter.”