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.

"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.

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.

The richest kid on the block

 This past week we residents in the retirement community gathered in the auditorium to hear the annual financial report. It felt good to know our living situation is on solid ground. But the report also included the yearly increase in our monthly resident fees. With the rising cost of living, it is right that the fees increase, but we’re always nervous about the amount.

 It wasn’t as high as it could have been but, even so, we’re going to have to be more careful about our spending. It’s expensive to live in a continuing care retirement community, but we’re aware that the money goes into long-term insurance and that when we run out of enough money to cover the full cost, we won’t be asked to leave. So, it’s worth it. Even so, we don’t want to run out of money. And, I confess, we do worry.

But we know we’re not poor. We live in a beautiful place with good friends and family near-by. We’re still learning and growing. In fact, I think we’re rich. 

And that reminds me of a story.

I was ten years old the first time I realized I was rich. That was the year I broke my piggy bank.

My parents viewed my intentions with some hesitancy. My father was a high school football coach, and years earlier he had invited several of his football players to my first birthday party. The team bought me the pig, each member making his own contribution to my future wealth. My dad set it on a shelf in my room, and down through the years I faithfully plunked in my pennies and nickels.

By my tenth year the pig was heavy. I was not nearly as sentimental as my parents. I wanted my money. So I smashed its head with a hammer.

Yes, I was rich. Twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents! And it was all mine. No other kid I knew was so wealthy.

I wanted to spend it, and I knew just the place, the local five-and-ten-cent store. Only this time I wasn’t going to just walk up and down the aisles, looking and dreaming. I was going to really buy stuff. I had no shopping lists, priorities, or needs in mind. My goal was to spend my money. All of it.

And I did. What a morning! I put all my coins in the bottom of a green plastic purse. My mom drove me to the store—and I got started. (I wonder now what my mother was thinking. I admire her for permitting me this fling, for not making me save my money or buy socks or give it to the missionaries. I do have a vague memory of her and the clerk in a powwow just before she left me to my glory. They both looked at me and giggled. I ignored them, having better things to do.)

I took my time, first doing a general survey of the store, walking up and down all the aisles, looking at puzzles, pencils, coloring books, barrettes, vases, hair curlers, ribbons, and, of course, boxes of candy and gum.

Then I started, picking up one single item at a time, bringing it to the counter, counting out the nickels and pennies, sealing the bargain, and stashing the loot. I then methodically repeated the procedure for my next purchase. So I advanced, item by item, all morning long, stopping when the only thing my last few pennies could buy was gum balls. I chose the red ones.

When my mom came to get me, I had the stuff in several big bags. I was anxious to get home and show off my treasures.

I bought stuff for myself, of course—comic books, candy bars, and one large bottle of Ben Hur cologne. I had also purchased presents for everyone, and I was so excited to have them get their gifts. For my little brother and sister there were soap bubbles, marbles, and crayons.

I saved the best for last. I had found the perfect gift for my parents. I proudly presented them with a set of tiny glasses, beautifully etched on the outside with golden grapes. I still remember their smiles of delight. In fact, they were so happy they laughed. 

Only years later did I learn I had given them whiskey glasses. 

Several years have passed since then. My husband and I have given most of our adult lives to cross-cultural missions. And while we wouldn’t have wanted to do anything else, it didn’t exactly put us in demand for interviews on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

But, by God’s grace, something of the magic of that day in my tenth summer still clings, wafting through my senses like Ben Hur cologne. We have a wealth of memories, kids grown up and living good lives, grandkids, and, now two great-grandbabies. And we live in this marvelous place. I feel full of the wealth of it all. 

And even though I occasionally worry about current finances, I know that my Father is generous with his gifts. I am secure in his goodness. This world is bigger than any five-and-ten-cent store, and better stocked. I’m a spendthrift at heart, and, yes, I’m still the richest kid on the block.

Going steady

Back in my high school days, a mark of status and popularity (so important to teenagers) was a state-of-being known as “going steady.” It meant that a boy and a girl decided to exclusively date each other. They publicly declared this intention when the girl wore the boy’s school ring on a chain around her neck. It told the world—I am desirable. I am chosen. I am worthy.

Most of us adolescent girls longed for this. I know I did. But I must confess, I never went steady in high school. I had good friends, yes, but never a steady boyfriend.

College brought a certain level of maturity to relationships. No girl wore a ring on a chain around her neck. But there were couples, naturally, and it sometimes seemed as if finding a marriage partner was one of the main purposes of a college education. A ring around the finger.

Eventually, in the post-college years, I got that ring around my finger. It’s turned out well. I now look back on my high school longings and smile.

The phrase “going steady” is interesting and can almost be seen as an oxymoron,* with going and steady cancelling each other out. In high school it meant simply dating (going out) only one person (steady). Understood. But going is a word of motion, movement, and adventure. Steady can imply standing firm, rock solid, intentional.

I like oxymorons. I may even be one.

Now in my aging years, going steady has become more important than ever. I have a chemical condition inside my head that makes me perpetually dizzy. I am most comfortable sitting in my easy chair where I can look out the window or read a book. But the rest of my body wants more. It wants me to be active, go places, and do things. I need to please both.

So I’ve learned some physical therapy exercises for improving balance, even (or especially) when in motion. I’m currently in an exercise class called “Strong for Life” that allows me to do most of the routines sitting down. Even seated I can break a healthy sweat, with no fear of falling. And I’m taking my walking stick with me when I go out. I insist that it’s a walking stick, not a cane. I’m learning to go steady. Intentionally adventurous.

The oxymoron can also be applied to our relationship with God. “Going steady with Jesus” sounds a bit trite (because it is), but there might be something to it. God is “my rock and my fortress” (Psalm 18:2). David sings for joy because “He lifted me out of the slimy pit … he sat my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand” (Psalm 40:2). Jesus tells us that he is the vine and we are the branches; we are to abide (stand firm) in him in order to bear much fruit (John 15). And Peter promises the early Christians that God is at work in them, making them “strong, firm, and steadfast” (1 Peter 5:10). That’s the steady part.

Jesus also asks us to follow him (Matthew 16:24), to put our feet in motion, to go out to the ends of the earth making disciples of all nations (Matthew 28:19). The whole of the Scriptures tells the story of a God who loves us with a steadfast love, makes us strong and whole in him, then sends us out to befriend and bless the people he loves. That’s the going part.

I’m still drawn to the idea of going steady. And slowly learning how to do it.

*Oxymoron: a combination of contradictory or incongruous words, such as “cruel kindness.”

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.

 

Pomp, circumstance, and soggy scrapbooks

 This past weekend has been jubilant and celebratory. Our granddaughter Alandra graduated from George Fox University as a mechanical engineer. That is, indeed, an accomplishment. The whole class of 2024 is to be congratulated for their courage and persistence. These young people entered their college experience in the fall of 2020 at the height of the COVID pandemic. What was to have been a long-awaited experience of collegial life—new friendships, classes, all the challenges involved in this phase of life—turned into a marathon of masking, six-feet apart fellowship, hand-sanitizing, and Zoom classes. Not at all what was expected. Rather than collegiality, isolation.

But they persisted and formed bonds that only those passing together through a hard time can experience. And the weekend celebrations were, indeed, jubilant, at time raucous.

We celebrated Alandra. For four days we celebrated: Thursday, Honors Convocation; Friday, Baccalaureate; Saturday, Graduation followed by a family meal; Sunday, reception with family, friends, food, and the sharing of memories. Our dear granddaughter beamed all weekend long. She has passed through one door and entered another, the door to the rest of her life.

Graduation day was drizzly, this being Oregon, but the skies held back during the ceremonies, not actually raining until afterward when people gathered in the Quad to congratulate the new grads. One special moment during the actual ceremony happened as Alandra came forward to accept her degree. The moderator paused to tell the crowd that she was a fifth-generation graduate of George Fox University. (He didn’t supply the details, that her parents graduated from GFU, as did her grandparents (us), her great-grandparents, and her great-great-grandmother. Quite a legacy.)

Alandra doesn’t know what’s ahead. She hasn’t yet applied for a job, and for the summer she is moving back home to live with her parents, a temporary situation she insists. She senses the need for a break, for a time to reflect on where she’s been and to wait on God for an indication of where she’s to go. That seems wise.

For me, last week didn’t begin on such a high note. On Monday morning the director of Resident Services phoned to let me know I needed to get right down to the basement storage units. Each resident has their own cubicle and ours was stuffed. She informed me that a pipe in the ceiling had sprung a leak that had affected a few of the many cubicles. Ours happened to be the most affected. She gave me a number to call in case any of our stuff was ruined and needed to be replaced. That was not a reassuring piece of information. So I hurried down.

Sure enough, wetness reigned. A tarp covered the top of the affected cubicles, funneling the water from the still leaking pipe into a large garbage container. It didn’t pour, but the steady drip drip was not music to my ears.

All our stuff was wet. Fortunately, we had stored most of it in plastic containers and the contents of these stayed dry—winter clothes, Christmas stuff, some documents and memorabilia, etc.) Our suitcases, camping gear, and bicycle pump were wet but not damaged. But I had stored some items in cardboard boxes, never thinking something like this would happen. These items were damaged. They included my high school and college scrapbooks, something I’m sentimental about. Also a shoebox of love letters from Hal from before we were married. Mushy stuff, now literally mushy.

The staff loaned us an empty cubicle where we could store our stuff until the situation was resolved. And I brought the scrapbooks upstairs, pried the pages apart and spread them on the floor, table, and chairs to dry. My soggy memories. I’ll be able to salvage some of it. It will now have an antique, wrinkly look, quite artistic (at least that’s what I’m telling myself).

In the college memories book, I found my graduation program (“The George Fox College Year of Jubilee Graduating Class of 1967”), some photos (sticky), and a newspaper article with me in my regalia looking quite pleased with myself.

I love the coincidence (a coming together—a co-happening—of two separate incidents) of the two graduations—my granddaughter’s and mine. There are differences—for one, 50 graduates at my ceremony and just under 500 at Alandra’s. But the goofy smiles and the sense of accomplishment and celebration—these are universal.

Hurrah for the celebration of landmarks!

Hurrah for the links between the generations!

Hurrah for good memories!

Hurrah for new beginnings!

God is good. Hurrah!

Old journals

 The task of downsizing and discarding never seems to end. The treasures are the hardest things to tackle: the collection of letters my father wrote to me after I left home; the scraggly teddy-bear I once loved; the china doll that sat on my dresser; pictures the kids drew when they were little; and so on. You have your own lists.

Passing them on to the kids and grandkids seems the best option. I made a catalogue with photos and descriptions. I distributed it to the tribe, asking them to write their names under the stuff they wanted. I ended up with a few names here and there but was still left with boxes of old vases, paintings of Bolivian landscapes, my wedding dress, and thousands of photos. Why don’t they want this precious stuff?

The conundrum I currently face is the most difficult—what to do with my old journals. I’m a writer and I’ve been a faithful journal keeper all my life. Now, in my years of retirement, I’m left with boxes of notebooks dating back to my teenage years. They’re full of struggles, triumphs, complaints, and prayers. Full of stories. The conundrum—to leave for the kids and grandkids to read or to spare them the burden and throw them all out before I die?

It's enlightening now, reading them. It’s also sometimes distressing, even embarrassing, to remember how immature I once was. I’m thinking of purging the journals (the parts I want no one to read, ever), and selectively passing the rest along. But that seems a bit dishonest.

If I were famous there would be no question. I’d be obligated to leave the whole story to the researchers and literary academics to craft into biographies. But I’m not even close to famous, except to a small group of people (which contradicts the concept of “famous”).

I’ve decided to keep one of my high school diaries—a day by day list of which boy looked at me that day. I’ll keep it because I find it hilarious, and proof that I was once an adolescent.

Frequently I face my struggles through poetry. Here’s an old-journal poem, inspired in part by a paradox I found in the book of Isaiah about “the old ways.”

 

Old Journals
Isaiah 43:18-19; 46:9-10

1
Do I keep them, all the notebooks
of stored memories, stories and struggles?
Years of anecdotes and meditations—relational problems,
cute things the kids said, past resentments I don’t want to reveal
to anyone, spiritual highs and shadowed valleys,
dreams good and wicked. Will my kids and grandkids
really want to read this stuff, to know and fondly remember
their dead grandmother? Or will all this paper burden them?
To toss or to store in the attic? Guilt if they toss, loss
of storage space if they keep.
Remember the old things, those of long ago,
says the Lord God.
How seriously do I take that?

2
Why not unburden myself and spare the kids
a difficult decision? Do I really want them
to know how immature I once was? How petty at times?
How cast down and struggling to keep the faith? Not really.
But somehow, I can’t let go. Not yet.
It feels like destroying part of my identity.
Does throwing out old journals
erase the stories, mean I’ll be forgotten?

3
God once again muddies the waters,
seems to contradict himself by telling me to
Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past.
How do I apply that to my personal pilgrimage?

Why forget? Because, says the Lord,
I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up!
Do you not perceive it? I am making a way
in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

That sounds good. I could do with a fistful
of new about now. With a truckload actually.

4
Are my old journals a barrier to new life?
Remember the former things. Forget the former things.
Why do you so often send me mixed messages?
Is it either/or? Or both/and? How do I do that?

Once again I am perplexed by paradox.

Babies and other cute beasts

 A friend and I took a brief retreat on the Oregon coast last week. One morning we were just sitting and looking out the window at the ocean and the people walking the path just a few yards away.

Then Francie exclaimed, “Oh! How cute!”

I responded with, “Yes! A fluffy puppy going poop in the grass!”

She came back with, “What?!” (She didn’t actually say, “You’re crazy!” but she communicated it with the look on her face.)

It turns out that we were looking at the same scenario but seeing different things. She was looking at the bundled-up baby in the man’s arms, and I saw the dog who was, indeed, doing its business on the edge of the path. Two different perspectives. Both kind’a cute.

I have a life-time of memories of cute dogs, most of them named Mokey. When I was two-years-old, Mokey was a small cocker spaniel my parents considered an appropriate pet for a little girl. What I remember about Mokey comes mainly from black and white photos. My parents told me that one day I did something terrible-two-ish to the dog. He bit me, and they took him to the pound that very day.

Mokey #2 was a black and white springer spaniel with long ears and a playful sweet disposition. We all loved him. In my teenage years Mokey was a golden collie and my special friend during the times I needed one.

During the Bolivian years we lived in the city of La Paz with little yard space, so we decided not to have a dog, until the day our daughter brought home a fetching terrier puppy (saying the neighbors gave him to her, which wasn’t exactly true), and we couldn’t resist. We named him Mokey.  After Mokey’s untimely death (ant poison) we adopted a Pekinese and named her Cindy-Lou-Who (who was not more than two); we couldn’t name her Mokey so soon after the death of her beloved predecessor.

We loved all these dogs. Dogs can be the most affectionate and cutest critters ever.

The same for babies. I must humbly admit that both my children and all my grandchildren were over-the-top super cute babies. When pushing the baby down the street in a stroller, people passing us would stop and gasp. (My memory may be a little faulty on that point.)

But—and here I come to the main point of this blog, the cutest of all cuties is yet to come. Our granddaughter and her husband have just informed us that we are going to be GREAT GRANDPARENTS! For the first time ever! Wow!

Good writers don’t use many exclamation points. And they are parsimonious with adjectives, but that announcement has just got to be the most Phenomenal! Splendiferous! Fantastic! Amazing! Incredible! Exhilerating! and Exponentially Outlandish! news of all time!

Can you tell this is my first grandchild? Can you tell I’m excited?

Get ready! Cuteness is coming.

(Maybe they’ll name him/her Mokey.)

The soon-to-be-parents, Bree and Jade

                        cute baby tree surrounded by parents, grands, and greats

Dollars, scraps and what we leave behind

Do we pour our savings into a retirement community? Or do we hold on to our money to pass on to our kids and grandkids? That’s a real question for those deciding whether or not to move into a continuing-care retirement community such as the one we now live in. It was certainly a choice we wrestled with.

Not that any financial heritage we pass along to our loved ones would be substantial, given the life-style choices we made. But, still, we’d like to hand something of practical value down to the kids.

We feel the effects of our decision to move here every month when we get the statement from our bank. The increase in the community’s monthly fees this year hasn’t helped. Even though retired, we find it necessary to budget our spending and continue to search for ways to cut down. I guess that makes us like most other people in our nation today.

We remind ourselves of the benefits of being here, that the high fees today ensure continuing care in the future when we’ll probably need to be in assisted-living or perhaps the memory care wing. Even if we should one day run out of money, this community will still care for us.

But I grieve the lack of an inheritance to pass on.

Until I remember that I do have something of value to leave my kids as an inheritance.

My scrapbooks!

(The exclamation point indicates a blending of enthusiasm and sarcasm.)

I started scrapbooking when our kids were small, long before scrapbooking became an expensive national craze, a craze that has since died down. I needed a way to manage the growing collection of photos, childish artwork, and assorted memorabilia that threatened to overflow our storage space. And I wanted a way to hold on to the memories of those growing up years, a way to provide continuity and stability to our rather nomadic way of life between two countries.

So every fourth year when our family came home from Bolivia to Oregon, I’d sort through the stuff, make my choices, and artistically glue them into the Book. Then I’d throw everything else away without compunction (and without the kids knowing). It kept the clutter down.

And it made a wonderful contribution to capturing our family story. The kids loved the books, as did Hal and I. We named them “The Thomas Family Chronicles,” and the volumes grew over the years. When David brought his future wife Debby home to meet us, they sat together on the couch while David showed her the Chronicles, not telling her that this was the “test.” She passed.

The kids are grown, married, and now the grandkids are starting the marriage cycle. Life goes on. And so do the Chronicles. I keep them up; it’s a good place to display photos of the grandkids and chart all the changes.

I am slowing down, partly due to the high cost of maintaining a color printer. Partly because they take up room. Each year occupies less pages.

My question: although the kids loved these books growing up, will they actually want them taking space on their bookshelves someday? All 18 volumes?  I’m not so sure about that.

But, really, why worry? When I’m gone it won’t be my problem.

I am sorry about the money though. 

Some sample pages: 

                        1976 La Paz, our city

                            David, kindergarten self-portrait

                            2002, on an Oregon beach with the grandkids

                                 2007, Teaching in Lima, Peru

2008, youngest grandchild, Peter

2013, Akagera (Rwanda) safari with grandkids

                            2015, Aymara Quaker women at Yearly Meeting

Thank you for indulging me. If the kids don't want these, would you be willing to take them off my hands? I'd love to see your scrapbooks.

What I learned from the hurricane giraffes

Recently my book club discussed a marvelous novel entitled West with Giraffes (2021) by Lynda Rutledge. This novel is based on the true story of two giraffes at sea on their way to New York. The Great Hurricane of 1938 strikes, but the giraffes miraculously survive. As the protagonist, young Woody Nikel, reflects, “I never thought I’d see a bigger eyeful than that hurricane as long as I lived. But I was wrong. Because the last thing you think you’re going to see in the middle of flipped boats and buildings afire and bodies dangling and sirens wailing is a couple of giraffes.”

The giraffes, whose crates had been bolted on the deck of a freighter, made it through, a bit banged up, but alive. After a time resting and being attended to, the animals board the back of an old truck for a trek across the United States, headed for the San Diego Zoo. Woody and a “giraffe whisperer” Woody calls “Old Man” drive the truck and care for the giraffes (a true part of the story). It’s a two-week trip full of natural and human disasters, near catastrophes, and a bit of romance with a photographer named Red.

The giraffes are the stars of this story. The giraffes and the relationships that can develop between animals and humans. As the book jacket notes, this book “explores what it means to be changed by the grace of animals.” While the book is full of disasters, the hurricane being only one of them, it is also full of natural wonders, the giraffes being the chief example.

But what I want to write about in this blog on aging is the frame-tale that surrounds the story. Woody Nikel is now 105 years-old and living in a nursing home he doesn’t particularly like. His friends are all dead and all his memories are in the far past. But the memory of his trek with the giraffes, Old Man, and Red persists and he finds himself thinking about them more and more. But he has long stopped trying to tell the story, thinking it matters to no one but himself.

And then he remembers Red’s baby, a woman now, who knows little about this part of her mother’s life. It’s like a revelation. He reflects,

“It’s you.

“That’s when I know I’d been a foolish and selfish man.

“It is a foolish man who thinks stories do not matter—when in the end, they may be all that matter and all the forever we’ll ever know. So, shouldn’t you hear our story? Shouldn’t you know how two darling giraffes saved me, you, and your mother, a woman I loved? And it is a selfish man who takes stories to the grave that aren’t his and his alone. Shouldn’t you know your mother’s brave heart and daring dreams? And shouldn’t you know your friends, even though we’re gone?

“I knew, then, there was something else an old man could do. I found a pencil and I began to write.”

During the first year of the pandemic when I was especially missing contact with my family, I began thinking of all the stories of my life that I hadn’t yet told my kids or grandkids. What if I never got the chance? Would all those stories just disappear?

So—I found a pencil and I began to write. Well, actually, a computer. But I spent the better part of that year in isolation writing down the stories, starting with the ancestors, writing a chapter on my parents, then telling stories about my growing up years, then life as a wife and mother, as a missionary, and as a writer. Seventeen exciting (to me) chapters. I’m leaving open the last chapter on growing older. After all, my story’s not over.

I’m not famous and I don’t think many people will be interested in this book. And to be honest, at this point my kids aren’t very interested either. I’m hoping that someday some curious granddaughter will start wondering about that funny old lady. Maybe someone (or two or three someones) will read and love the stories, knowing a little more about where they came from.

Maybe. Maybe not. But the stories will not die when I do. And I get a great deal of satisfaction just knowing that.

 

Regrets--mosquitos or monsters?

The advancing years are times when our regrets come out from their cage and begin pecking on the walls of our brain. They can be tiny mosquitos or monster birds (or something in between), depending on their dominance in our thoughts.

My friend Mr. Webster defines “to regret” as “to be very sorry for….” The gret part comes from Old Norse and means “to weep.” The re prefix makes it a repeated state of mind. Drawn-out over time. We can regret something we did in the past or, perhaps more common, something we didn’t do. Persistent unresolved regrets can begin to march through our brains, letting the past trample the present. In classic understatement, that’s not good.

Being the different people we are, Hal’s regrets tend to take on monstrous proportions, while I bat away at mosquitos. Last week we were reflecting on our son David’s latest hiking adventure with his son (our grandson) and remembering all the great father/son things Hal did with David: week-long hikes on the Inca Trail, weekend excursions out on the Bolivian altiplano to visit small country churches, and all the shared activities that took place when Hal became assistant scout master. It was good.

But the one regret that continues to tease his brain—that he didn’t do the same thing for our daughter, Kristin. That regret can even give him a sense of failure as a father when I’m not able to talk him out of it. Actually, it did make Kristin feel bad, although we didn’t know that at the time. But, even more actual, she has forgiven him, helped, I hope, by the memory of all the fun stuff we did together while Hal and David were tramping about.

We had other failures as parents, of course. That comes with the territory. None of us does parenthood perfectly. But by God’s grace, sometimes the kids turn out well anyway. That certainly has happened in our case, and Hal and I keep reminding ourselves of that. And trying to let go of the regrets.

My friend Marcile told me the story of the time when her son was graduating from college and moving to another state for graduate studies. It was a turning point in his life, a leaving-home rite of passage. Marcile’s husband was expressing to their son his regrets at all the things he hadn’t done, including taking the time to pass on his mechanical skills so that Stan could fix his own car.

Stan responded, “Dad! You taught me how to be a friend! I have friends who can fix my car.”

Our regrets can blind us to our truer accomplishments—like passing on values to our children. Thank God for adult children who can set us straight.

I have regrets. Some of these mosquitos are peskier than others. Here’s a sample. I regret—

--that I didn’t keep up my Hebrew language studies or practicing my guitar. My Hebrew has joined the Lost Tribes of Israel, and my guitar skills are best kept private.

--that I never took the opportunity to visit Iguazu Falls, even though we lived just one country away.

--that I never learned how to cook Bolivian food.

--that I never asked my grandparents to tell me the stories of their lives. I was too busy growing up and establishing my own identity. Now they’re gone.

--More seriously, I think of people that, for one reason or another, I deliberately kept at a distance and probably hurt. A failure to love.

One of my tasks in these years is figuring out how to face and resolve my regrets. In some cases, I can actually do something to turn the regret around. I’ve found old journals and letters that are filling in some of the gaps of what I know about my grandparents; I’m writing these down to pass on to my kids. I’m currently taking guitar lessons. I could take a Hebrew class, but I probably won’t. My Bolivian friends have invited me over for some fine Bolivian meals, and I can live with that.

Iguazu Falls, and many other relatively small regrets, are just fading away. That’s what they should do.

In some areas, I’ve needed to ask for, and accept, forgiveness. And then let God’s grace carry the regret away on a Spirit wind. I’m in the process of learning how to do all of this. It doesn’t come automatically.

I love what poet Jarod Anderson wrote:

Our task is to become our truest selves and to smile
at the knowledge we will not succeed.

The key word here is smile. Relax. Let it go. Accept who and where we are now.

And I love the wisdom of Dag Hammarskjold in his journal, Markings, when he prays,

For all that has been, thanks.
For all that will be, yes.

That’s the kind of wisdom I want to grow into.