The Lord’s Prayer for Ukraine

 Many years ago, I learned to pray the Lord’s Prayer specifically. That is, I discovered I could apply the prayer to specific situations, whether that be some troublesome situation in my own life, a crisis in the life of a friend, or something on a larger scale. Sometimes, after watching the evening news, Hal and I take a situation happening somewhere in the world and the bring the words Jesus taught directly to bear on that situation.
 

For Example
This, then, is how you should pray—. —Matthew 6:9

Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name
on the killing fields of Ukraine.
Be glorified, exalted, and acknowledged
in this bloody mess.

Your kingdom come
with its authority and power
to speak the ceasing of war,
the laying down of weapons,
the healing of wounds,
and the restoration of life.

Your will be done
in Ukraine and Russia
just as it is done in heaven.

Give ordinary people
what they need today—
food, shelter, a way to stay warm
in the winter nights,
comfort, hope.

Forgive the sins of the people
on both sides
and cause to rise up a mutual spirit
of repentance, forgiveness,
and reconciliation.

I struggle to pray that you keep
the people of Ukraine from testings
too hard to bear because it seems
they’re already there.
But please bind the wounds of war
and bring it all to an end.

Deliver the people of Ukraine and Russia
from the strategies, attacks, and hatred
of the evil one. Let his plans fail,
his bombs not go off,
military supply lines be broken—
whatever it takes.
Bring him down, Lord.

However and whenever you gain the victory,
yours is, and always will be,
the kingdom, the power, and the glory. Forever.
So be it.

[poem included in Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation]

Does God Have Bones?

“Does God have bones?”
David asked me that today, Lord,
and I couldn’t answer him.
Well—do you?
Have bones I mean.
His question was serious, you know.
He wants to know who and how you are.
And where, too.
And if you’re like us.
I don’t always know.

Bones?
You did have bones once, didn’t you?
Bones and muscles and fingernails
that collected dirt, feet that tired
from miles on dusty roads
and hands that bloodied
from driven nails.
You became like us, didn’t you?

Thank you for reminding me.
Now I know the answer.
Tomorrow I’ll tell David again
that old old story
that even a child can understand.
About a God who filled his lungs
with earth air, tasted bread,
listened to cricket song at night,
held other four-year-olds
on his lap and personally
answered their questions.
About a God who loves so much
he put on bones
and more, much more.

Tomorrow I’ll tell him.

[Note: This poem was first published in the collection “Of Deity and Bones,” 1983.] 

The Stones Talk It Over

 I didn’t post my usual blog yesterday, according to my plan to post every other week. But it just didn’t feel right. So I came up with a new plan. I’ll post my reflections on aging every other week, then on the “off week” I’ll post a poem. I’ve plenty to choose from. I may even give you a sneak preview of my upcoming poetry book, Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation.

So, here goes this week’s poem: 

The Stones Talk It Over
. . . if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out. —Luke 19:40

All was quiet
on the street
and in the city hall.
Why are they silent?
a small rock asked
a boulder.
Why don’t the people
praise God?
Don’t they see
what we do?
Doesn’t the light
from the northern skies
strike wonder,
ignite fire
in their bones
as it does in ours?

Beats me,
said the boulder.
Let’s sing.

 

[This scene is part of the Palm Sunday story when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the donkey and the crowds went wild, proclaiming him king. This angered the Pharisees and they told Jesus to make the crowd quiet down. Jesus replied, “I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” Maybe someday, in the “by-and-by,” we’ll get to hear the stones, along with the trees and the elephants, sing the Hallelujah Chorus. I can’t wait.]

A change of pace and a new book

 I have two announcements. 1) As part of my endeavor to simplify my life and lighten the load, I have decided to post to this blog every other week. I’ve been posting weekly for the last four years. I do it with a sense of ministry and joy, and I’m learning as I go. My purpose has been to explore ways of aging with courage and humor, and exploration is the right word. I’m finding the path even as I walk it. And I’ve been doing it with you. That will continue. I hope you’ll stick with me.

By the way, I invite you to check out my website, if you haven’t already (nancyjthomas.com). You can go directly to my blogs from there. The advantage is that it’s easier to comment if you should wish to. I invite comments and would love to have conversations around the subject of each blog. Think about it.

2) This is the exciting announcement. I have a new poetry book coming out later this year. It’s called Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. The poems center on the life, work, and words of Jesus. I’ve been working on some of them for years. Others are new.

Several years ago, I took on the challenge of meditating, praying, and writing poetry through all the books of the Bible. It hasn’t been an academic exercise and I certainly haven’t had publication in mind. It’s a devotional practice, a form of prayer.

Let me quote from the introduction to the book to give you some of its flavor:

This book of poems begins with a brief prophetic prologue from Isaiah, then covers the words and experiences of Jesus in the four Gospels and the first chapter of Acts. A short epilogue ends in Revelation. . . .

Essentially, the poems are my conversations with God based on Scripture. God graciously give me permission to say anything, get mad with him at times, ask any questions, take him to task, worship him, be amazed. Nothing offends. God can take it. Often the poem ends with an unanswered question and that’s OK. I can wait. We have a back-and-forth relationship. In addition, this way of reading, praying, and writing through the Bible is tremendous fun. . . .

As I ponder the whole story of Jesus, from the Old Testament prophecies, through his time in our neighborhood, and on to end of the story (and its real beginning), I am amazed and blessed. . . . I pray you will experience the same.

Right now I have the galley proofs in hand. That means the publisher (Wipf & Stock) has already type-set the book. I now get to do one last proofreading and then it’s ready to print.

Previously, before sending the completed manuscript to the publisher, I had a professional proofreader meticulously go over it. My friend, Susan Fawver, did the job beautifully, so my task now is not so hard. Nonetheless I’m finding some things in the type-setting to correct. There’s always a chance a typo will sneak in. So I’m reading it slowly out loud, not for the content, but for the nitty-gritty small stuff—consistency, matching the titles in the book to the titles in the table of contents, checking page numbers, re-reading all the Bible references, and so on. It’s hard work, but I’m motivated knowing that the end is in sight and I’ll be able to share the book with the world. With you.

In many ways, the whole process—from the conception of the idea, experiencing the initial excitement, then on to the hard labor—is like giving birth. At this point I’m anxious for the whole thing to be over. I can’t wait to introduce my new child to you.

Psalms of old age

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

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

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

Thirsty
I thirst for you….  Psalm 63:1

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

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

Please, Lord,
make me thirsty for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Celebrating libraries and poetry!

This is National Library Week and I, for one, am celebrating. Established in 1958 by the American Library Association, this is a time to visit, celebrate, and support the contribution libraries make to children, families, serious scholars, and book-lovers of all stripes.

I love libraries. In fact, browsing is my favorite sport. The public library is my favorite civic organization. I love it even better than the executive branch of government, the Supreme Court, and the national military all combined. Imagine that!

As if that were not enough, April is National Poetry Month. Did you know that? Organized in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, it aims to increase appreciation of poetry throughout society.

Actually, I didn’t know about National Poetry Month until I received an invitation from George Fox University to participate in an event to celebrate poetry, local poets in particular. We met in the university library (how appropriate!), in a large space that looked more like a lounge than a library. Very homey. I was one of three local poets invited to discuss poetry as part of a panel and then to read some of our poems. After that, an open mic encouraged people in the audience to come up and read one of their own poems.

Walking to the event, I told Hal I wasn’t sure if many people would show up. I said that even if we shared with ten people, it would be worth it. The space was set up for about 50 people, and I was surprised when the sponsors had to scrounge to bring in more chairs to accommodate the crowd.

We had such fun! For the panel part, the facilitator had a list of five questions and each of us three poets were to respond in turn. The first question was, “What was your first introduction to poetry?” That was easy—my mother and Mother Goose! And when I was two-years-old a great aunt gave me a copy of the poems of Robert Lewis Stevenson. Both books were large with lovely pictures, and my mom read with feeling. She read the same poems over and over and I found myself memorizing them, without even trying:

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!  (etc.)

********

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.  (etc.)

From those times I learned that poetry is play. Playing with words. It was even more fun than playing with dolls.

Speaking of poetry, I am spending a good part of this week in The Writers Cabin at Camp Tilikum, outside of Newberg. The brainchild of Richard Foster, it opened just last year. In fact, I was the first writer-in-residence. I used that occasion to put together a collection of poems on the life of Christ. It’s been a long-time project.

The book was recently accepted for publication by Wipf & Stock Publishers. This week at the cabin, I am dedicating the time to the final formatting of the book before I send it back to the publisher for typesetting. It’s arduous work, but the peace and quiet of the cabin will let me concentrate. Hopefully I’ll be able to write a few new poems as well.

The book is entitled Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. I hope it causes readers to have a fresh perspective on the words, deeds, and significance of the ongoing life of Jesus. It blesses me and I pray it does the same for you.

In the meantime, high praise for libraries and poetry! 

Note: I’m posting this blog early this week because I go the cabin this afternoon, and there is no Internet. Imagine that.

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

Envisioning our final years

In the preliminary section of her book, Ageless Aging, author Maddy Dychtwald encourages the reader to envision how she or he wants the rest of their life to look and feel like. In broad terms, it’s coming to an understanding of purpose. Looking at it as a Christian, we could say it’s discerning God’s direction for our final years.

Just believing that God has a purpose for the final years might be a starting point. It requires faith and hope that something more awaits us than sliding down-hill from this point on. That just sitting in a wheel-chair, binge-watching Netflix, and waiting for the end is not the final chapter.

Considering that you and I actually do have a certain modicum of faith and hope, even as the aging process progresses, Dychtwald has some helpful suggestions. She encourages us to take time to envision what we want our final five, ten, or twenty years to look and feel like.

She quotes DeEtte Sauer (an 80-year-old master swimmer—I hate it when authors use impossible people as examples!) as saying that her ultimate goal is to find her “bliss point” and live there. Sauer writes, “I believe that we have to create a bliss point for aging, and what we want that to feel and look like. That means having stability in spiritual, physical, financial, social, and emotional areas of your life. When those come together, that’s a bliss point.”

The “bliss point” is an interesting idea, but I wonder about her definition. While we do have some choice in growing into spiritual, social, and emotional stability, we can’t always dictate our physical or financial condition. As a person somewhat strapped for cash and suffering with a mysterious chronic physical condition, does that mean satisfaction in the final years is beyond me? I don’t believe that for a moment! Maybe the “bliss point” means being content that who we are and how we live is according to God’s desire for us at this time in life. And that’s good.

The idea of envisioning what we want our final years to look like sounds like a good idea. To some point we may have already been doing that, but taking time to think and pray it through again is helpful.

So I’ve been spending some time in reflection, asking God to bless my imagination as I try to envision my next years. Years ago, I discerned that my mission is life is “to discover and express the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.” (That’s what’s behind this blogging adventure. Aging is certainly part of “the ordinariness of life,” and to do it well requires grace.) I still hold to that mission.

I envision my life purposes, under this mission statement, as falling in the areas of Prayer, Poetry, and People. (I love the letter “p”.) A good friend told me his life goal is “to learn to pray without ceasing.” I’m drawn to that idea, even though it sounds impossible. I am definitely not an expert in Prayer; sometimes I feel like a failure. But it remains a life purpose and I envision myself growing in prayer as I age.

By Poetry, I mean writing in general (poetry is my favorite genre). I envision growing as a writer and keeping it up as long as my mind is operational, hopefully until the day I die.

And by People, I mean forming and maintaining genuine relationships—with my husband, family, friends, the persons God brings into my life. This doesn’t necessarily fall in the realm of a “social life.” I’m not a party or a committee person. I value commitment, good conversation, prayer partners, writing buddies, people who feel free to be themselves around me and with whom I can be real. (We can even safely discuss politics.)

None of this requires accomplishments, measurable objectives (miserable phrase), money, or even robust health (although I wouldn’t mind that one). If I can live out these purposes in my final years, that might well define “bliss” for me.

Your vision will be different than mine. I encourage you to sit in a comfortable chair (and if you go to sleep, it’s OK), cup of coffee (or cocoa or tea or water) in hand, a prayer in your heart, and see what God shows you. 

Favorite books of 2025

This was a good year for reading and, while I can’t mention all the good books I read, I’ve put together a list of my favorites. I’m afraid the list is rather long. If necessary, forgive me. Or not. Some of these books I was able to discuss with members of the book club I belong to, a highlight of each month. In a way, I’m discussing them with you now. Please let me know your favorites from the year.

Fiction

Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (2013): This was one of my favorites, about an ordinary old man who took on an extraordinary task, that of walking the length of England under the belief that this would save his friend from dying. He suffers, makes some strange friends, and reflects on his life.  A book about transformation. I also read the sequels, The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy (2014) and Maureen   (2022).

Rachel Joyce, Miss Benson’s Beetle (2020): Similar to Harold Fry, this story features a frumpy old spinster who has a passion for beetles. She decides to journey to New Caledonia to try and discover the fabled  Golden Beetle. Her quirky traveling companion and the adventures they encounter make this a highly entertaining, and inspiring, book.

Dean Koontz, The Bad Weather Friend (2024): A combination fantasy/suspense novel about Benny Catspaw, a man who is “too nice.” He gets fired from his job, loses his girlfriend, but discovers he has been assigned a craggle, a critter with supernatural powers who is like, but not the same as, a guardian angel. They battle global injustice and try to save the world from destruction. Very entertaining.

Sara Nisha Adams, The Reading List (2021): This very good novel weaves the stories of several people who all mysteriously find a list of books “for whoever needs them.” As people read, some of whom have not before been interested in literature, they come together and their lives are touched for the better. 

Colson Whitehead, The Nickel Boys (2019): This historical novel, a Pulitzer Prize winner, tells the story of the  Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory in Florida, based on a real school that operated for 111 years. It deals with injustice and cruelty, focusing on two boys, one of whom escapes. The story follows him through life as he tries to recover from the trauma. Hard to read, but important.

Jennifer Ryan, The Kitchen Front (2021): I loved this book—even cried at the end. The historical background is England during World War II and a BBC radio show, “The Kitchen Front,” that gave recipes to British housewives using only the rations granted. The story revolves around four women who enter a cooking contest, with prize being co-hosting the radio show.  (I also read The Underground Library, 2024, by the same author, another WWII historical novel of the library set up in an underground shelter in London during the blitz.)

Richard Powers, Playground (2024): Fascinating tale of four people whose lives finally converge on the island of Makatea, on the verge of a decision that will determine its future. The playground is 1) the ocean, the real protagonist of the book—its vastness, beauty, life, and endless variety and 2) a brilliant AI platform named “Playground” that threatens to overpower human intelligence. In a sense the book represents the contest between artificial intelligence, humanity, and the mysteries of nature.

Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer (2000): Takes place in the farms and forests of Southern Appalachia in a humid summer when everything seems to procreating—plants, animals, and complicated human beings. Three intertwined stories of people trying to find their relationship with nature—and with each other.

Linda Sue Part, A Single Shard (2001): This Newbury Award winner is the haunting story of an orphan boy in 12^th century China, homeless and living with an older man who is crippled. The boy, Tree-ear, becomes enchanted with the beautiful celadon pottery and is apprenticed to one of the skilled artists. Shows the boy growing, maturing, taking a great risk, and being rewarded beyond his expectations.

Ariel Lawhon, The Frozen River (2023): A stunning story based on the true history of Martha Ballard, a mid-wife and healer in colonial Maine, 1789. Martha becomes involved in solving a murder mystery, fighting the injustice of men in the town who are leaders and oppressors. I loved it for the view of colonial life; a midwife’s profession; the brave, intelligent, honest heroine; and the portrayal of a good marriage. A bit of brutality, but the topic was brutal and the author did not fudge. Or exaggerate.

Marie Benedict, The Mitford Affair (2023): Historical novel based on the Mitford sisters in upper society London in the years leading up to WWII. Two of the sisters become fascists, even being drawn into Hitler’s inner circle. The political and the personal intertwine when another of the sisters has to made a decision between family and country.

Marie Benedict, The Queens of Crime (2025): Incredibly clever plot has a group of female crime writers join to solve a real crime and thus prove their worth to the male writers who don’t give them their due respect. The leader of the group is Dorothy Sayers and her cohort is Agatha Christie, which makes the book especially fun to read.

 

Non-Fiction

John Simpson, The Word Detective: Searching for the Meaning of It All in the Oxford English Dictionary: A Memoir (2016): Simpson spent over four decades working for the OED, the last 20 of those years as Chief Editor. He relates the later history of the OED, from 1976 to 2013, including its breakthrough into the age of the Internet, making it accessible to the masses (me) as never before.

Alistar McGrath, C.S. Lewis: A Life (2013): Best biography of Lewis I’ve read. Learned a lot about his relationship with Mrs. Moore, his response to the war (refusing to deal with it), his relationship to Tolkien, the conflicts with Oxford, and his relationship with Joy. A treasure.

Connie Dawson, John Wimber: His Life and Ministry (2021): I learned a lot of details about his life, and especially his struggles and the attacks against him. The book summarized the tremendous influence of his life on the church.

Carolyn Maull McKinstry While the World Watched: A Birmingham Bombing Survivor Comes of Age during the Civil Rights Movement (2011): The author was a child and a member of the Birmingham Sixteenth Street Baptist Church that was bombed on Sept. 15, 1963. She tells the story of her experience, with background of the whole civil rights movement especially in Alabama. She details aftermath of the bombing, how it affected the country and how it affected her. Excellent resource for understanding the suffering from the black point of view.

Claire Hoffman, Sister, Sinner: The Miraculous Life and Mysterious Disappearance of Aimee Semple McPherson (2025): An incredible history and a well-documented book. Tracks her rise to fame as a powerful Spirit-filled preacher and evangelist, to the point where her crusades attracted thousands. Her mysterious disappearance in 1926 and later strange reappearance sparked controversy and court cases that drug on for several years and tarnished her reputation. Good book about a complex person.

Bianca Bosker, Get the Picture: a mind-bending journey among the inspired artists and obsession art fiends who taught me how to see (2024): Bosker, a journalist, decides to dive into the contemporary art scene in NYC, trying to understand the art, and why art in general matters. Has incredible experiences in the five years she ends up spending there. In some ways it reads like an anthropological case study. Fascinating.

Safiya Sinclair, How To Say Babylon: A Memoir (2023): One of the best books I’ve read this year. Sinclair tells of growing up in the Rastafarian sect in Jamaica, a “communistic Christian commune.” Learning about the sect was fascinating, but Sinclair’s personal story griped me more. In this male dominated culture, with the father as autocrat, she was abused into believing she had no worth. This is the story of her coming to discover her identity and rise to become a recognized writer and poet. A tribute to the human spirit.

Kristin Gault, The Way We Walked: Friendship, Faith and the Camino de Santiago (2025): the book chronicles the walk Kristin (my daughter) and her friend Heather took on the famous Camino de Santiago, starting in mid-Portugal and following the coast up to the northern Spanish city of Santiago, with its famous cathedral. Details the challenges the women faced—physical, mental, spiritual— the transformation it worked, and the satisfaction on reaching the goal. Interesting description, with lots of humor, as well as inspiration.

Poetry

Nancy Thomas, editor, An Arc of Grace: selections by Quaker poets of the Pacific Northwest (2026): Maybe putting this book on the list is cheating because it isn’t published yet. But I spent a good part of the year with the poems of 14 good Quaker poets, and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The book includes black-and-white photos of various Quaker photographers to match the mood of the poems. Prepare to purchase! And enjoy!

Note: I am posting this blog from a hospital bed! Much to my surprise! (Do you see how devoted I am to keeping up on my blog?) Fortunately I wrote it yesterday.

Even leopards give thanks

Yesterday in church we listened to the story of Jesus healing the ten lepers two times. Not that he healed the lepers twice. We heard the story twice, once in Sunday school, and then again in church.

That makes sense. It’s an appropriate story for Thanksgiving week. Ten lepers healed, but only one came back to say “Thank you.” Of course we were then admonished to be that one, not only on Thanksgiving Day, but everyday. To make gratitude a habit. Good advice, healthy for the body as well as the soul.

That story has special meaning to me. Years ago, in a Sunday school, the leader was teaching on the miracles of Jesus. For such an uplifting subject, the class was remarkably boring. The teacher, a good friend, was a college professor in lecture mode, droning on and on. At one point he was reading off a list of all the miracles recorded in the Gospels. I had drifted off when, on the borders of consciousness, I heard him mention the healing of the ten leopards.

That caught my attention. Instantly my imagination went into full gear and I saw an African savannah with leopards and other wild beasts. Jesus was walking among them, having mercy on their conditions.

Then class was over and we filed into the sanctuary for the worship service. I wrote the following poem in the margins of the church bulletin:

The Cleansing

And it came about that Jesus, King, was passing
through the grass lands of Burundi and as he
entered a village ten leopards approached,

slinking between the huts, pad-padding down
the paths on great pudding feet,
ten shadow beasts brought low by mange and

malice came near and said to the King of Cats, 
O Master, Jesus, have mercy on us,
we know if you will you can make us clean,

heal our hide, sharpen our claws, restore our
terror names, and Jesus, Beast, said,
I will, be clean, and straightway the ten

leopards were healed and with leaps and holy
yowls they departed, but one, when he saw
he was healed, returned and crouching purred

his praise, a gravelly grace song, and Jesus,
Cat, twitched his tail
while all the skies of Africa sang.

While the poem was playful, it also turned out to be true. Christ is called the Lion of Judah in the Old Testament and in the book of Revelation. My slip-of-the-ear and the consequent vision presented me with a different perspective on the Gospel. A picture of a cosmic healing Christ who we’ll never be able to completely understand. And a new view of gratitude. I saw a bigger picture of grace and goodness abroad in the world. Writing poems sometimes does that to me.

As we focus on thanksgiving this week, let’s ask for a bigger vision of God and of the grace and goodness of God in our lives, no matter what is going on personally and in the world at large. Let’s be thankful.

If a leopard—or a leper—can express gratitude, so can I.

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.

The irrelevance of death

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

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

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

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

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

I need not be afraid.

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

 

September 29
(The Feast of the Archangels)

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

Worn out, but waiting

St. Paul has some interesting metaphors for old age and old bodies in 2 Corinthians 5:1-9. He describes an old body as an old tent that is gradually being destroyed. I understand that metaphor. We have a two-person camping tent that is well used and very hospitable; it freely invites the rain to come in. I understand it also in terms of a body whose cloth is wrinkling, actually threadbare in parts. The patches don’t really disguise it.

In contrast to this old fragile tent, Paul tells us we will someday be clothed in a heavenly building. That’s a bit harder to imagine. How does one wear a house, no matter how beautiful? I guess it’s symbolic for comfortable and just right for us. Paul goes on to say that our groaning aching mortal bodies will be swallowed up by Life. That’s another metaphor than stretches the imagination. And finally, Paul says that dying means “being away from the body and at home with the Lord.”

I deal with metaphor through poetry. So here are some poems that play with these different images and somehow stoke my hope that, whatever happens, all will be well.

Mixed Metaphor
…we groan, longing to be clothed … with our heavenly building…. (2 Corinthians 5:2)

How can one be clothed with a building?
How can a tent or a mansion drape our bodies
like wool or linen? Does homeless mean naked?
A canvas tent tearing at the seams, breaking apart
with time. An eternal house in heaven,
built of sterner stuff. How do these fit our bodies?
Expose or adorn us?
How does one wear a house?


Worn-out
While we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

Groans and burdens aptly describe old age.
My tent has become threadbare with time and trauma.
Soon nurses will expose me, wipe me, wash me
as I silently lament my nakedness.
No one wishes to be unclothed.
So I groan and long for home.
For my new body.
For my new clothes.


Perfect Fit
… to be clothed … with our heavenly dwelling. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I look forward
to putting on my new house.
The outside walls, of some strong flexible fabric,
fold my body in heavenly comfort.
I don’t worry about curbside appeal
for the beauty is obvious.
The door is sturdy redwood
and always open.
A wall of windows lets in light
and more colors than I knew existed.
No need of artificial electricity,
and the plumbing works
though the pipes are invisible.
Living water is instantly and eternally available.
My house clothes me well, blesses my body.
A perfect fit.

Swallowed
… what is mortal [will] be swallowed up by life…. (2 Corinthians 5:4)

I can hardly imagine.
These skinny legs, wrinkled hands,
broken promises and disappointments
will one day face the wide open
mouth of Life.
One huge slurp and mortality dissolves.
Swallowed up.
What happens next?
Like I said, I can hardly imagine.

The Reason?
… as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. (2 Corinthians 5:6)

Is old age God’s way of preparing us for heaven?
As digestion becomes complicated
and we labor to take each breath,
as we go from cane to walker to wheelchair,
saying we’re not at home in our body
is understatement. Our bodies become strangers
and no prayer delivers from this dis-ease.
We’re ready to move on.


Now
Now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation. (2 Corinthians 6:2)

Good morning, world.
Here I am, ready to go,
ready to stay, ready to leap
over a wall, ready to find a shovel,
dig a while and crawl under that wall.
I’ll find a way.
I’ll be the way.
Today is the day.
With nothing on my schedule,
I know without a doubt
my time has come. 

Just a tweak

 I’m a fan of traditional western medicine for the most part, but I’m also open to the healing insights of other traditions. I’ve even ministered in the area of inner emotional healing. This past week I experienced another type of non-traditional healing work.

Hal and I spent the week with our daughter Kristin and her family in their home in the forest. Kristin and David (our son) had gifted me with four sessions with a practitioner in natural medicine. This woman is a Christian with a gift in healing and training in massage and in the alleviation of allergies through muscle testing. Kristin had found relief from her headaches under the care of this woman. The kids thought she might help me with my vestibular migraines. I’m open to any help I can get. It was a generous and loving gift.

It was an interesting experience and I’m still processing it. (One of my processing strategies is writing—so you’re helping me right now as I write.) The first session included an hour-long massage that was delicious, followed by muscle testing during which my body told her that the emotion of pity was blocking my healing. What she meant by pity was inappropriate or excessive compassion. I thought of my deep reactions to the suffering in Gaza or the trauma currently faced by immigrants in my own country. In response, she had me hold a jar containing some substance related to pity while she did some pounding/rolling work on my back. She explained she was retraining the nerves in my body so they would respond in more wholesome ways. I didn’t, and still don’t, understand it, but I had told myself ahead of time to be open and just let God work anyway he wanted to. I left the session feeling a deep peace.

During the second session the woman led me in a time of inner healing concerning traumatic events that took place over nine years ago, around the time my dizziness and head pressure were beginning to trouble me. It was very revealing. I know that we are whole creatures, that body, mind, and emotions interact. I thought that I had already made peace with the events, all concerning conflicts in my faith community. But apparently I still had some healing work to do. Or have done to me, as she again gave me a vial to hold while she worked on my back and prayed.

In the following two sessions, my body “told” her that it doesn’t metabolize proteins like it should and that it has problems with heavy metals. The information about proteins especially fascinated me as I know that protein imbalance is a recognized problem in all kinds of migraines. The exercises with holding different vials and her work on my back were to reorient my bodily systems and help them function correctly. So mysterious.

Like I said, I may be baffled but I’m holding my heart open to healing from any source of light. I do feel a great sense of peace and lightness since the treatments, although the dizziness and head pressure haven’t noticeably reduced. I’ve been told before that my rational left-brain and my intuitive right-brain are well balanced. In other words, I’m able to hold doubt and belief together and just wait to see what happens. I’m ok with weird.

I believe in what my traditional doctor is doing, in the medicines she’s experimenting with. And I certainly believe in prayer. I’m also open to the possibility that this condition might be like St. Paul’s “thorn in the flesh,” something God is letting me live with for his own purposes. More mystery.

Back to prayer, here’s a prayer/poem I wrote a year ago. It’s in the form of a conversion between me and God.

Just a Tweak

    Yes, Lord. It’s me again,
    here in this new day.

Good morning, dear one. Well come.
What can I do for you today?

    Thanks for asking. (Even though
    you already know the answer,
    your courtesy encourages me.)
    And thank you for this awesome
    body/mind/spirit.
    I am wonder-full at how
    wonderfully and fearfully
    I am made.

    But since you asked,
    could you just tweak
    this body a little?
    I know I’m growing older
    and that a bit of wear ’n tear is natural,
    but is this particular malfunction
    really necessary?
    Just a tweak, God. That’s all I’m asking.
    You can do it if you want to.

I want.

    Okay, then. That’s what I’m asking for.
    Here, let me sing my prayer to you.

    Have mercy on me and heal me.
    Set me feet upon a rock.
    Put a new song in my heart.
    O Lord, have mercy on me.

Okay. But you’ll have to let me do this
my way, in my time.

    Yes, God. My times are in your hands.
    I’ll wait.
    And in the meantime
    I thank you for your grace
    and your artistry in making me.
    And I anticipate the tweak.

    Amen.

You Are Old, Father William

When my friend Harriet was in the last months of her life (at 104 years old!), I continued our practice of reading books aloud. The last one we read was Alice in Wonderland and, when Harriet had not fallen asleep, she laughed along with me.

We especially enjoyed the silly poems, one of which, “You Are Old, Father William,” I have copied below. Like all Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poems, there’s a lot of sense hiding in the background. This poem features the contest between young and old, the young being the son who is scolding his father for inappropriate behavior. The son is a bit of a know-it-all but the father doesn’t let it affect him.

You Are Old, Father William
By Lewis Carroll

 "You are old, father William," the young man said,
    "And your hair has become very white;
  And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

  "In my youth," father William replied to his son,
    "I feared it would injure the brain;
  But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again."

  "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
  Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door —
    Pray, what is the reason of that?"

  "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    "I kept all my limbs very supple
  By the use of this ointment — one shilling the box —
    Allow me to sell you a couple."

  "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
  Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak —
    Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

  "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
  And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life."

  "You are old," said the youth; one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
  Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose —
    What made you so awfully clever?"

  "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
    Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
  Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

I like this poem because of the way it pokes fun of the social expectations of what is appropriate behavior and appearance for old people. Maybe this was truer in the Victorian era when Carroll wrote his books, but the pressures exist today too. I resist conforming to the stereotypical images of “old lady” or “old man” and I know many of you do too. While I don’t intend to try back-somersaults or balancing an eel on my nose, I hope my actions and appearance can at least reflect a young spirit.

Way to go, Father William!