Limitations, loss--and future gain

No one likes to be called a quitter. Nasty word, quitter. I’ve never seen myself as a quitter, although I do have some dark memories of times I just gave up. But mostly I pushed through the darkness and found a way.

That’s changing as I age, and I don’t like it. I would rather expand that be pulled back by limitations. But it seems that knowing and accepting our limitations is the new name of this game called growing older.

For some time now my body has been telling me to slow down. Chronic dizziness and fatigue have made some of the leadership roles I’ve loved seem more like burdens than joys. Recently I gave up leadership in a Sunday class I love; serving in the capacity of class coordinator was life-giving and I felt as though I were making a contribution. But when something that once was light starts becoming heavy, you know it’s time to let go and let other people step in. So I did. But not without a tinge of grief.

And now I’m in the process of finding someone else to edit the community journal I began some nine years ago. It’s become a way for people in this retirement community to tell their stories and I’ve loved being part of the group that puts this together once a quarter. But, again, my spirit tells me it’s time to let go.

Our plot in the community garden, my guitar and ambitions of becoming a classical guitarist (foolish, considering I have no music gene in my DNA)—these are other things I’m giving up. It’s time.

All of this makes me wonder if I’m losing my voice, along with my active roles. Will I now just melt into the background, become dimmer and dimmer until nobody even remembers my name?

Now that’s pathetic. It’s me at my worse, and I don’t always grovel at that level. Actually, I get hints that letting all this float up off my shoulders might in some way free my spirit to focus on the things that matter most. I hope that’s true.

I had a strange dream the other night. I still remember it, so that tells me to pay attention. In the dream Hal died (the worse part of the dream) and the rest of the dream focused on how I expressed my grief. In short, I went mute. I stopped talking. I lost language. With family members or in groups of people, I made myself melt into the background. In time, people seemed to accept it.

One night, still in my dream, I was with a small group of close friends and people were sharing their prayer requests. I sat and listened, mute as usual. But then as we went into a time of prayer, my tongue was loosed. I began praying for my friends, out loud, with wisdom and discernment. With compassion. It surprised everyone, myself included.

Then I woke up.

As I’ve been processing the dream, I’ve decided it was not prophetic. I’ve not been given a warning that Hal will soon die, although I know we’ll both die someday. And it’s not telling me that when all else fails, pray. No. I think it’s about facing loss and letting myself grieve the losses, even if that means a time of silence to sit with the absences. But there is something good on the other side, something I can do well and that will give meaning in this time of life.

I believe that. In fact, I do want to learn how to pray better and how to settle into more fruitful times of worship and intercession. I want to learn how to do silence and contemplation better (meaning more than five minutes at a stretch). I’m making time for this.

I now have more time for writing; I’ve still got poems to write, stories to tell, memories to mine. And I’m fulfilling my hope of refreshing my ability to read the New Testament in Greek. I’ve lost a lot since my seminary days, but it’s coming back little by little. And it’s lots of fun.

And then there’s people time, of course. More time for long conversations, for reading books and talking about them with other book-lovers, for just being with the people I love.

As often happens when I write this blog, I’m processing my situation and coming to a place of hope. Journeying from negative to positive. From grief to joy. I haven’t arrived yet, at least not consistently, but I feel better about it all. I hope you also find yourself encouraged.

On growing up

 A few years ago (quite a few years!), my eight-year-old son asked me, “Mommy, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I don’t remember my answer, but I do remember thinking how perceptive his question was.

I recall as a child standing in a forest of legs and looking up in wonder at those tall, strong, all-knowing creatures above me. Or sitting, largely ignored, in a room of conversing adults, recognizing some of the words, but not having the slightest idea what they were talking about. It was as though they were all members of an exclusive club with its own private language and passwords. They all seemed to know who they were and what to do at all times. I, only a child, didn’t have a clue.

But even then, I believed that someday I would be one of Them. Someday I would cross the magic line into adulthood, and then I’d be able to stay up as late as I wanted, drink coffee, know which fork to use, be my own boss, and have my own kids. I’d understand the language and, finally, know what it was they were laughing about.

Time passed, as time has a habit of doing. I finally made it to 40, but I never did sense the crossing of a line into adulthood. I continued to wonder if I was a genuine member of the Club. Oh, yes, I could now stay up very late if I wanted (which I usually didn’t), and enjoy my coffee every morning. I learned the language somewhat, so, in a sense I was IN. But not very far in. I still had unanswered questions, insecurities, even, at times, fears. Different fears to be sure. Grown-up fears. But the feelings were surprisingly similar to the childish ones. I still liked poetry, flying kites, and licking the bowl after baking cookies. 

Again, time passed and I found myself approaching another line. The magic line from adulthood to old age. I realized that old people were still adults, but adults of a different kind. Modified adults. As we passed through our 60s and early 70s, Hal and I would often ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” Mostly our answer was “Not yet.” Or “Not quite.”

We no longer ask that question, although I have no memory of crossing a magic line.

But here we are. We’ve arrived. I find that I like poetry more than ever, could stay up late if I wanted (which I still don’t), struggle to limit the cups of coffee I drink every morning, don’t care about which fork, and am content with using the words I’ve been given.

I’m happy to announce that there is no official language called Old. There are stereotypical issues older people seem to discuss. I’ve heard it said that when two or more senior citizens get together, they harmonize in giving an organ concert. I guess it’s natural that we talk about age-specific concerns which involve the kinds of physical deterioration we face, the health care we receive, and the end-of-life arrangements we need to make.

But that’s not all. In the past week I’ve participated in long conversations on how best to plant marigolds, reforestation in the Olympic National Forest, a comparison between free verse and traditional rhyming poems, and how God makes our suffering holy. I especially love drawing out the life stories of my neighbors, discovering what remarkable lives they’ve lived and the contributions they’ve made. Stimulating conversation is alive and well in this community.

In many ways I’m still a child. It’s been a while since I’ve flown a kite, but I think I would still enjoy it (as long as I didn’t have to run). I know that I’ve still got a lot to learn, and I thrive in the search. I still have a lot of unanswered questions, but I’ve learned to love the questions and to keep asking in faith that one day I will know.

Jesus tells us that in order to enter the Kingdom of God, we need to become as little children. I love that. The Apostle Peter also tells us to keep growing up in grace and knowledge. I guess it’s a life time prospect. Simultaneously being a child and growing up.

But I still cherish the hope that someday I will at last know that I’m doing.