Not My Problem

 Garrison Keillor almost always makes me laugh. I love the way he tells the funniest stories with his deadpan, bored face. I can’t do that. If I come up with something funny, I start laughing way before the punchline. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. I’d never make the grade as a standup comedian.

Keillor recently came up with a new book, Serenity at 70, Gaiety at 80: Why you should keep on getting older (2021). Needless to say, it’s funny.

In the Preface, he introduces the idea of “It’s Not My Problem.” Each morning he wakes up when he wakes up and ambles down to the kitchen, no longer “on a tight schedule or under close supervision…. I look at the front page of the paper and think, ‘Not My Problem.’” He considers the conflict between those who insist on vaccinations and those who vehemently resist, and smiles. Not My Problem. Freighters detained on the docks, straining the supply of goods to the populace. NMP. Climate change, immigrants sneaking across the border, protest marches, problems at his former place of employment, squabbles among his adult offspring. To all of the above (including a few additions to his list), Keillor says, “Goody goody gumdrops, though it is NMP.”

I suspect (hope) that most of this is tongue-in-cheek, for the sake of a laugh. Or for us to figure out that his real stance is hiding behind the clever words.

For us retired people, maybe “Not My Problem” is the right idea. When we were young and ambitious, wanting to change the world (or get rich), multi-tasking was the way to do it, stress and pinched nerves often a by-product. Everything was Our Problem. But that has passed away, presumably. This is the time to rest, write our memoirs, and go on cruises.

Maybe.

With my own adult children or grandchildren, there’s no way I’m able to say “Not My Problem.” When one of them suffers, I wake up in the middle of the night and try to pray away my anguish. It’s often best to stand back, pretend it’s NMP, and let them work it out themselves as independent adults. Except if they come to me for advice, which is happening less and less.

On a global scale, many of my friends say they no longer watch the news on TV. It’s all too negative, violent, and biased. There’s no way to know the truth what with all the infamous “fake news.” Hal and I disagree and nightly watch a news program we feel is relatively objective, “relatively” being the key term here. We take seriously our responsibility to be informed and pray over the world. But, truth be told, we wonder if there’s anything we can actually do about the different crises. Anything that would make a difference.

I know. Prayer is the most important thing I can do, and I think I believe that. But still I battle this restlessness, a sense of need to do something more to relieve the situation.

Take the ongoing war in the Ukraine. The images of bombed out towns, Ukrainian refugees trying to find shelter, Russian citizens protesting in the streets and being arrested, all of it is horrific. I feel so protected here in this comfortable retirement community, isolated from the world.

Take Russia’s threat of a nuclear response. With an unpredictable and immoral person like Putin in control, no one can take this threat lightly. No one, wherever they live and whatever their age, should say “Not My Problem.” It could become a problem with serious consequences for the world.

Again the question, what can we do? Hal and I are exploring the options, asking God for wisdom. One important action is honest discussion of this and other points of crisis, discussion right here in our community. It would be helpful to explore the what-to-do question together.

St. Paul admonishes Christians to “not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Philippians 4:6). That’s often hard for me to do, but I consider it the way of wisdom. I also think that this does not indorse a “Not My Problem” stance, even among the retired. It does not obliterate our responsibility as children of the Kingdom of God to cooperate in God’s mission to be peacemakers and stewards over creation. It does not erase our need to keep asking, “What can we do?”

I need more insight and discernment. Maybe you do, too. When is “Not My Problem” the correct way to think as we rest into these latter years? And when do we stretch ourselves, ask for strength, and join forces with others to bless and heal our world?

  

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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. 

Definitely probably

 I was walking out to my car when I crossed paths with a resident and a young man in earnest conversation. It looked like a grandma and her grandson. I caught just a whisp of their conversation as the young man said, “I definitely probably will go there.”

I had to chuckle, wondering if the guy realized he had just canceled out any certainty of going “there” (a graduate school?). Can anything happen definitely probably?

Well, maybe. Maybe he meant that this particular university was definitely an option and that he’d probably choose it. Maybe that’s what he meant. But probably not.

That’s just the way people talk, without much thought to the meanings of words or to the logic of their combinations.

On the other hand, there’s something appealing about “definitely probably.” Opposites often marry, with interesting results. The staunch firmness of “definitely” plus the wishy-washy sense of “probably” add up to an ambivalence that is characteristic of life.

I’m frequently always ambivalent. Sometimes I’m certain of something, but not sure it applies to me. Something can be absolutely true, but a bit iffy at the same time.

Example: when I was young, I understood that all people eventually grow old. I loved my grandparents. I noticed old people in the city park sitting on benches and wondered what they did when they were not in the park. As for me, old age would probably happen, but I couldn’t picture it or even really believe it applied to me.

Well. Happy birthday to me. As I write this, I have just turned 77 years old. Definitely.

But even now, I have a list of definite probables. Here’s a sample:

--I definitely probably will, sort of, keep getting older.

--I rather imagine my body will rebel in ways I can’t now imagine.

--It’s a possibility that a park bench will become more and more attractive.

--It’s definitely probable that I might become a widow someday.

--Death, of course, is the ultimate definite probability.

And yet….

Choose life, the Scriptures tell us (Deuteronomy 30:19-20). Whatever age you are, Choose life!

I have a choice to get out of bed every morning and either groan or say, Yes! I thank you, God, for most this amazing day! (Thank you, ee cummings.) I can choose to eat an orange, exercise to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (or just one of them), hug Hal, write a poem, hug a tree, or sing (as long as no one else is around).

On bad days, I don’t do any of this. But even then, that’s a choice I make.

Today I’m 77 and I choose life. I may even remind my kids that it’s my birthday. And I will thank God that Hal remembers. (I reminded him last week.) I will thank God for the definites and trust him for the probables.

It’s looking like a good day.

Too many funerals

 A memorial table stands in the lobby of the retirement community’s main building. It’s next to a large grandfather clock that chimes the passing of time, an appropriate reminder for all us aging residents.

I pass the table every day when I leave the building, and I always stop to see whose photo has been newly placed there. That’s how we find out who has died during the night or in the past few days. In a community of over 400 residents, there are usually a few photos on the table. Sometimes more. Death is a presence in this place, the shadow beneath the trees.

In the past four days I have attended three memorial services. That’s too many. In spite of my being a believer in Jesus and in life beyond the grave, my spirit is heavy this morning. I acknowledge, along with the Apostle Paul, that death is an enemy.

Paul also says that while we grieve, we don’t grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13), and I witnessed that in all three services. I guess that’s why we now call them “memorial services” or “celebrations of a life,” rather than funerals. Even so, I still sense death as an enemy and I can’t shake the sadness I feel.

The service on Saturday celebrated the life of one of the residents of this community, a man in his eighties who had lived a full and rich life, who had given himself away in ministry to others. His wife is my close friend. Many people attended and we did, indeed, celebrate this life. One of the speakers said, “It’s easier to face grief when the loved one has lived a sweet life, a beautiful life of service.” A sweet life. In this case, that was certainly true. Listening to the testimonies of his wife and kids, hearing a summary of his passions and contributions, I felt privileged to have known this man. It seemed like he had fulfilled his life purpose. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of thy Lord.”

But now comes the time for my friend to feel the absence of someone who shared her life for over 50 years. Gratitude will mix with grief, and I know she will face both with maturity. She will have people who accompany her, as well as times of silence, alone before God. Not an easy road.

Sunday’s memorial service was similar, but also very different. We were celebrating the life of our nephew Josh who died at age 43, after a six-month painful bout with cancer. Josh leaves a pregnant wife and ten children between the ages of 4 and 20, all of whom live at home.

The service was similar in that it was upbeat and definitely celebratory. The sanctuary was packed, with late-comers watching on a screen in the fellowship hall. I’m not sure the word death was even used as people talked about how inspirational Josh’s short life had been. The service went on for two and one-half hours, and I counted 14 mini-sermons. None of the people assigned to give a two-minute testimonial could contain themselves. I especially was moved by the words of his sister and his wife (who only spoke because Josh had asked her to before he died). But I confess, I was beginning to squirm and look at my watch.

The reception afterwards was noisy as people greeted one another, ate together, and laughed. Josh’s wife, children, and parents were all warm and grateful for our presence, their good cheer giving evidence of their belief that Josh now lives in the presence of Jesus. But it all seemed bittersweet to me. The way forward for Josh’s young family will be challenging, to say the least, and they will need (and have) many to walk alongside. Again, not an easy road.

And then I remember the service that took place last Thursday before the other two. It followed a surprise death. The previous weekend, we got one of those dreaded middle-of-the-night phone calls. It was a dear friend, Felix, calling from Bolivia telling us that his daughter Orfa (our god-daughter) was eight hours into a heart surgery that was supposed to have taken four hours. Felix was crying, asking us to pray. For the next three days, that’s what we did. We talked with Felix and his wife Clemi two or three times each day. Orfa died early Wednesday morning.

As is the custom (and law) in Bolivia, a memorial service was held in the church that very day (longer even then Josh’s service), and people were permitted to weep and publicly mourn, also a Bolivian custom, even among Christians. The burial service took place the next day, and Felix loaned his phone to someone who recorded it on WhatsApp. So, we were able to “be there” in real time. A Christian band accompanied people as they sang hymns. A few family members spoke over the grave, included Orfa’s husband. While there were no weeping and wailing, both sorrow and hope covered the event.

We were there 45 years ago when Orfa was born. We helped dedicate her to God in a church service. We have accompanied her (sometimes long distance) through her growing up years, rejoiced with the family when she received her doctorate in pharmacology, and were delighted to meet her husband, also a medical doctor. As young professionals, their future seemed bright.

Am I wrong to consider the deaths of Josh and Orfa as tragic? In no way can I believe that these deaths were God’s will, as some might say. The belief that anything that happens to a Christian is God’s will came into the church with Augustine in the 4^th century A.D., and this doctrine is debated by many as heresy. I would agree. We live in a world where spiritual battle is real and, because God gives people free will, sometimes evil triumphs. And sometimes God intervenes; we call it a miracle.

While not everything that happens is God’s will, we believe that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 12:28). Evil does not have the last word. Death does not have the last word. God does.

I don’t intend to get too theological here, but another thing I wonder is if maybe lament and mourning shouldn’t be part of our public memorials. While celebration and hope are real values, so are pain and sadness. Is it necessarily right that we rejoice in public but weep alone?

I wonder a lot of things, especially when my heart is heavy.

Finding God's heart in a garden

I visited the annual garden fair last week and was amazed at the beauty and variety, all artistically arranged on display tables. The many kinds of roses always delight, of course, but the onions, tomatoes and mega-zucchinis were not playing second fiddle! The four-foot-long yellow zucchini was given the scientific name “Lady Zucchino Ramicante, the Queen of Italy.” (Surely you jest.) I took a photo of Tonna carrying an eight-day-old giant zucchini as if it were a four-month-old baby. Her baby, of course. A Can-you-guess-the-weight-of-this-onion?-contest offered an enticing prize of—I can’t remember what—probably a bag of onions. I loved chatting with the gardeners as they stood by their products, proudly telling me about dirt, seeds, weeds, and the joy of gardening.

This garden fair is sponsored each year by the garden activity group, one of the many options for involvement here in the retirement community. The main responsibility of this activity group is the maintenance of the large community garden. Any resident who wishes can have his or her own plot. Paths between the plots let all of us enjoy the flowers, vegetables, and berries.

Not only we residents, but numerous beasts enjoy the garden. Early this morning, a squirrel darted across my path with a large lettuce leave in its mouth. More serious than this minor theft, a few years back a family of deer discovered the garden and began helping themselves daily to leaves, flowers, and veggies, an abundance to meet their needs. No matter how beautiful the deer, the gardeners did not appreciate this criminal invasion of property rights. They instituted a drive for funds to enclose the whole garden in a deer-proof fence, which meant it had to be high and properly angled.

The fund-drive was successful, although no one really wanted a fence. But an attractive black chain-link did the trick, and now it’s only squirrels and birds we worry about. (And no one worries about them much.)

My friend Milli is 93 years old and now walks slowly with the aid of a walker. Even so, there’s no way she’s going to give up her garden plot. She goes out to her garden every day, some days just for the exercise of getting there and back, with a rest in her garden chair in the middle. She considers it therapy. She tells me, “It makes me feel better being out in God’s green earth. My garden makes me think of resurrection and new life. It’s like the tiny poppy seed that becomes such a huge bright flower.” When I ask how long she plans to keep up her plot, she responds, “God only knows.”

I asked the chair of the garden club, Darolen, about the requirements for owning a plot. The guidelines are simple and include keeping one’s plot well groomed (weeds can spread to other plots), not growing tall plants (so as not to shade other plots—although I have spotted some criminal sunflowers), and basically “doing unto the other gardeners as you want them to do unto you.”

I must confess that Hal and I do not have a plot. When we joined the retirement community in 2016, we were still traveling a lot for a research project and knew we could not keep up with garden maintenance. At least that was the reason we gave. Now we’re reconsidering, wondering if we have the energy any commitment might require. But then again, maybe committing to a garden at this point in our lives would be choosing life.

I remember a poem I memorized as a child. It goes,

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
(Dorothy Frances Gurney)

A nice thought, but I’m not sure about the than anywhere else on earth part. I’m a wilderness person myself and prefer making my own path as I go. But I admit that I sense the presence of God in this community garden, especially in the early morning. Somehow the beauty of nature opens one’s heart. And probably working together in the dirt, and seeing the results come spring and summer, would be life-giving for us

I think we’ll give it a try.

Dangerous women, dangerous books

 I recently ran across a quote claiming that older women who love books and who were born in the month of September are extremely dangerous. The actual quote is more memorable than this paraphrase, but unfortunately, I have this habit of writing interesting things on little pieces of paper and then, of course, not being able to find them. When I run across the real quote, I’ll send it your way.

It is now September and I was, indeed, born in this month. And I have loved books since before I was born, when my mother read to me in utero. I’m not sure about the dangerous part. You can decide that.

One of the rituals of aging is the difficult and much maligned task of downsizing. For Hal and me that primarily meant paring down our library, books we spent a life-time collecting. Before moving here to the retirement community, we actually found new homes for about two-thirds of our books. Yet we still have five bookcases, plus shelves above our desks, here in our two-room apartment. Clearly, we’re not finished with our task.

So, little by little, I’m deciding which books to give our kids (who don’t necessarily want them), which to donate to the community library, and which go to Goodwill (our last choice).

And I’m also determining which books are keepers. These are the books I really do re-read. Or books with such an emotional tie that I would feel pain at losing them.

I’ve decided to share a small part of my “keeper” collection with you, since many of you are also book lovers (whatever month you were born in).

--I’m keeping a dictionary. Not Webster’s (I’m keeping that too, for practical purposes—I’m a poor speller). This is a book I discovered while browsing in a Pasadena bookstore years ago. It’s called Mrs. Byrne’s Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure, and Preposterous Words (Josefa Heifetz Byrne). I’m a word-lover, and this book has given me much delight. Here’s a sampling: adoxography means “good writing on a trivial subject” (something to avoid); grammatolatry means “worship of words or letters” (is love the same as worship?); metrophobia, “hatred or fear of poetry” (dangerous stuff, that poetry); moanworthy, “lamentable, pitiful”; resurrectionist, “a body snatcher or grave robber”; and swelp, a perennial complainer (from “so help” me, God). You can see why I don’t want to give up this book.

--The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoevsky), the 1946 Heritage Club hardback edition. This comes from my parents’ Heritage collection, and this particular edition contains 46 full-page lithographs by the German Quaker artist, Fritz Eichenberg. The art is wonderful and captures the haunting Russian mood of the book. Plus, this is a book I read and re-read, partly because it’s too difficult to capture in one reading. I love the psychological study of the human personality through the three brothers (body, intellect, spirit). Maybe on my fourth or fifth reading I’ll understand the book.

--Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card). In fact, I’m keeping the first six books of the series. (After #6 I stopped buying them). The first is the best. It’s Sci-Fi, with excellent character development, and a compelling plot. I don’t usually go for violence, but I like the irony of this being the most violent book on peace I’ve ever read.

--The Return of the Prodigal Son (Henri Nouwen). I’ve quite a collection of books by Nouwen, most of which I’ll keep, but this is my favorite. It’s the meditations on Jesus’ parable that Nouwen thought through while standing before Rembrandt’s painting of the same name. I find the book profound. A few years after reading the book for the first time, I found myself in Russia’s Hermitage art museum, standing in front of the same huge painting. It was an unforgettable experience.

--A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry (edited by Czeslaw Milosz). I discovered this anthology browsing in a bookstore in the Los Angeles International Airport, waiting for Hal to come home from a research trip to Guatemala. I was attracted first of all by the wonderful title, and second by the fact it was edited by Milosz, Nobel Prize winning Polish poet. It was an impulse buy that I’ve never regretted. The English translations are of poems from around the world, with a heavy preponderance of Polish writers. It’s a wonder and a marvel. I discover new favorites all the time.

Cry, the Beloved Country (Alan Paton), one of my all-time favorite novels. This lyrically beautiful novel tells the story of a Zulu pastor and his rebellious son, set in the context of the racial tensions of South Africa. I’m moved to tears every time I read it.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Annie Dillard). This Pulitzer Prize winner first came out in 1974. My copy is much underlined, and I’m realizing it’s time to read it again. It gave (and gives) me a new way of walking through the natural world, both its wonder and its horrors. I’ll never look at a pond in the same way again.

Silence (Shusaku Endo). This sensitive and beautifully written novel gives a unique view of the spread of Christianity, its triumphs and, especially, its failures. Set in Japan in the 17^th century, it’s a haunting account of when a believer cries out to God and God answers with silence.

These are just a few of the books I’m keeping, at least for the time being. They’re dangerous only in that they frustrate my attempts to downsize. Other than that, they’re wholesome and healing in the way that only truth can be.

I would love to know about some of your keepers. Why not put a few titles in the comments?

Up with books!

Up with September birthdays!

Up with dangerous old women!

Old-lady clothes and saddle shoes

 Smugness is not nice. Smug people really annoy me.

Now comes the confession. I have been smug. Since the beginning of the pandemic in 2020 until now, I’ve felt smug about not becoming infected, when family members and other friends around me did. Oh, yes, I’ve been vaccinated and boosted, and I’ve respected the masking mandates (for the most part), but lately even people who’ve done all this have contracted the virus. Two months ago, I nursed Hal through his bout with Covid and did not become infected.

You probably know where this is going. I can no longer be smug because I am currently under quarantine with the nasty virus. For the last few days, I’ve been aching, coughing, and lamenting.

I wanted you to know this. Or maybe I just needed to confess my sin. But that’s not the subject of this blog. The subject is—clothes.

A few years ago, as I was approaching the time when I knew I really would grow old, I decided that when that time came, I would not wear old-lady clothes. I would accept growing older as best I could, but I would not give in to the stereotypes. I would do my best not to look old.

I really can’t describe “old-lady clothes,” just that when I see 'em, I know 'em.

I think I’ve always had a sensitivity to clothes, a negative sensitivity that often caused me to feel inappropriate. Not that we were poor or that I lacked for what I needed. Thanks to my mom’s ability with the sewing machine and the generosity of older cousins who handed down their dresses, I never went without. (But I did, sometimes, grumble.)

I remember clearly the ugliest piece of clothing I ever had to wear. They were called “saddle shoes.” The name evokes images of mules, dusty trails, and rural klutziness, but my mom expected me to wear them. To school. In front of everyone.

I must have been in the fourth or fifth grade. My mom was the proverbial Good Mother, so sensible shoes were the order of the day. After all, they were “good for my feet.”

Sturdy, yes. Substantial. But also clunky and awkward. A white shoe with a large black band across the top—the “saddle”—that tied up and needed to be worn with ankle socks.

In those days little girls wore dresses to school. The saddle shoes definitely did not go with dresses. They were not feminine. They were not pretty.

Ugly.

I hated them. And I was angry at Mom for making me wear them.

Furthermore, I was skinny. One of my nicknames—what the other kids chose to call me—was Bird-Legs. Can you picture it? Top to bottom: a crop of unruly naturally curly blond hair, a frilly dress, two thin stick-like legs, stuck into a foundation of chunky sensible shoes.

No wonder I felt ugly and awkward.

That feeling accelerated in the teen years, of course, but as I became an adult, I was gradually learning to focus more on other people and not to be so concerned about how I appeared to them. I like to think I was becoming mature. Maybe I was.

But I still, from time to time, suffer bouts of feeling inadequate and wishing my wardrobe was better and more abundant.

Here in the retirement community, I’ve noticed a continuum of clothing styles. It’s almost like being back in high school. There are beautiful women among us who are well-dressed, beautifully coiffed, and slender. They are the prom queens and cheerleaders. At the other end of the continuum, the old-lady clothes walk the halls. Most of us (me, for example) are somewhere in the middle.

But all of this is a superficial view of reality. I’ve found some of my dearest friends among the prom queens, women who are down-to-earth, funny, and kind. And many other close friends wear, yes, old-lady clothes. (So far I haven’t seen anyone around here wearing saddle shoes.) While it’s good to dress well, according to our tastes and pocket-books, what matters is who we are. You all know that. I just need to remind myself from time to time.

St. Paul encouraged the early Christians to “clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12). Now that’s the way mature people dress. Not to mention that it’s also attractive. Something to set my mind on wherever I again become dissatisfied with my wardrobe.

Going back in time to those saddle shoes, I begin to understand. As an older person with strong, healthy feet, I get it. While I no longer have to wear saddle shoes, I choose sensible.

Thanks, Mom.