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.

 

Some awesomely radically random words

 That’s a strange title for one not given to exaggeration. I could have entitled this blog, “Conversations with my grandchildren.”

Teenage grandchildren talk differently than we do. Especially the boys. You all know that. They take perfectly fine English words and turn them on their heads or blow them up to more-than-life-size. Sometimes they merely trivialize them. As examples (“random samples,” I could say), I refer to the following conversations, carried on in two different dialects—theirs and mine. These have been slightly embellished for publication, but they are based on real comments made to me by my grandsons:

1.
That casserole was awesome, Grandma.
     Thank you. Are you OK?
Why wouldn’t I be?
     I just hope my casserole didn’t knock you to the ground in holy fear, what with being awesome and all.
Whatever.

2.
The concert was awesome. It totally knocked my socks off.
     I’m sorry. Actually, that’s better than losing a sock in the laundry. You hang on to the remaining sock, thinking its mate will show up. It never does. At least you lost both at once. Did your feet get cold?
No, Grandma. My feet didn’t get cold.

3.
It was so irritating, Grandma. His comments were totally random.
     Without clear intentionality?
What?
     Were his remarks completely lacking in cohesion and continuity, without reference to context?
What are you talking about?
     Nothing. Just some random questions.

4.
I like your blog, Grandma. It’s totally rad.
     Rad?
Radical. Totally.
     Interesting perception. I don’t see myself as a radical leftist. Actually, I’m more of a pacifist than a revolutionary.
I like your blog anyway

While I don’t get as many opportunities to travel in these years, I’m glad I still have the chance to learn new languages.

Over the river and through the woods

 

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place
throughout all generations.”  Psalm 90:1

Over the River and through the Woods…

to Grandmother’s house we go.
We used to sing that at Thanksgiving.
My mind gobbled up the image,
an idealized Thomas Kincaid calendar picture
complete with snow, a horse-drawn sleigh,
candle-light streaming from the windows,
and a plump, rosy-cheeked grandma,
apple pie in hand, waiting to welcome
the family home. I knew that’s how it would be
when I became an old lady. Grandpa and I
would be the hub of a living wheel
of hugs and stories, music and good food.
Welcome, welcome! Welcome home!

That’s not how it turned out.
We are well taken care of in our retirement home,
but our small apartment can host two or three
at the most. Family gatherings take place
at one of our kids’ homes and now include
numerous in-laws. We have to decide where
to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Thomas Kincaid
flew out the window years ago.

Thank you for replacing my fantasy
with a vision of reality richer and warmer
than any calendar picture.
You, Lord, have been our dwelling place
through all generations.

You are the hub of the wheel.
You shelter us, feed us, teach
and discipline us, give us rest.
You make us one in you.
You’re the one who says, Welcome home

Companions in grief

 It’s been a long hard week. Our dear friend and colleague died before any of us thought he would. The sense of loss has been overwhelming.

How much more for his wife, also our dear friend. My dilemma as an introvert has been how or even if to reach out to her. Maybe this is not the right time? Maybe she just needs to be alone? I don’t want to inappropriately intrude on time with family. I don’t want to make things worse with my presence or words. I certainly don’t have any wise advice to impart, not having traveled this path myself. But doing nothing also seems wrong.

Actually, my friend herself solved my dilemma, inviting Hal and me, plus our son and daughter, over the second evening after the death. Her three daughters had traveled to be with her. Our kids all grew up together on the mission field, so it was like a family reunion. We hugged, cried a little, laughed a lot, told stories, remembered all the funny and wise things Ron did. We ate a good meal supplied by a neighbor. Our intention had been to drop in, express our love and loss, then leave in “good time.” We ended up being together for four hours. It was healing and we all sensed it was “sacred time” (much better than “good time”).

But my concern as an introvert remains, specifically in situations where a friend is experiencing trauma or grief. I want to be a companion in grief, someone whose alongside presence is a genuine comfort. I need to learn how to step out of my lack of confidence and simply be that companion.

I spoke to two of my friends who have experienced grief, asking about what other people did or didn’t do that helped. And what only made things worse.

Marcile has experienced widowhood twice in her life. In her first marriage, she and David were still young, only 46. David was killed in a small-airplane crash that stunned the community and left Marcile bereft and alone. In an instant. Shortly after the memorial service, she recounts spending a weekend away with close friends. But during the whole weekend no one even mentioned the fact that David wasn’t with them. People sometimes think that if they don’t speak about a negative fact, it’s like it doesn’t exist. Not able to stand it any longer, Marcile brought up the subject and asked her friends to talk about it. She needed help in facing the new reality.

Marcile came to see grief as a dark pool that she had to walk through. It takes time. Sometime she felt as if she had arrived at the other side, only to be blindsided by a memory, again plunged into the pool. She said it helped to have a few trusted friends who walked alongside, who understood that the journey would be long.

My friend Bonnie recently lost her husband, after having spent a lifetime together. She found she needed both the company of trusted friends and times of silence. Shortly after her husband’s death, an acquaintance showed up uninvited, saying, “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Being alone is sometimes what I need,” Bonnie tells me. At this time in life, she prefers to stay home and has dropped some activities, including keeping up an active social life. “I’m not tending to friendship right now. I can’t do casual chit-chat.”

This does not rule out contact with others. Even before her husband died, several neighbors sensitively showed up, bringing coffee in the morning, checking in everyday but not staying too long, showing genuine affection and concern that comforted Bonnie. She currently keeps up meeting with several trusted friends, friends who know how to listen.

Heidi Matson, another friend who has walked the path of grief, has written a book about it: Even Though: A Journey through the Valley of Loss toward Hope (2021). I call Heidi a friend, but we’ve not actually met in person. During the pandemic, I had the privilege of editing Heidi’s book and we spent lots of time on the phone and conversing through email. Her story touched me and I’ve given her book to several of my grieving friends. (That can be a dangerous thing to do. Some equate receiving a book about grief as a form of advice. And not all grief books are equally helpful. Take care when you give your grieving friend a book.)

Heidi writes with humor about the insensitive things people can say. She writes about 

the inane, insensitive, and even ignorant comments made by several well-meaning people. Many can only sit in the pain and confusion [death] brings for so long before they are compelled to fill the space or try to fix it. As a result, they end up saying ridiculous things…. Silence, by the way, is rarely stupid. When you don’t know what to say, that’s probably a pretty good indicator that you shouldn’t say anything…. And the truth is, nothing you can say will make it better. But you can say a lot of things that will make it worse.

Heidi and a friend decided to face the issue with humor, creating “The Stupid List” where they listed insensitive comments. The list included, “You’re cute. You’ll be remarried in five years.” “God only does this to strong women.” “I’ve been avoiding you. I just can’t stand to see you. It’s too sad.” And so on. Most of us here in the retirement community would never say such things; we’re too mature, right?

In another chapter Heidi writes about the necessity of community for healing, speaking especially about friends and family who had experienced trauma themselves.

Often the people who were best at knowing how to be present were those who had themselves suffered. It is what I call the “fellowship of suffering.” The connection and understanding that exist with someone who knows what it’s like to feel suffocated by grief is a great comfort.

She writes about the people who simply held me—in their hearts, in their prayers, and in their arms.

Douglas McKelvey in his book, Every Moment Holy, includes a liturgy for “A Friend of One Who Grieves.” It voices my prayer:

“…. Give me wisdom, grace,
and empathy, O Lord, to simply walk beside,
to let my friend lead as they learn to navigate this grief,
and not to ever in arrogance believe that I can
somehow set them straight, or make it right,
or give advice they do not need from me.
Teach me how to set aside my own discomfort,
so that I might compassionately perceive,
in the context of their specific loss and their specific need,
what true encouragement and helpfulness would mean….
[Let] me serve my dear friend well
by a close and constant willingness
to bear some small part of their long burden.
Amen.

The vacuuming prince

Keeping a retirement community of some 400 residents running requires a large staff. These are the people around us everyday, who clean our rooms, cook and serve our meals, fix our broken faucets, and tend to us when we get too old to take care of ourselves. In time they become familiar to us. We learn their names and they learn ours. Some become friends.

Some of the stated values of this particular retirement community are integrity, compassion, dignity, and service. The community tries (maybe not always with perfect success) to live out these values in board decisions, administrative policies, resident activities, and employment practices. Fair wages, adequate on-the-job training, and a recognition of the dignity of each person—these are the goal.

Most of us residents are grateful for the staff that work here. I especially enjoy the opportunity to interact with the Hispanic workers; they remind me of my home in Bolivia. And it’s refreshing to have so many young people—high school and college students—serving us meals in the dining room. (I did the same thing in this same dining room when I was in college. I loved how the residents treated me.)

According to the last report, this community employs 246 staff persons, many part-time. Most of them seem happy to be working here (they all need to work somewhere); others seem burdened. But they all have private lives. They all have stories.

Some of the ways residents express their appreciation is through a scholarship fund and bi-annual bonuses in the form of gift cards, furnished entirely by resident offerings. Perhaps even more important, is when residents respond personally to different ones, learning, not only their names, but also what we can of their unique stories. This can be a challenge as they’re all on a schedule, with timed breaks. But little by little, it’s possible.

Let me tell you John’s story. I first ran across John as he was vacuuming the carpet in our hall. I greeted him and he responded with such a warm smile, it touched me and after that I made it a point to chat with him whenever our paths crossed. Once he commented on a hanging of shells on my door, asking me where it was from. I told him it was from the island of Ponape in the South Pacific. He smiled and told me he recognized it because that’s near his homeland, the island of Yap.

Yap? Intrigued, we invited John up to our room one day after work. We had lots of question, and what we learned amazed and delighted us.

Yap is a cluster of islands about 800 miles east of the Philippines surrounded by barrier reefs, part of the Federated States of Micronesia. Beautiful beaches climb inland to forested mountains. It has a year-round temperature of about 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Population on the main island runs between 11,000-12,000 people. It’s small but it sounds like a paradise.

The religion is a form of imported Catholicism mixed with animism and ancestor worship. People are proud of their customs and language, and struggle to maintain their way of life while facing the modern world. Hard to do.

John comes from this culture, but he is not just a random member. He is royalty. His step-father was chief or king of the island, a position handed down in the royal family. As such, John was in line to become chief.

When he was in high school, a Korean student shared the Christian gospel with John and gave him a Bible. He had always been curious about that figure up on the cross and wondered if there were more to life. After much reflection and prayer, John decided to become a follower of Jesus. This did not go over well with the family who disowned him for a time.

John moved to Guam and met his wife Donna in a church. They had their first two children in Guam, then decided to migrate to the Northwest corner of the United States where both John and Donna had family. They eventually made their way to Newberg, Oregon where, after several jobs, John found himself on the maintenance staff of George Fox University. He worked there for 19 years, while raising his family of now four children. Oregon became home.

When George Fox began cutting staff positions, John decided to move over to Friendsview, again finding a position on the maintenance staff, where he continues working today.

I wrote this poem about John: 

The Prince of Yap

The man who vacuums
the carpets in the hall
is really the Prince of Yap.
His late father was the King of Yap
and he was next in line
to succeed to the throne.
But he didn’t want to be king.
He envisioned another life,
dreamed of open borders,
less ocean, more scope.
So he migrated to America.
One of his relatives is now king.
He’s happy to be here,
vacuuming rugs, secretly knowing
he still is, will always be,
the Prince of Yap. 

I suspect that other members of the staff are also secret royalty, probably not in the same sense John is, but royalty nonetheless. All people of great value with wonderful stories to tell.

Who knows what first?

 You’re right. That’s a strange title that can be read different ways. I’ll explain.

It’s said that “Knowledge is power,” and I believe it. Knowing stuff gives a certain control over life situations. Events don’t so often creep up on you unawares. You can plan and strategize how you will face problems or react to conditions. Knowing what’s going on or about to happen places you above the ignorant and uniformed. Especially if you’re the first to know. Then you get to be the one to tell your friends and neighbors.

It's been interesting to see how this phenomenon works out in the retirement community. We’re a close community, somewhat set apart from the wider world around us. But there’s a lot going on around here, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up with all of it. So knowing stuff becomes important. And knowing it first seems to matter.

What time will the electricity be off on the fifth floor? Why didn’t the yoga class meet today? Why don’t we have vespers on Sunday anymore? Is so-and-so on vacation; where did they go; when will they be home? Why is the coffee machine in the dining room not working? Who? What? Why? Where? When? Knowing matters.

The One-with-the-Answers matters. It can become a silly game. Some people always seem to have the answers to whatever question (not always the right answers) and they delight in sharing their insights. Why do these people irritate me? I guess it’s more me than them, hooking into the game. Sometimes I feel like I’m back in junior high school. Or even in grade school with the nerdy little kid who responds to every question the teacher asks with waving hand and, “I know! I know! Ask me, Teacher!”

I especially hate it when I have an important piece of information and I generously impart it, only to hear, “Oh, I already knew that.” So I decide to keep quiet in the future, but I never manage to do that.

Not everybody around here plays this game. But from time to time, I find myself hooked. Shouldn’t retired people be more mature? Shouldn’t I be more mature? Who cares who-knows-what-first?

I’m writing about this because when I notice some unhealthy attitude, I need to confess it. And then I need to laugh. Especially at myself.

Of course, there is another side to the need for information around here. These are the scary questions: Who is moving from independent-living to the health care center? For whom did the ambulance come last night? Who fell? Who had a stroke? And, of course, who died in the night? This knowledge goes beyond the who-knows-what-first game.

These are our neighbors and friends, people who live next to us. In many cases they are people we’ve come to love. With knowledge comes sorrow. And although in a retirement community these events are common, the news is none-the-less jarring each time around.

And, of course, there’s the aspect of the inevitable. With each illness and loss, it seems that our turn is coming closer. It’s a sobering thought and sometimes one that’s hard to face. But it’s something that I know will happen sooner or later.

It’s something we all know, but the frequency of these events in this place makes the knowing more poignant.

Well, here’s something else I know. Job suffered horrible illnesses and the deaths of his children. Yet he found the courage to say, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God; I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another.”

This I know.

In the meantime (which can be very mean), I will grow in grace toward my more knowledgeable friends. Especially the Ones with the Answers.

And I will laugh more. Especially at myself.

Shifting family circles

Hal and I picked up our grandson at 2:00 yesterday morning and drove him to the airport. We hugged him and sent him off to Morocco where he will spend the next two years. We were all a little sad, but I could see both sorrow and excitement dancing in his eyes.

This comes at the end of a two-year exploratory period that’s seemed like a roller coaster ride. Having graduated from the university several years ago with an engineering degree and a desire to serve God and people in some needy place overseas, questions presented themselves. Where? Doing what? With which organization? For how long? The search took him down some interesting trails, all while he was holding jobs in the engineering field that put his salary at a level beyond what we’d ever earned. But he’s not in it for the money.

So now he’s off. I’m happy for him, but I’ll not deny the sense of loss I feel.

And this is not the first time I’ve felt this way.

Twenty-seven years ago, I discovered how important grandchildren were. It was like a new world opening up with these little critters playing an extremely important role. Of course, we were thrilled back when our own kids were born. But we were also terrified, not at all certain how we were supposed to carry out this parenthood thing. So much responsibility. As the years passed, we grew up alongside our kids. We learned by going where we had to go.

But with grandkids, it’s different. We’re already grown-ups (supposedly). And we’re not the ones responsible to bring up these marvelous creatures. We get to love them, play with them, spoil them, and on it goes.

Except when it doesn’t. Life, of course, is more complicated than that and all families are unique.  As Tolstoy famously said, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Even relatively happy families have their rough spots (or years). Not everyone gets along with their grown kids and grandkids.

But I’m reflecting on me, my grandkids, and loss.

Hal and I lived abroad when our seven grandkids were small. Four of them lived in Africa! We made a commitment to spend time with the African grandkids at least once every two years, and as often as we could with the three in Oregon. When we were together it often felt that we grandparents were the center of their world. They fought over who got to sit by us, pestered us to read the same books over and over, and gobbled up our attention as if they had been starving. It was exhilarating. And exhausting. We were the exhausted ones. Not them.

All that changed, of course, with the onset of adolescence. We probably never really were the center of the world for them, and we definitely were not when they hit the teen years. Peer relationships took over, as is normal and right. But I’ll admit, I missed all the focused devotion. It actually hurt my feelings when I’d visit and hear, “Hi, Grandma! Bye, Grandma! I’m going to spend the night at my friend’s.” I felt loss, the loss of my “special grandma” role.

Families keep changing. Kids grow up, get married, and allegiances re-form. Nuclear families spit like the atom and some particles get lost in space. At extended family gatherings Hal and I sometimes feel like relatives rather than family.

This for me is one of the scariest paths in this old growth forest called aging. I’ve struggled off and on all my life with the sense of being on the periphery. Now it sometimes feels like I’m losing the connections that tell me who I am and to whom I belong.

Just another opportunity to grow up, I guess. Maturity is a weird goal. When it seems like I’m getting close, something happens (or some grandkid hurts my feelings) and the goal posts stretch off into the distance again. But the Spirit keeps reeling me in, reminding me that Christ is the center, and that I belong to him.

(I realize that I’m switching my metaphor from football to fishing. But—oh, well. At my age, I get to do that.)

About those grown-up grandkids, I’ve noticed something weird and wonderful. The relationships keep changing, but now that we’ve begun to relate as adult to adult, it’s a new level of friendship, a greater sweetness, and a whole lot more fun. I can’t wait until they have babies and I get to do it all over again. Maybe by that time I will finally know what I’m doing.

So—Aren’s off to Morocco. I’m going with him in my prayers. I can’t wait to see what God will do in and through his life. I’m so glad I get to be one of his grandparents.