Giving our grandkids back to God

 Saturday morning we got an alarming message from our grandson Aren. “A large earthquake has just struck. I’m out in the streets with crowds of people. I’m OK.” Aren lives in Marrakech, Morocco.

This earthquake has been in the headlines the last three days, with news of the devastation. The 6.8 quake struck without warning late Friday, the epi-center being south of Marrakech. While the city was minimally affected, many small villages to the south in the Atlas Mountains have been decimated. The 2700 people reported dead (and the number is climbing) are mostly in these villages.

We proudly watched Aren graduate in 2019 from George Fox University with a degree in engineering. He soon found a job with a large business in the greater Portland area, but his heart has always been in overseas service. He spent several years searching for the right organization and situation to go out with in some kind of short-term service, thinking that two years might be enough to get direction for the rest of his life. He wanted to be involved in helping people start small businesses in poverty-stricken areas. 

We always knew that someday he would leave family and be off somewhere on the other side of the world. We knew this would probably be a good thing. We knew we would miss him.

A few years ago he discovered an opportunity with an NGO in Morocco. They were working in setting up a unique business in the city of Marrakech—a climbing gym. Aren is athletic and loves climbing walls and cliffs. It seemed a good fit (and has proved to be so), and so a year of applications, interviews, a visit to the field, and raising support followed.

Finally, in November of 2022, less than a year ago, Aren boarded the plane in Portland for his big adventure. Although we had walked with him through the difficulties and triumphs of the process, praying often and participating in the excitement, it was hard for his family and friends to see him leave.

It’s been a good experience so far and Aren has been faithful in communicating. (Thank God for modern technology that allows for actual conversations and instant messages.) He has focused on language and culture learning, forming relationships and, of course, learning the business. Although missing home at times and experiencing the natural ups-and-downs of this kind of cross-cultural experience, he seems to be thriving.

Friday night, Aren was sitting in his living room with a Moroccan friend when the floor started dancing. They ran out into the streets where people were in panic, the pavement still bouncing around. Buildings in his immediate neighborhood were still standing, although everything seemed precarious. Aren told us that his ADHD helped him and he immediately assessed the situation and began thinking through possible actions. After the ground stopped moving, he and his friend headed on foot for the home of a team member where he was able to borrow a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Aren and a few of his friends loaded the car with as much water as they could buy. They drove through the city, seeing it was only minimally damaged, and headed out to a village where one of his friends lived.

Half the buildings in the village had been destroyed and many people killed. Survivors were dazed, walking around, grieving. The guys spent the rest of the night there, searching for survivors, digging through rubble, comforting people as best they could. By morning they saw trucks of Moroccans entering the village with enough supplies and workers to begin meeting the need. They went home to sleep for a few hours before heading out to another village the next day.

He called us this morning (his Monday evening) and we mainly listened. He says he is not yet ready to emotionally process what is happening to the country and to him personally. There is still too much to be done. He’s especially concerned for the many remote villages without easy access. He wants to take his motorcycle up into the hills to discover communities that need help.

That sounds really dangerous. But we held back on counseling him not to do it. It would be our fear speaking, not whatever wisdom we might have. We have to leave him to his own discernment of what God is asking of him.

But I do fear, even as I am proud of him. Hal and I both have the sense that God placed him in this situation “for such a time as this.”

I’m remembering this morning the message from Kahlil Gibran about children (and grandchildren). I read it and marked it up years ago, before I was even married or had children of my own. It touches me today.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you.

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you….

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

From toddler to totterer

One of the joys of being older is that many of us can identify life-long friends, people we knew in our youth and who we still consider close friends. Whether physically together or apart, we’ve experienced the different seasons of life together and shared our struggles, as well as our hopes and dreams for the future.

I’m not talking about acquaintances or cousins. Real friends. Soul mates. Kindred spirits, as Anne of Green Gables would put it. I’m blessed with a handful of these, and most of them are still living.

I met Darlene over 50 years ago when we were both young wives, attending, with our husbands, the same small congregation in Arcadia, California. Our first-born babies knew each other, as much as babies can actually know someone other than mother. We’ve kept touch through the years, sometime living on separate continents, sometime living in the same town. We live in different states now, but we keep up on the phone and even with occasional in-person visits. We still regularly pray for each other.

Last week Darlene was the featured writer for the Fruit of the Vine devotional booklet. In the introduction to her week of meditations, she writes, “How did the decades fly by like blurry scenery outside a high speed train? Suddenly we rounded a corner, slowed down a bit, and I stepped off in a different country! Whoa, I’m transported to ‘elder land.’… This week, I’ll share personal experiences from my new platform.”

Darlene’s a thoughtful person and a good writer, and the week’s readings were rich. She gave me permission to share here the meditation from Friday, September 1. It’s called “Everlasting Arms.”

When our great-grandson took his first triumphant steps, everyone cheered, acknowledging this amazing accomplishment! It takes a constellation of brain-to-muscle internal steps precluding that final coordination to success. But there’s still a long perfection process afterwards, called the toddler stage. Lots of wobbling, insecurity, falling, grabbing ahold of something solid, trying to gain better footing—then, confidence.

There are lots of toddler steps throughout life’s journey. We experience them personally in new environments, jobs, and relationships. It all takes time, and we don’t always get encouraging cheers. We learn to walk and then to run, then finally how to slow down.

Eventually, we re-enter another period of insecurity and join the tottering stage! Post-operative hips and knees, weakening muscles, and unsure eyesight make what was once easy traveling now more precarious and mindful. We’re more apt to use the railing, walk closer to the wall, and unashamedly accept an offered arm on unstable landscape.

At any age throughout our journey, we feel insecure when hitting rocky roads like death, disease, or divorce. We may need help getting back up after an emotional loss or physical fall. From toddler to tottering (and all stages between) we need grace. Our Lord promises to walk us through the valleys, over mountains, and through pastures—to guide us with rod and staff, and his loving arms to lean on. Because we are the body of Christ, we need our hands to lift and help others.

Prayer: Lord, please help me to be sensitive to the needs of others who may need lifting up. (By Darlene Graves with references to Proverbs 3:5-6; Psalm 91:9-12; and Psalm 121:3-4.)

I love Darlene’s description of life’s developmental stages: “We learn to walk and then to run, then finally how to slow down.” The journey from toddler to totterer makes me smile. Two things we all need for facing old age are courage and humor. Thank you, Darlene, for encouraging me and for making me laugh.

The positive power of negative thinking

 I stole the title of this blog. Over 40 years ago I found an article in a Christian magazine on the importance of critical thinking; it came with that title. (The same title has been since used in other publications.) The author was obviously playing off Normal Vincent Peale’s popular but lopsided book, The Power of Positive Thinking. I don’t remember much of the content of the article (or its author), but the title stuck and continues to temper my own thinking.

Negative thinking as a positive force is a counter-intuitive wisdom. Its purpose is to confront and balance non-critical uninformed optimism: “God’s in his heaven; all’s right with the world.” Those of us who grew up in the church were instructed to “climb climb up sunshine mountain, faces all aglow,” and to celebrate with “I’m so happy and here’s the reason why—Jesus took my burdens all away.” Actually, those songs have their place in spiritual formation; they contain truth. Just not all the truth.

There were times in my childhood when my climb up sunshine mountain was interrupted by ravines and the only glow on my face came from tears. Not so happy. Burdens that didn’t just disappear. It kept Sunday school separate from my “real” life.

The need for a healthy balance between positive and critical thinking certainly applies to aging and how our culture sees the process of growing older. Negative stereotypes abound, of course, but so do the optimistic denials of old age. Consider the label, “The Golden Years.” “The best is yet to be.” “Life begins at 70.” “I’m 80 years young!” “You’re only as young as you…. (fill in the blank).”

Consider the shaky comfort of this popular American ditty: “Darling, we are growing old,/ Silver threads among the gold/…. Yet, my darling, you will be/ Always young and fair to me.” Wayne Booth, in his fine book, The Art of Growing Older: Writers on Living and Aging, critiques this claim:

Always young and fair? Always? Of course, the speaker… surely knows very well that if he (could the song work if sung by a woman?) and his faithful love stay together, one of them will face a time when the other one is no longer even in the wildest effort of the imagination young and fair.

Perhaps Booth is a little too harsh in his criticism. Maybe some grandpas are blessed with an ability to see beauty where others can’t. When Hal tells me I’ve never looked better, if I can avoid a mirror, I almost believe him. Love affects vision.

The long-term retirement community where I live has an attractive web site, intended to inform and to attract clients. It’s publicity (among other things) so of course the “old” residents featured are all well-dressed, energetic, and very attractive. (Why wasn’t I chosen?) They are walking around our beautiful campus, holding hands, or engaged in interesting activities. They’re all real residents, my friends, but none of them will stay young and active forever. Most of our residents don’t look that way as they struggle with the various challenges (and for some, horrors) of aging. But, as I noted, publicity is publicity.

The organization just finished construction of a beautiful four-story complex where residents will live in the final stages of life. It will provide several levels of care from assisted living, to memory care, and then to 24/7 skilled care to people close to death. The rooms are large and comfortable, almost all with large windows and lovely views. We’re all happy about it (although some of us still miss the meadow and trees it replaced). Someday, if I mange to stick around, I will live there. If I’m still able to perceive my surroundings, I know I’ll appreciate a room with a view.

But there’s something funny about the name. The old health center, which we have outgrown, was known as the Charles Beals Health Center. It seemed appropriate. But we have been instructed not to call the new building a Health Center. It is Charles Beals Plaza. Apparently this portrays a more positive image. But Plaza is a name that goes better with a name like Hilton. The Hilton Plaza. Our director has jokingly told us that if we call the new facility a health center, we’ll be fined a dollar. Each time.

Even so, the place really is a health center, dedicated to the most vulnerable residents among us. It’s all about health and loving care toward the end of life and I wish the name could reflect the reality. (I have a feeling I’ll end up owing a lot of money.)

I’ve just finished reading the books of Jeremiah and Lamentations, two of the least optimistic books of the Bible. Through much of the books, the negative overshadows the positive. And with reason. It covered one of the most grim periods in the history of God’s chosen people—times of apostasy, war, captivity, deportation, famine, and death. A time when hope floated level to the ground.

In Lamentations 3, the prophet cries out to a God that he’s not sure is even listening. His complaints are serious. He throws up to the Almighty some grizzly scenarios: walking in darkness, weighed down with chains, mangling by lions, piercings by the arrows of God, and so on. Not all of this was metaphor. I found one of the curses especially troubling; the prophet accuses God by saying, “He has made my skin and flesh grow old and has broken my bones” (3:4). Old age as a curse. Scary thought.

Of course, there in the center of that same Chapter 3, the prophet thanks God for his everlasting faithfulness and great love. We take courage from these words. But then he goes right back to the anguish and laments. What this book in particular tells me is that it’s OK to name the darkness and cry out our bleak prayers, even when we can’t sense God’s presence. The Psalms are also full of this kind of brutal lament. Even Jesus cried from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!”

Pretty negative.

I’m wrestling a bit here, trying to find a healthy balance between a positive, joyful, grateful attitude and a brave realism as I look at the coming years.

Maybe the Apostle Paul puts it best, in a unity of realism and incredible hope: “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:16-17).

Sounds even better than a room with a view.

Better than cheerleaders

 Among those of us living here in the retirement community, the emotions of the young are alive and well. People actually fall in love around here. Imagine. And they feel envy, sometimes anger, and even silly spontaneous joy. People around here are like that.

People around here. Actually, I’m talking about me. No, I’ve not fallen in love; I’m still pleasantly and lovingly well connected to my husband of long-standing. But once or twice I’ve felt a two-year-old temper tantrum coming on. No, I didn’t throw myself on the floor, screaming and kicking my legs. (That would have been a spectacle.) I managed to squelch it before that point. I am at least that mature.

But just last evening I stood back and watched myself wallowing in those adolescent feelings of being left out, on the outside of the in-group, looking in with longing. Excluded.

There’s a group of people here that often eat together. They sit at a big round table and I watch them laughing and having what I suppose to be scintillating conversation. They’re all so well-groomed, while I am feeling rather sloppily put together this evening. I’m again on the outside wishing I were one of them. Cheerleaders all of them.

When I was a teenager, I longed to be a cheerleader. They were the pinnacle, the top of the heap. They were all beautiful and had cute names liked Tammy or Debbie or Christy or Misty or Frosty. They jumped and danced and leaped, making the crowds yell in enthusiasm. They were at the center.

The cheerleaders. Not the actual football players. (I never wanted to be football player. I don’t even like the sport—a bunch of big bullies bumping each other and causing brain injuries. Not for me.) It was all about being a cheerleader.

I wasn’t anywhere close to Them. Well, actually, I did get sort of close when I was in the eighth grade. I joined the flag twirling squad. We practiced in the football field during PE class and after school—marching and learning how to manipulate the blue and white (school colors) flags. Several time we even preformed during the junior varsity half-times.

I can prove I was a flag twirler. I have a black-and-white photo of me in profile with my pony tail, my short skirt, and my broom-stick legs. Standing at attention, holding my flags. Ready for action.

So, I did my part to encourage Team Spirit, although we all knew there were levels. The flag-twirlers were at the bottom, followed by the pom pom girls, and at the top, of course, the actual cheerleaders.

I thought those days of cheerleader-envy were long gone. That I no longer had to bother with feeling left out. I guess not.

Stop it! I tell myself. I’m not an adolescent, no matter these occasional emotions. All those people eating together are not cheerleaders. Actually, all of them are my friends. Probably they’d welcome me at their table (especially if they knew what they were missing :).

I know what to do when I catch myself drudging up old emotions. I write about them. Writing is one of my ways of coping with life. Often I can write my way out of a problem to a solution. Insight comes through the process, not before I start. It’s the Spirit’s way of taking my hand and helping me find my way out of the dark part of the forest. There’s light at the end of the page.

So, I write in my journal and when I read it back to myself, I often start laughing. Now that’s healthy. I need to laugh at myself on a regular basis. It’s the path to sanity. Maybe even to maturity.

Yes, I am all those ages from two-years-old, through adolescence, and on up to now. But I’m more than the sum of rehashed emotions. I’m a beloved child of God. I belong to him. I’m included in the deepest sense possible, a part of the people of God.

In fact, I think I’ll invite some of those friends to eat at my table. Maybe we can laugh together. Old/young/ageless, all of us—better than cheerleaders!

Flickers of joy

 I will try hard not to complain, but these last three weeks have been a comedy of the absurd. We never laughed in the midst of it all, not even once.

It’s all about getting older and the inevitable rebellion of body parts.

And it’s about my husband who has given permission for me to write about it.

Three weekends ago he came down with stomach/intestinal pain that seemed different from what he’s experienced before. So we did what we usually do in these circumstances. He took it easy, ate bland food, and we decided to wait it out. Most things get better in time without medical intervention. But after two days Hal told me to take him in to emergency. Enough was enough. I did and it turned out to be diverticulitis. Again. We were in time. The good doctor put him on a ten-day regimen of antibiotics with grim sounding names. We’ve met these fellows before and have not developed a friendship, I’m sorry to say.

Next, while still on medication, he felt a hernia begin bulging out of his intestines. A lump on his abdomen. Gross, no? So we got an appointment with our primary care doctor who miraculously agreed to see us right away. She wrote out a reference to an intestinal surgeon. We got an appointment a week away, and, in the meantime, a friend loaned us a belt that put pressure on the hernia, helping it stay in place. Great relief.

The relief didn’t last long. Hal began feeling pain in his neck and shoulders, something unusual for him. His back problems are located in the lower back. This was new. The pain grew with each day but we decided again to wait it out.

Our appointment with the intestinal surgeon was Friday morning. We got ready early and walked out to the car with enough time to make it to the doctor’s office. As I approached the car, I pressed the unlock button on the remote and wondered why the light didn’t blink. Too much sun, I figured. Hard to see. But we discovered it wasn’t the sun at all. The car was “dead.” Totally unresponsive. We called around and found a driver, but by then we knew we’d arrive late. I call the doctor’s office to tell them we were running a little late, and the receptionist told us the doctor was on a tight schedule and we’d have to reschedule, bulging hernia and all. Our appointment was now some ten days off. “God knows all this,” we told ourselves. “We’re in his hands.”

Hal called our auto repairman and he came over. Turns out it wasn’t just a recharge but a new battery we needed. The shop took care of it that day. (Some things run smoothly, thank God.)

At 2:00 a.m. Saturday morning, Hal woke me up, told me he couldn’t stand the neck pain any longer. We needed to go to the ER again. Turns out it was good we did. The doctor (a different one this time around) put him on a scary combination of morphine and cortical steroids and we went home, hoping this would be our last trip.

It was (so far) and Hal has been able to limit his intake of morphine. The pain is lessening, leaving us free to attend to the hernia. Our rescheduled appointment is still a week off. The story hasn’t ended.

We’re realizing that at our time of life, this show will likely keep going on and on, hopefully with some long intermissions.

Now for the good part. Saturday evening our son, daughter (both now in their fifties!), and two grandchildren came over to pray for Grandpa. We all gathered around him on the bed and laid hands (carefully) on him. We thanked God for his power and love, asked for physical and emotional healing, encouraged, and even gave some prophetic words about future ministry. Then the kids prayed for me and my chronic dizziness. The prayer meeting lasted over an hour. We were especially moved by our 18-year-old granddaughter’s insightful and impassioned prayers. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be ministered to by your kids and grandkids. It’s good. We all felt that something real had been accomplished.

Hal woke up the next morning feeling good, although the pain returned by the evening, to a lesser degree. We know that, while some healings are instantaneous, God often heals in a gradual way. At least for us that seems to be the case. We feel that God is healing through the combination of prayer and medication. And possibly surgery.

Sunday afternoon we went to church online. One of our favorite places is Woodland Hills Church in Minneapolis. Greg Boyd has long been a favorite author, and his preaching is always rich, scholarly, but down-to-earth and anointed. He had just been through a grizzly three weeks, worse than ours, that involved five trips to the ER, including one for his wife who fell and broke her ankle in the middle of her husband’s trials. He preached from his home as he is not able to go out yet. But he was as articulate, funny, and profound as usual.

He told about his misadventures in detail, but focused on the lesson God was teaching him in all of this. It centered on the strange New Testament coming together of suffering and joy. Take the Apostle James’ strange counter-intuitive command to “consider it all joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds” (James 1:2). The various verses on “participating in the sufferings of Christ” came to his mind. At one point he had a vision (through his imagination) of Christ’s excruciating, but voluntary, suffering on the cross, and what a privilege it is to count our troubles as sharing in those sufferings.

Boyd told us that, while he didn’t exactly break out in laughter, he began feeling flickers of joy, laying there on the emergency room table. Joy in suffering is not natural or easy, but the experience of pain and trauma is the classroom for learning joy, he told us.

That sermon came at the right time for us and we, too, are sensing flickers of joy.

As I wrote above, this particular story is not yet over, but we’re heading into it with lighter hearts—thanks mainly to our family’s prayers, helped along by sound teaching from our brother, Greg Boyd.

It makes me think that joy is an excellent tool to carry with us into the challenges and potential traumas of growing older. I love it when old people laugh. I think I’ll join their ranks.

My four-year-old theology professor

When my grandson was four-years-old,
he explained the Trinity to me,

what he had gleaned from Sunday school
and the Bible stories his mother read to him.
He told me the Trinity meant
the Father, his Son, and Andy.
Who? Andy, he repeated.
Before the greatest mystery of theology,
this little boy was not confused,
now that he had the names.

I was confused. The Spirit
had always seemed the most elusive
member of the holy Threesome.
Dove. Wind. Breath. Water.
Hard to relate to.

Days later I overhead my grandson
singing one of the hymns
he had learned in that Sunday school.
As he sang the chorus in his still baby voice,
I finally got it. He sang,
“Andy walks with me. Andy talks with me.
Andy tells me I am his own.”

Of course. Spirit is God-up-close.
God who walks by my side.
Who tells me secrets.
Closer than a sister or brother.

I’ve never been drawn to call her Andy.
But in the early morning hours,
as I sit in my chair by the window,
I sometimes whisper, “Sister. Mother.
Best friend. Yes, yes, yes.”
Sometimes I call her Andrea.
I sense her smile.

Cute

 Some memories have a way of sticking around and tickling the brain for years after the event. Even little memories about inconsequential things. The following is one of those. It happened about ten years ago, during the almost-ready-for-retirement years when I highly suspected I was about to grow old.

Something strange happened to me in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. Hal and I were on our way to a Miami meeting of the academic council of the program we worked with. We had a two-hour layover in Dallas right at lunch time. Although I try to eat healthy food, even on trips, I occasionally I get the urge for a hamburger, fries, and coke. (This is a confession.) I knew of a place in the airport that served gourmet burgers and I managed to talk Hal into it.

We found a table in the crowded mall and slowly ate our burgers, thoroughly enjoying this slightly sinful luxury. We were not too aware of the people around us, but as we got up to leave the restaurant, a young couple at a nearby table stopped us, and said, “You guys are so cute! How long have you been together?”

I managed to mumble, “Oh, about 50 years,” and Hal added, “We really like each other.” “We can tell,” the woman said, and we moved on.

I was stunned and not altogether pleased. It seemed like something one said to wrinkled people with white hair who hobble down the street holding hands. And who are, indeed, cute. I knew I was growing older, but I wasn’t quite ready for cute.

There was a time, of course, when cute mattered. I was a serious adolescent, a student, a reader of good books, a poet, and so on. But in my heart of hearts I longed to be a cheer leader, go steady, and be considered cute.

Thanks be to God, I outgrew it. As an adult cute ceased to occupy a place on my list of values (except for the time when, as a young mother, I was relieved that my babies were cute). I haven’t worried about cute in years, and I certainly don’t want to now.

I guess this is really about growing older and accepting this season in life. I’m not sure how I’m doing with this, even now. I need to admit that as soon as I got home from Miami, I bought some hair color, part of my anti-cute remedy. But this, of course, didn’t solve anything. I think I just need, once again, to confess my dis-ease (what I’m doing here), laugh about it, and focus on what matters.

So, what matters?  How about—“To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God”? No age limits on that.

Sort of makes cute irrelevant.