Four older women and me

Bess was the first one. I was just home on my second furlough from mission service in Bolivia. I was in my mid-thirties, a mother of young school-age kids, all of us feeling the awkwardness of being strangers in our own home country. Wondering if we belonged anywhere.

A friend told me about this woman who, at the age of 76, had just discovered that she was a poet. She had self-published two chapbooks of her poems, one of which was titled “Wise and Otherwise.” I loved that title.

My friend told me that this woman wanted to meet me as a sister poet. Still under the spell of reverse-culture-shock, wanting to keep to myself, I, nonetheless called this perfect stranger and asked if I could come over for a visit. Her yes was most enthusiastic.

Thus began my friendship with Bess Bulgin, a friendship that I’ve been grateful for ever since. Even though we were strangers, after that first visit it was as though we had known each other all our lives. Although mentally alive and vibrant, her aging body was beginning to betray her, so she was house-bound. Our weekly visits were at her house, in her cozy favorite room, full of books and memories from her exciting and very full life.

We talked a lot, back and forth, shared life stories and struggles, discussed relationships and the mysteries of knowing God. We read poetry to each other, of course. My friendship with Bess became the stabilizing anchor of that year at home in the US. I went back to Bolivia knowing how much I would miss our weekly times together. We exchanged a few letters, but then her health took a sudden turn for the worse. I never saw Bess again.

I met my second older mentor on another furlough home from the mission field. This was a strange furlough, not on the Mission Board’s schedule. After just one year into our fourth year of service, Hal became sick with a combination of typhoid, amoeba, and hepatitis. His Bolivian doctor didn’t know what to do with him, so, not wanting him to die on his watch, insisted he go back home to the US for treatment. The Board deemed it a medical emergency and had him flown home immediately. That left me and the kids to finish out their school year, pack up the house, and fly home to join him. It was a scary time.

It turned out to be an entire year of recuperation. His doctor took Hal off all medications, and outlined a regimen of rest, nutrition, and gradual exercise. My job was to take care of him (and the kids, of course).

Catherine Cattell had recently moved into Friendsview Manor (where I now live). I knew of her and her husband, Everett, by reputation only. They had served a life-time as missionaries in India and were widely recognized by Indians and Americans alike for their contributions. So I was naturally hesitant (introvert that I am) at imposing myself on her, but I called and asked if I could come over for a visit. The house we were renting was just a block from Friendsview. Again, her yes was most enthusiastic.

Our friendship was instant and, as with Bess, became a highlight of each week. We shared our vocations of mission work and writing. We both had faced the challenges of being mothers on the mission field, not an easy task. All this became regular topics of conversation and I learned much from her experiences and wisdom. We laughed a lot and prayed together. She was a life-line during that difficult time. And I sensed I served in that role for her, too.

Catherine died turning my following term of service in Bolivia.

Inez Smith was number three. Having temporarily retired from the mission field for further education, Hal and I found ourselves at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, California. We were both enrolled in Ph.D. programs in the School of World Mission, as crazy as that sounds.

Inez was a well-known figure in Fuller circles. Having served for years as executive secretary to long-term seminary president David A. Hubbard, she was now widowed and retired. But that didn’t slow her down. At the time Hal and I were there, she was president of the Fuller Women’s Auxiliary. One of the main contributions of the Auxiliary was raising funds for scholarships for women in doctoral degree programs. After being at Fuller for several years, I was thrilled to earn one of those prestigious (and very helpful) scholarships.

Inez had made it a custom to meet personally with each recipient. So one evening it was my turn. I managed to find her small house on Green Street by her famous large rose garden out in front. I was a little nervous about this meeting (being me), but she put me at ease. She served me tea in beautiful old-fashioned cups (with saucers, of course) and she asked me the usual questions. Somewhere in the conversation, we clicked. She asked me to come back so we could get to know one another better. I did.

At first my visits were occasional, but when Hal left for a five-month research trip to Bolivia, Inez told me I needed to come over one evening a week. So I did. She cooked dinner. Then we talked or watched movies. That year we both celebrated milestones—my 50^th birthday and her 80^th. Our friendship was a life-line and a great comfort during my time as a single wife. Inez has been gone several decades now.

Shortly after moving into this retirement community, I met Harriet Fowler, who became my next older “best friend.” I’ve written about our friendship in other blogs (May 2022, June 2023), so won’t repeat the details here. She died this year just short of her 105^th birthday. I still miss her.

None of these four older friends—Bess, Catherine, Inez, and Harriet—were mentors in an intentional sense. They didn’t deliberately set out to teach me stuff or guide me along the path of life. They befriended me. They were all around 30 years older than me, and because of the difference in age and life experience, I had more to gain from the relationships. And I did learn, more from their stories and examples than any formal lessons they might have taught.

One important thing all these older friends taught me was that it’s possible to be vibrant, alive, creative, caring, beautiful, and, at the same time—old. I remember thinking, shortly after I left Bess to go back to Bolivia, that someday far off in the future, I also wanted to be a beautiful old lady.

They all helped me face growing older as something to actually look forward to, with a sense of adventure and of hope that God would keep on using me.

Now, of course, it’s my turn to pass on this vision to those younger than myself. God grant me the privilege. 

How weighty do I want to be?

In this time of life, the word “weight” has a double meaning. The most obvious refers to poundage. It seems that the older I grow, the easier it is to put on the pounds, and the harder to take them off. And what’s here on my body is distributed in strange configurations. It’s like a heavy weight (that word again) is pressing down from above, making me shorter and spreading me out. When buying new clothes, it’s not just color and style I consider, but what the garment is able to hide. I tell myself that at this age, none of that should matter. But for some reason, it does.

The second meaning of the word “weight” has to do with a serious dose of wisdom some older people exude. We respect these older gentlemen and ladies, not just for their white hair and slow deliberate manners, but because the experiences they’ve lived through seem to have given them a perspective worth heeding. When they speak, we listen. The weight of wisdom.

Quakers have a special take on this kind of weight. They refer to certain people as “weighty Friends.” As a young Friend, I observed that these awesome creatures were mostly old and mostly men. Since then, my perspective has shifted and I recognize many women who gained this reputation, not all of them elderly.

Quite a few years back, in an elders meeting, someone referred to me as a weighty Friend, and everyone solemnly agreed. No one even snickered.

My first reaction was shock (unexpressed in typical Quakerly fashion). My second reaction was laughter (silent, of course). I thought of “Fat Quaker” as a likely synonym, but my need to diet was not extreme at the time. If the pudgy-cheeked man on the oatmeal box were only frowning, he would be the perfect model.

My third reaction has been a lot of pondering and reflecting. I still don’t have it all figured out. I realize that although “weighty Friend” is a uniquely Quaker term, the concept is universal. There are those in every denomination, social group, or extended family whose wisdom is obvious. They are people who have earned wide respect through a life well-lived. They carry a certain moral weight.

But I am a Quaker and “weighty Friend” is one of those delightful Quaker terms that’s fun to say, although the exact meaning slips and slides around a bit. I ask myself, is this remnant from early Quakerism still meaningful? Helpful? And what does it mean in reference to me?

I love the old traditions, even the archaic words. Some of them carry an ambiance of holiness, order, and, yes, Quaker culture. Some still manage to be useful, even after all these years. Maybe “weighty Friend” is one of them?

How am I to hold this term in reference to myself? To be honest, I don’t feel ready to adopt this as part of my identity. Perhaps this just shows my occasional resistance to growing older. Do I also have to grow more solemn, stern, and stereotypically Quaker? I certainly don’t always feel wise.

Actually, I’ve known some older people who were not only wise, they were funny as well. Sometimes hilariously so. Maybe humor is a part of wisdom? If asked if I wanted to be known as funny or as wise, I think I’d answer, “Both, please!” Could one be both weighty and light-hearted at once? I hope so.

As to whether or not I’m really becoming “weighty” as I age, some words from the Apostle Paul come to mind. (By the way, if Paul had had the foresight to have become a Quaker, he would have been a weighty one.)

Here are his words: “By the grace given to me, I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you” (Romans 12:3). And, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better [weightier] than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3).

This gives me perspective. I think “weighty Friend” or even “weighty older person” may be a helpful concept, as long as I apply it to other people. But I don’t need to wonder whether I am or not. It’s not for me to say. If anyone ever calls me that again, I’ll either chuckle out loud or keep my chortle silent, depending on the sensibilities of the person addressing me.

Having worked that through, I feel so much lighter.

Babies and other cute beasts

 A friend and I took a brief retreat on the Oregon coast last week. One morning we were just sitting and looking out the window at the ocean and the people walking the path just a few yards away.

Then Francie exclaimed, “Oh! How cute!”

I responded with, “Yes! A fluffy puppy going poop in the grass!”

She came back with, “What?!” (She didn’t actually say, “You’re crazy!” but she communicated it with the look on her face.)

It turns out that we were looking at the same scenario but seeing different things. She was looking at the bundled-up baby in the man’s arms, and I saw the dog who was, indeed, doing its business on the edge of the path. Two different perspectives. Both kind’a cute.

I have a life-time of memories of cute dogs, most of them named Mokey. When I was two-years-old, Mokey was a small cocker spaniel my parents considered an appropriate pet for a little girl. What I remember about Mokey comes mainly from black and white photos. My parents told me that one day I did something terrible-two-ish to the dog. He bit me, and they took him to the pound that very day.

Mokey #2 was a black and white springer spaniel with long ears and a playful sweet disposition. We all loved him. In my teenage years Mokey was a golden collie and my special friend during the times I needed one.

During the Bolivian years we lived in the city of La Paz with little yard space, so we decided not to have a dog, until the day our daughter brought home a fetching terrier puppy (saying the neighbors gave him to her, which wasn’t exactly true), and we couldn’t resist. We named him Mokey.  After Mokey’s untimely death (ant poison) we adopted a Pekinese and named her Cindy-Lou-Who (who was not more than two); we couldn’t name her Mokey so soon after the death of her beloved predecessor.

We loved all these dogs. Dogs can be the most affectionate and cutest critters ever.

The same for babies. I must humbly admit that both my children and all my grandchildren were over-the-top super cute babies. When pushing the baby down the street in a stroller, people passing us would stop and gasp. (My memory may be a little faulty on that point.)

But—and here I come to the main point of this blog, the cutest of all cuties is yet to come. Our granddaughter and her husband have just informed us that we are going to be GREAT GRANDPARENTS! For the first time ever! Wow!

Good writers don’t use many exclamation points. And they are parsimonious with adjectives, but that announcement has just got to be the most Phenomenal! Splendiferous! Fantastic! Amazing! Incredible! Exhilerating! and Exponentially Outlandish! news of all time!

Can you tell this is my first grandchild? Can you tell I’m excited?

Get ready! Cuteness is coming.

(Maybe they’ll name him/her Mokey.)

The soon-to-be-parents, Bree and Jade

                        cute baby tree surrounded by parents, grands, and greats

Strange and lonely times

It’s been a strange couple of weeks. I’ve been living on the moon; at least that’s what it felt like. Silent, moving imperceptibly through deep space, with planet earth a distant shrouded globe. (OK, so I’m exaggerating a little.)

We’ve both been facing physical issues, Hal recovering from hernia surgery and putting cold packs on his rebellious neck. Me spinning through our two-room apartment while standing still. We were quite a pair.

With little desire to chat with other people, we kept to our apartment. Isolation is the word. You’d think without the distraction of people or meetings I’d have lots of time to pray or write, which are supposed to be my priorities. And I did—have the time. But I failed at using it in any kind of creative endeavor. I read some good books (and some not-so-good ones), watched some entertaining movies, took naps, and tried to reason myself out of feeling guilty for all of the above.

We broke our people-fast yesterday. It was necessary as I had a face-to-face doctor's appointment in Portland that I really wanted to keep. I needed Hal to drive as one of my irrational phobias is a sense of panic at the thought of driving in a big city (similar to ophidiophobia—fear of snakes; I don’t think the Greeks had a name for fear of city traffic). Thanks to God, Hal woke up feeling good and able to drive.

I really wanted to keep this appointment because I really wanted to meet my doctor.

I became Dr. Preston’s patient in 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic, and we’ve been meeting every few months ever since—all by Zoom.

Dr. Preston threw me a rope of hope back during our first Zoom meeting. It followed four years of trying to figure out what was wrong with me, taking a battery of high-powered tests, meeting with six specialists, and finally having my primary care physician tell me, “Sorry. We don’t know what’s wrong with you. There’s nothing more we can do.”

A recommendation led me to Dr. Juliette Preston, a neurologist at a research hospital and head of their Headache Clinic. In that first meeting, having read the results of all the tests and hearing me talk about it, she diagnosed my condition as vestibular migraines. Just having a name for the Thing was huge. Having a doctor who believed me was even more huge. We’ve been meeting since, experimenting with vitamin therapy and medications, both of which are giving scant results so far, but hope is strong.

I was not disappointed by our face-to-face visit. This doctor is a warm, caring person, and being in the same room made it real. She is also a brilliant research physician, part of a team searching for answers. Hal and I returned home renewed in spirit and decided to eat in the communal dining room where we had a good conversation with a couple who had just moved into the retirement community.

It feels like our time of isolation might be over.

I have a meeting this morning and while I don’t particularly enjoy committee meetings, I like the people in the group, so I’m actually looking forward to it. And tomorrow a friend and I are going on a mini-vacation, a few nights in a motel facing the Columbia River. We plan to do nothing but nest, look out the window, go out to eat, and probably have some good conversation. It’s refreshing to have something to look forward to.

Reflecting back, I can see that times of solitude are sometimes necessary. And sometimes we find ourselves experiencing an isolation that’s not necessary or good. (We were edging toward that place last week.) But whatever the case, relationships are always necessary. As Barbra Streisand sang, we’re “people who need people.”

I need periods of quiet every day. That’s my personality and it’s necessary for me to be creative in prayer or writing. But if I’m not in active face-to-face relationships, isolation is sterile. Uncreative. I need the rhythm of quiet and engagement.

I think of people, many of them here in the retirement center, who are isolated through no choice of their own, people with health issues, or people who shy away from social engagements. Sometimes and in some seasons, I’m tempted to close myself in my apartment. But I have a choice.

How can I encourage my sisters and brothers without being a pest? How can I be a better friend?

I need to keep reflecting, which I’ll do in quiet. And then do something, which will be out in the neighborhood.

What to remember, what to forget

Yesterday I participated in a lovely family ritual. Hal and I drove to the small town of Monmouth, Oregon to share with our granddaughter the adventure of moving into her university dorm room as a freshman at Western Oregon University. Her parents, younger brother, and the other set of grandparents made up our group.

We parked outside the large dorm and all of us helped transport boxes up to the fifth floor. Hal and I were allowed to only carry pillows, while the rest of the stuff was heaped onto a cart. Paige began putting stuff away and decorating her room and we sort of helped, mostly cheered her on. We all met her roommate, then went out for a special meal together, and said our goodbyes. She was glowing with excitement and I know having us all there for this rite of passage made her feel loved.

It all got me remembering my own rite of passage. My father had just gotten a new job and my mother was disabled, so they couldn’t accompany me from central California up to Newberg, Oregon. They put me and my two suitcases on a Greyhound bus and waved goodbye. I remember nervously changing buses in Portland, then sitting in the front seat of the local bus to Newberg, worried about finding the place to get off. I remember walking with my two suitcases the two blocks to the campus. I was frightened and alone, but some friendly upper-classmen welcomed me, and somehow it all worked out. Memories.

At this stage of life memories become important and we tend to spend time bringing them up. Remembering. And forgetting. The two go together. There are memories we cherish, and there are memories we wish we could forget. And, of course, there are countless things we forget that we wish we could remember—names, appointments, and where we put those dumb glasses.

Isaiah the prophet wrote some fascinating words on this subject. Well, his words might be more confusing than fascinating, but I’ve been working my way through the apparent contradictions. The subject is “the former things.” The past and our memories of it.

Isaiah writes to the Israelite people at a traumatic time in their history, telling them to “Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come. I say, ‘My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please’” (Isaiah 46:9-10).

Isaiah was calling people to a collective memory of all the ways God had worked among them in their past. He was admonishing them to remember the promises, reconnect with what they understood, through the prophets, of God’s purposes in history, of the glorious future he was preparing for them.

The spiritual discipline of remembering had long been a practice of the people of God. God had them build altars at places of military victories or where various miracles had taken place, such as the crossing of the Jordan River. Even their religious festivals were exercises in remembrance: the Passover Feast that celebrated deliverance from slavery in Egypt or the raucous feast of Purim, remembering God’s deliverance from genocide as recounted in the book of Esther. Remember, says the Lord.

But around the same time Isaiah intoned his Remember! speech, he gave another prophetic order, telling the people to “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland” (Isaiah 43:18-19).

It seems the prophet was encouraging the people to look beyond their past failures in following God and the consequent years of conquest, punishment, and captivity. In the wasted wilderness of their sufferings, God in his mercy would provide springs of living water and a way through to a better future. Something new. Something unimagined.

We’re not the ancient Israelites and we aren’t facing imminent conquest and deportation to Assyria or Babylonia (although one could draw parallels—but I won’t do that here). We’re God’s children living in the 21^st Century in a land of privilege. More specifically, the “we” this blog addresses are people living in the final stages of life. As elders with a life-time of experiences behind us, a present life that frequently challenges us, and a future that’s coming sooner than we want, remembering and forgetting are major mental activities. Appropriately so.

So, what’s it to be, Isaiah? Are we to remember the former things? Or are we to forget the former things? Is this a one-or-the-other proposition? An either/or choice?

Or is it both/and? I suspect so. Like so many biblical “contradictions,” this might be called a paradox, an integration of two unlike or opposite things. Things like remembering and forgetting. Apparently, we’re to do both.

If so, the questions become What do we remember? and What do we forget? The answer is probably more complex than “remember the good stuff and forget the bad.” Add that to the fact that our memories are not as reliable as we usually think they are. (Just ask a brother or sister what they remember about a certain childhood incident, and note how different their memory is from yours.)

What should be remember? God’s faithfulness, even before we knew his name. I remember being in the hospital at three years old to have my tonsils out. Parents couldn’t stay the night back then. I woke up in the night alone in a strange place. Maybe I cried; I don’t remember that part. What I do remember is this woman with kind eyes who came into the room, said soft things to me, then picked me up and took me all around the hospital, showing me stuff. She stopped in front of the nursery window and we looked at all the babies. Then she carried me back to my room and I fell asleep. The next morning my mother was sitting by my bed. And I got to eat ice cream and Jello and no vegetables at all. That’s a good memory.

There are so many more, all through my life. Big stuff and small kindnesses. People who loved me and strangers who smiled. Hard stuff too. Failures I learned from, mistakes I was forgiven for, the candy I stole from the grocery store for which I later confessed and made restitution. And harder things from which I thought at the time I’d never recover. But I did. Remembering all that is helpful in figuring out why I am who I am today. And how God has always been with me.

What should I forget? “Forgive and forget” I’ve found to be impossible. At least literally. But maybe when we think about past hurts and wounds, forget really means an emotional forgetting, remembering but without pain, bitterness, or tears. In Christian spirituality it’s called “the healing of memories.” Is that how we’re supposed to forget?

Maybe at times we’re called on to forget “the way we’ve always done it.” Maybe churches and denominations need to forget some traditions in order to communicate to people today. Maybe some old doctrinal interpretations need to be let go (forgotten) in the light of continuing revelation. Maybe.

This subject is worth coming back to and reflecting on.

In the meantime, just remember to remember the former things. It's important.

And remember to forget them. God wants to do something new. I like the sound of that.

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.