“Age Shame”—the hidden disease

 I was visiting with a good friend last week. She was telling me about a new insight she had on how shame is a part of growing older in our culture. Even in people with a fairly well-balanced sense of self (we both consider ourselves in that category, true or not), shame about aging seems to express itself in all kinds of circumstances.

Recently my friend was driving a family member to an appointment and she found herself asking, “Are you uneasy with someone my age driving?” She happens to be a good, confident driver. No need to ask that question; it just appeared from somewhere, as though there was something inherently dangerous about “someone my age” driving.

I’ve never thought of myself as struggling with feelings of shame, but as we continued our conversation, I began to recognize a problem. We thought of different “reasons” an older person might feel shame. Hearing loss is one fact of aging that produces shame. It gets embarrassing to keep asking, “What?” This is the source of a lot of old-people jokes. Hal has faced this for several years now, and finally, it’s my turn. I’m realizing I’m asking the what-question more frequently. Sometimes I find myself smiling agreeably at what someone has said, just because I don’t want to have to say What? again. So I went to audiologist and testing showed I need hearing-aids. Which introduces a new potential source of shame—those unsightly mechanical devices sticking out your ear that announce to the world, “I’m old.”

Another potential source of shame: realizing that we need a cane, walker, or wheel chair. I have a problem with vestibular migraines which, while not producing pain, make me dizzy. So I’ve taken to using a walking stick which helps my sense of balance, but I feel apologetic (totally illogical!) and find myself hoping no one mistakes it for a cane. Silly, but real.

Any more when I’m in a large family gathering, I find the younger people frequently asking me, “Are you doing Ok, Mom (or Grandma)? Can I get you anything?” In planning a hike (something the family does a lot of), people now often ask, “But can Nancy do it? Should we do something else?” They’re actually being thoughtful, but it all makes me feel older and frailer than I am. (I am not frail at all!) The fact is, hiking really does make the dizziness worse, and I hate that. It turns me into a problem for other people. I’m identifying my feelings as shame.

We listed other potential sources of shame: needing frequent naps; not “getting stuff done;” forgetting appointments, names, and what day it is, etc.; not being able to do things we used to excel at; more frequent trips to the doctor; a changing body that doesn’t conform to our culture’s vision of human beauty. And the list goes on. You could undoubtedly add to it.

 Psychologist Harriet Lerner, writing in Psychology Today (2014), points to the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about age. “Women have long been shamed for growing older…. Women have actually been taught to conceal their age, to joke and even lie about it, to treat it as a shameful little secret.” Lerner also notes that, “Considering the horribly shaming messages that people receive around issues of race, ethnicity, and sexual orientation, the matter of age may seem like a trivial one. But it’s not. Colluding with the notion that older is lesser disempowers women [and men], convincing us that we are less valuable with each passing birthday.”

To a large extent, age-shame is a culture phenomenon. Our western, middle-class culture emphasizes youth, even in aging people who are encouraged to take drugs or buy products that make us feel or look younger. Other cultures, especially in the majority world, honor the aged among them. This is certainly true of the Aymara culture of Bolivia where I lived for so many years. While the old men and women among these people suffer the usual problems of aging, they don’t feel shame, nor do their family members shame them or joke about aging. They honor the elderly and seek out their wisdom.

Shame is different than guilt. Guilt refers to negative feelings when we know we’ve done something wrong. Guilt usually points to truth and calls for confession or restitution. Shame, on the other hand, most often refers to negative feelings about who we are. It can be totally illogical. Such is shame in being old. Everyone’s is headed in this direction. It’s a reality of life and there’s not much we can do about it.

Lehner says, “To invite joy and happiness in, we can break the vicious circle of shame, silence, stigma, and secrecy that surround who we truly are. And that includes how old we are.”

I have some older friends who celebrate their age, live actively, and engage in the world around them, who have no need to hide how old they are. They serve as models to me. I’m that way—some of the time. Other times I feel shame for all sorts of things. I’ve not been conscious of this, but I hope that now, by recognizing and naming it, I’m taking a step forward in dealing with it in a healthy manner.

I’m praying the words of Psalms 40 and 41 concerning the condition of shame:

O Lord, have mercy on me and heal me.
Set my feet upon a rock.
Put a new song in my heart.
O Lord, have mercy on me.

How good to unapologetically accept who we are and just get on with life.

The cold of spring--on the death of a friend

 A dear friend died last week. Her death didn’t shock anyone; we’d been watching and waiting for several months. Hospice joined the team a few weeks ago and we knew our time with her was precious.

Harriet was 104 years old when she died. For most of the last seven years since we became friends, she was mobile (if a bit slow), alert, curious, and possessing a great gift of friendship. I benefitted from that gift.

We first met seven years ago in the retirement community’s health center. We were both there to get our flu shots. We introduced ourselves and began talking. Shots finished, the nurse suggested I accompany Harriet back to her room as she was visually impaired. I was certainly willing to slowly guide this dear blind lady, but I soon discovered how mistaken my perspective was. Without a cane or walker, and with vision that was blurry at best, this lady knew how to maneuver the halls and elevators of this building. She had all the routes memorized. And she did it briskly. So, instead of “helping” Harriet I walked alongside and enjoyed extending our conversation.

When we got to her door, she invited me to come back another time so we could continue getting to know each other. I took her up on it and thus began a rich and delightful friendship. We decided we were “kindred spirits” (shades of Anne of Green Gables). It was true.

Mostly we talked. We shared life-stories. I loved hearing about her growing-up years as a missionary kid in the Philippines, her adjustment challenges moving back to the US, and her adventures in marriage, child-rearing, and as a kindergarten teacher.

Harriet was a good listener as well as a good story teller. She wanted to know all about my life and my family, of course. We both loved sharing about our kids, grandkids, and, in her case, great grandkids. We learned a lot of names!

We read books together—or, rather, I read aloud and she listened and responded. Our favorites were Spring Wind by Gladis DePree, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, and Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Alice, the last book we read, was so clever and  funny that many times I had to lay the book in my lap so we could laugh out loud together.

The grief I’m feeling now isn’t the same as the grief experienced at the death of a beloved spouse or child, or the untimely death of a loving parent. Several of my friends are walking this grief path where the life changes and emotional hurdles are profound. This is a grief that takes time to live through.

But grief at the death of a friend is real, and I’m letting myself live into the sense of loss, knowing that my friend is home safe, with perfect vision, reunited with family and friends of years past. I still miss her here where I live.

A poem that helps me understand and walk this sadness is one C. S. Lewis wrote at the death of his dear friend, Charles Williams:  

Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard
To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change,
Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky,
To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens.
The slant alters. I can’t see the old contours. It’s a larger world
Then I once through it. I wince, caught in the bleak air that blows on the ridge.
Is it the first sting of the great winter, the world waning? Or the cold of spring?

A hard question and worth talking a whole night on. But with whom?
Of whom can I now ask guidance? With what friend concerning your death
Is it worth while to exchange thoughts unless—oh unless it were you?

I’ll finish with a short liturgical poem from the book of liturgies by Douglas McKelvey, Every Moment Holy, Vol. 2, Death, Grief, and Hope:

I would rest my sorrows in you, O Christ.
In time let the long bearing of them
make me more empathetic and available
to those around me, who in their lives
will also greatly suffer and greatly grieve
the loss of those they love.

I will acknowledge my sadness and be open to the good work God is doing in me as a result of my friendship with this marvelous person.

 

Who says zoos are only for kids?

 Eleven residents and three staff members boarded the bus at 9:00 Monday morning. As we pulled out the drive-way, the conversation centered on different responses to the question, “When was the last time you went to the zoo?” We all remembered taking our kids and later the grandkids and enjoying their excitement. But since then? The average answer was around 30 years.

Yet here we were, residents of our retirement community, excited to be off to the Oregon Zoo. This was part of our community’s efforts to keep its residents active and learning for as long as possible, hopefully right up to the “end.” I came supplied with my walking sticks and by the end of our visit was glad I had them.

As we descended from the bus and entered the front gates, we discovered that this was Kids’ Day, the day schools and clubs brought boys and girls to see the animals. There were lots of kids all around us, jumping, running, shouting, totally hyper. Everywhere. We all enjoy kid-watching, but another day might have been a better choice. Never mind! It was good to be surrounded by youth.

I noticed a difference in the make-up of the zoo. I remembered rows of cages with pacing animals, something that had always bothered me, even though the exotic animals fascinated. But no more. We walked into a beautiful Northwest forest, with a sign indicating which animals we might find if we looked hard enough. It might have been because of all the noisy kids, but the animals seemed to have gone into an unseasonable hibernation. At any rate, the trail was lovely. I told Hal the hike alone made the trip worthwhile.

Finally we spied a huge black bear. Curled up and sound asleep. Apparently well fed. Around the corner a mountain goat nibbled grass along a small cliff. Thrill.

As we meandered through the different habitats, we saw a few animals: the back end of a polar bear slipping into the water, a lethargic but impressive rhino, a tiger barely visible asleep under the bamboo trees, two leaf-nibbling giraffes, and some caged animals—monkeys, bald-eagles, and condors standing on branches and looking bored. I thought of the free soaring condors of the Andes and understood their boredom, even though the cage was tall.

Mostly what we saw were—oodles of strange, exotic and infinitely interesting people! Which leads me to think—what about a people zoo, with paths for the animals to wander and gawk at us, if they can find us napping under the trees.

The other thing I noticed was how quickly I grew tired. Thank God for my walking sticks. Walking fast makes me dizzy, and we did have to hustle along at a moderate pace as we were only given two hours for the whole adventure. We took a picnic-lunch break in the middle; that helped.

And now for the miracle! At the beginning, we had all separated into small groups to make our way around the place. Joan joined with Hal and me, and we occasionally met with others on the different trails. But, and I’m not sure how, we all managed to meet back at the front gates at the designated hour. No stragglers or lost people. I was amazed at how responsible we all were (and at our age, that trait can diminish).

Although I probably won’t be going back to the zoo any time soon, I have good memories and a few good photos of sleeping animals.

Which leaves me asking—what next? A short hike on the Pacific Trail? The circus? The planetarium? Or my favorite, the beach. Whichever it is, I’m game.

How Bird-Legs morphed into Dr. Nancy

 Names are important enough that we want people to remember ours. It matters. I’ve had trouble remembering names in the past and employed various tricks to help me. Lately it’s gotten worse.

Most of us have had various names, nick names, and titles during our life time, some more important than others. My parents named me Nancy Jane. They both had beloved relatives named Nancy and Jane, the main reason they chose that combination for me.

My mother’s favorite sister, my Aunt Nancy, began manifesting the symptoms of schizophrenia shortly after her twentieth birthday. She later had to be institutionalized, the accepted response to that condition in those days. My mom took this hard and grieved the loss for the rest of her life. By giving me this name, she honored her sister and kept her memory close. I, of course, didn’t realize any of this as I was growing up.

My parents and siblings never used both names when addressing me. But when Grandma Forsythe took on a certain tone of voice and said, “Nancy Jane!” I knew I was in trouble.

Names have meanings and histories, but my parents apparently didn’t think about that. They liked the names and wanted to honor their family members. But when I became a young adult, I researched my names and discovered that both Nancy and Jane (along with Ann, Jean, and Jan) mean grace. Some resources say gift of grace. I loved that word, referring to God’s unmerited favor. I decided I’d accept that as a blessing on my life, however unintentional. I was God’s double-whammy grace child.

Grade school was a time for nick-names and I inherited two. The first was bestowed on me by my classmates. In those days, girls had to wear dresses to school, complete with saddle shoes and socks. Because of the lack of protection jeans would have given me, I suffered numerous scraped and bloody knees. (I was never very lady-like.) I was also a skinny kid with legs like sticks. So the kids nick-named me Bird-Legs. Actually it didn’t bother me. I was tough and could out-run most of the boys (one reason for the bloody knees).

The other nick-name was self-imposed. Nancy was a popular name in those days and there were three of us in that small class. We formed a secret club and called each other Nanny-Goat. Nanny-Goat 1, Nanny-Goat 2, and Nanny-Goat 3. I think I was number three. We only used the name when no one else could hear. I would not have tolerated having that name broadcast!

Fortunately, by high school both nick-names had dropped by the wayside.

I received my next name in college. I majored in Spanish. There was a group of us students who went all through college in the Spanish program and we became close friends. In Freshman year the professor insisted we adopt Spanish names. I chose Anita (another grace name) because I loved its gentle sound. We used our Spanish names with each other, even out of classes. It helped us become a cohesive group. In fact, I have a few long-time friends who still call me Anita.

In the years after college, I changed my last name and gained a new title: Mrs. That was followed a few years later by Mommy, and many years later by Grandma. I love those names. But through it all, I was still Nancy. The person came before the role, but the relationships were enriched because Hal and I were persons first.

(This sounds very idealistic; in reality it has not at all been smooth. Finding our identity and relating to others from a position of authenticity is a long and messy business, whatever our names, but that’s another topic.)

In my late forties and early fifties, I earned another title. Earned is the right word. I worked hard, worried some, and prayed even more. And used up a lot of paper. Then one day I marched across a stage, was handed another piece of paper, and pronounced a Doctor of Philosophy.

I was momentarily impressed. But my Quaker sensibilities quickly kicked in and I found myself reluctant to use my title, embarrassed when introduced with it attached to my real name. That was a problem because after graduation Hal and I accepted a joint position at a Christian university in Bolivia, with the goal of beginning a masters program in intercultural studies. Hal had gotten his degree at the same time and we privately referred to ourselves as a pair-a-docs. Latin Americans place a great deal of status on academic degrees, and for this university to be getting two of these critters at once was a big deal. We were “doctored” right and left, and it became very uncomfortable.

I asked the students in my classes to please just call me Nancy. That turned out to be culturally unacceptable. They couldn’t do it. Finally one student came up with a compromise. Rather than use the whole title with my whole name (what everyone else was doing), my students settled on Doctora Nancy. Since it was only semi-formal and said with affection, I accepted.

Now that I’m older and living here in the retirement community, I’m back to being just Nancy. Which is more than fine with me.

God calls me by my name, too. I’ve never heard him audibly, but sometimes, if I’m listening, I sense him whisper, Nancy. Other times he calls me daughter. I sense affection and delight. But mostly God calls me child. My child, he addresses me. It’s almost as though I’m very small again and sitting on his lap. Even though here I am, growing older and living in a community for people my age, he still calls me my child.

Never once has God called me my dear old lady. Not once. Not ever.

I’m still Nancy, his grace child, his beloved daughter. That’s the title from which I take my identity. That’s who I am.

Who are you?

Monkeys and squirrels—the dangers of aging

 I just finished reading Spare, Prince Harry’s fascinating memoir of his upbringing as a royal and his struggles to become a person in his own right. The book is an honest account (as much as I can tell) without an unnecessary trashing of the royal family. It presents the royals as human beings pressured by the unhuman expectations laid on British royalty. I enjoyed reading his side of the story, although I know there are other sides yet to be aired.

The section I want to highlight here concerns Harry’s experience in the British military, where he was deployed to the war zones of Afghanistan. Part of his training was as a helicopter pilot, a training that is rigorous and time-consuming. He describes the particular difficulty of mastering the art of hovering. He learned that the two dangers that threaten the ability to stabilize a hovering helicopter are the “hover monkeys” and the “head squirrels.”

In his own words,

… flying the helicopter, I learned, wasn’t the hard part. Hovering was. At least six long lessons were devoted to this one task, which sounded easy at first and quickly came to seem impossible. In fact, the more you practiced hovering, the more impossible it seemed.

The main reason was a phenomenon called “hover monkeys.” Just above the ground a helicopter falls prey to a fiendish confluence of factors: air flow, downdraft, gravity. First it wobbles, then it rocks, then it pitches and yaws—as if invisible monkeys are hanging from both its sides, yanking. To land the helicopter you have to shake off those hover monkeys, and the only way to do that is by … ignoring them. [p. 165]

       Hover monkeys threaten the helicopter from the outside. The other danger comes from inside the pilot’s brain: the head squirrels. A novice pilot needs to learn to fly a helicopter, not just technically, but tactically. He needs to learn to multitask—read a map, locate a target, talk on the radio, fire missiles, and pee into a bag, sometime simultaneously. The head squirrels romping inside the brain—fears, emotions, memories, a girl friend back home—“are the ancient enemies of human concentration,” Harry was told by the instructor. He concluded that what he needed was “a massive neuro-reengineering” in his brain. “The only way to get rid of head squirrels” his instructor went on, is “iron discipline. A helicopter is easily mastered, but the head takes more time and more patience.” [p. 169]

Here I am, again, pulling metaphors out of the air (or, in this case, out of a book). I am seeing that monkeys and squirrels are two dangers we face in the process of growing older, one danger coming from the outside and one from in our heads.

The monkeys are real. It’s not easy growing old. (Pardon the cliché.) Our bodies really are on a downhill trajectory. Ask anyone with a bad back if it’s real or not. Around us friends and family members are dying, and any more, they’re not those older than us; they’re our peers. We face the inevitability of our own death, perhaps preceded by mental debilitation.

In addition to the losses of health and loved ones, we face the loss of livelihood, of stuff, of the family home, of the energy to travel and have adventures, of the ability to be productive and contribute, of a sense of significance, and so on. Sorry to be so negative. But the monkeys are real.

The mind squirrels are our reactions to all of the above. I’ve noticed, as I’m sure you have too, that different people respond in different ways. Some face the realities of aging with determination to live a meaningful life right to the end. Others moan, whine, and pine away, or at least approach that dark road. I suppose we’re all tempted. Facing the mind squirrels has to do with attitude, of course, with intentionality and determination. And with taking practical steps to ensure that this time of life is also one of growth.

I’m going to stop writing this stuff now, lest the blog sink into an advice column. Besides most of you have thought about this, and there are excellent resources to help us with the monkeys and the squirrels (for example, Joan Chittister’s optimistic book, The Gift of Years).

I need to confess where this metaphor breaks down, as most metaphors do. It’s the idea of this time of life as a hovering. Between what and what? Between life and death? Between health and decay? Between purpose and futility? No! I disagree. We’re not hovering at all. We’re living. We’re here and the time is now.

The same choice that God gave to the children of Israel as they were about to enter the promised land, that choice he gives to us today.

This day I call the heavens and the earth as witnesses … that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him. For the Lord is your life…. [Deuteronomy 30:19-20]

It’s a choice God gives to all his people, no matter their age. So, in a sense, we all hover, but our choices determine the outcome.

Well, I said I wouldn’t give advice. Also, I’m known to hate easy answers. But here I am, about to offer you wise (or otherwise) counsel in the form of an easy answer. Are you ready? Here it is:

Tame the monkeys and stop feeding the squirrels.

I wonder if Prince Harry, though still young, might agree with me.

 

On being spaghettified

 A week ago I watched a PBS news feature on some of the latest discoveries in astrophysics. Science journals have reported on a star swallowing a planet. At least that’s the tentative theory of what was observed from the mega-telescopes. The commentator explained that when stars get older, they get bigger and sometimes will gobble up the planets closest to them. Our sun will do this first to Mercury and Venus. It’s far enough in the future that Earth has time to prepare, we were told.

And then when stars get old enough, they die and in the process can get sucked up into a black hole.

Every galaxy apparently has its own black hole. The commentator defined the black hole as a deep well of gravity that pulls objects, like stars, into it. Sometimes the gravitational pull is so rapid that it stretches the star out like a long thread of spaghetti. This is known in astrophysics as spaghettification.

Although I don’t understand the physics of it, the words are delightful. The black hole spaghettifies the star. The star is, therefore, spaghettified. It’s known as death by spaghettification. Poor star.

The universe is a scary place.

This amazing gem from physics yields another metaphor. Of course.

I think I’ve been spaghettified. Amazingly enough, I’ve survived, but the experience serves me as a lesson and a warning.

In spite of my intention of flowing into a peaceful and gently fruitful old age, in the last month I let myself be stretched thin by too many commitments and activities. I gave three public poetry readings, something I enjoy doing occasionally. I led two large worship gatherings, and gave leadership to several small groups. This in addition to my normal editing responsibilities and writing deadlines.

Groups, noise, and motion trigger my vestibular migraines, so I ended up spinning, nauseous, and exhausted most of the time. Stretched out beyond comfort. Spaghettified.

This week the calendar is refreshingly free. I’m still panting but I expect peace to descend. I’m sitting and breathing, reading a good book, and praying my way back to normality (which is something I’ve never been able to define).

So, have I learned my lesson? Will I heed the warning? Maybe. At least somewhat. But I suspect this is a situation I will continue to face, a lesson I will continue to learn. It’s partly coming to terms with the reality of aging. It may be a cliché to note that I can’t do what I used to do as fast as I used to do it. But cliches can be true.

Are you listening, Nancy?

St. Paul himself experienced aging and overextension. The man was a workaholic up to his death (though it was not through a black hole). But he penned these encouraging words: “… we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Can I permit myself the possible heresy of a paraphrase? As usual, yes. Here goes: “Though outwardly I am being spaghettified, inwardly the sun is shining on a beautiful new day.”

The challenge is to avoid the outward spaghettification while inwardly living into the beautiful new day, sponsored by the One who makes all things new (2 Corinthians 5:17). Even old people.

May the Force be with you.

Twisted hands, cheerful heart

 Yesterday we celebrated Mother’s Day with a barbecue at my son’s home. At the end of the meal, David asked everyone to give a memory of their mother, and we went around the table. David said some nice things about me. Hal reminisced about his mom… and so on. When my turn came up the only thing that popped into my head was the interesting coincidence that that very day, May 14, was also my mother’s birthday. How amazing, right? Everyone said their own version of Wow! and we went on to the next subject.

Later I wondered why I hadn’t said something more significant about this woman I remember with so much gratitude. Something about her kindness, her simple meals, how she read books to us every night, how she sewed my Easter dress one year and bought me a bonnet and shiny patent leather shoes to go with it. Actually, this is all rather normal. Not especially interesting. Nothing funny or extraordinary. Just common ordinary grace.

But what’s wrong with that?

OK. If there’s one thing that stands out in my memories of Mom, it’s her hands. When I was in grade school, the swelling and pain in her feet and hands were finally diagnosed as rheumatoid arthritis. My parents didn’t make a big deal about the diagnosis, so there was no family trauma surrounding it. Mom began to take medications for the pain and inflammation, but she never talked about it or complained. She just kept on doing mom stuff and going off to work everyday.

Both my parents were public school teachers, Dad in the high school and Mom in primary school. Mom continued teaching, but I noticed the swelling in her hands and that it was becoming harder for her to do stuff around the house. We kids had our chores, but we didn’t always cheerfully comply.

By the time I was a high school freshman, her hands and feet had become bent, swollen and deformed. She was declared legally disabled and began to receive disability compensation from the teachers’ union. My parents handled this calmly so we kids saw no reason to be alarmed. Life went on. She became a stay-at-home mom again, going about her duties with a cheerful spirit

But with the years her limbs became more and more twisted and her whole body was affected in different ways. She died at the age of 57, more from the effects of years of taking Corticosteroids for the pain than from the disease itself.

Sometime after her death, I was doing research on my family background, and I came across a kind of manifesto Mom had written when she was 17. It’s entitled, “My Ideal Woman,” and is a list of all the characteristics she wanted to grow into. In the introduction, she admits that, “My Ideal Woman is so idealistic as to be rather fictional sounding.” A list of 14 points follows, betraying both the idealism and the immaturity of a teenager. What was especially poignant to me was that the first two points had to do with hands. She wrote of her “ideal woman,”

1.     She does not have to excel in outward beauty but must show character in the mold of her face and in the shape of her hands.

2.     Her hands are shapely and she has well-kept nails.

It’s a mercy she couldn’t see ahead to the hands life finally dealt her.

I will list a few other of her points. They all make me smile.

6.      She does not think of ‘self’ first and is cheerful except when it is impossible to be so. (A little bit of realism there.)

7.      All of her clothes are made by her own hands (except for wraps, accessories, and undergarments). (So glad for the clarification.)

8.      She is healthy and has suffered no illnesses save those common to most people such as measles and mumps.

9.      She scorns gossip and secretly is contemptuous of those who do so extensively.

1      She has poise and a wonderful personality, making her very popular.

She goes on to write of her tall husband (right) and two blond children (wrong, there were three of us), her artistic output, and her excelling at sports (especially golf, swimming, and tennis). She ends with saying that her ideal woman “is somewhat like Abraham Lincoln and Louisa Alcott only she doesn’t have Louisa’s temper or impatience.”

Oh, and she also mentions that her ideal woman is a Quaker.

Life certainly turned out differently for my mother than her dreams as a young girl. But I think I like the real woman better than the ideal. God made something beautiful out of her suffering, and I am the better for it.

I don’t want to fall into cliché here—“my sainted mother” and all that. She was real and human, feisty sometimes, sometimes manifesting more Louisa Alcott than Abraham Lincoln. And I don’t want to romanticize the beauty of her old gnarled hands. Too many sappy poems and Hallmark cards take on that role. They tend to nauseate rather than inspire.

But I’ll admit it. In memory, my mother’s hands are beautiful to me.

Now that I’m growing older, I find that it’s my hands that show my age more than any other physical aspect. I used to pride myself on my beautiful hands (somewhat like my 17-year-old mother). People sometimes complemented me. No one does that any more. The seven top signs of aging in hands are wrinkles, age or sun spots, dry skin, loose skin, veins, stained and brittle nails, and red peeling skin. The only thing on the list I don’t have (yet) is red peeling skin.

Look up “aging hands” on the internet and most of the sites address the topic of how to keep your hands looking young. Lots of good advice out there, most of it dedicated to postponing the inevitable.

I am faced with the decision to choose a mature perspective on aging hands and beauty. I’ll do what I can to protect my skin—gloves when washing dishes (which I never did as a younger woman), lotion, good grooming and so on. I probably won’t try any miracle pills or expensive dream creams. I’ll let myself—and my hands—grow older and not worry about how attractive, or not, they are.

And I’ll hope my daughter and granddaughters find some good ways to remember me on Mother’s Day.