Am I old yet?

I’ve been juggling the words “old” and “new.” Sometimes I manage to keep them both in the air, flying in a circle of color, first one on top and then the other. Sometimes, often, I drop one and am left holding the other. More and more, the other is “old.”

For the last several years, Hal and I have been asking ourselves, “Are we old yet?” We’ve chosen to answer, “Almost. But not quite.” But we’ve both crossed the 70 line, and those decade birthdays always mean something.

According to Joan Chittister, we’re in a bracket known as “young old-age.” Middle old-age and old old-age await us. But I’ve always resisted categories. I can’t even remember my Myers-Briggs label. So much for “young old-age”!

Recently we crossed another line and move into Friendsview Retirement Community. It’s like entering a new phase of life. We love our little apartment with its sweeping view of the Chehalem Mountains. And we’re beginning to know and delight in our neighbors here on the fifth floor.

But we can’t help noticing how old everyone is. White hair and walkers surround us. And now we’re a part of this scene.

Does this mean we’ve capitulated? Have I totally dropped the ball labeled “new”? Have we answered our question with, “Yes. Now we’re old”?

Maybe. Maybe not.

I sense God telling me to hang on to both “old” and “new.” While I need to accept this stage of life, he also tells me, “Do not lose heart. Though outwardly you are (or will be) wasting away, yet inwardly you are being renewed day by day.” I’m not yet in the “wasting away” stage, but that day may come. Even so, the new is brighter, and ultimately more true, than the old.

Jesus says, “I make all things new.” That may be a reference to the new heavens and the new earth, but I’m claiming it here, on the fifth floor. And I’m going to discover all the expressions of this life in the stories of my new white-headed neighbors.

Flying High!

Since I share my birthday with the archangels, I decided to fly. Hal and I rode the seven-station zip line in the forest around Skamania Lodge, overlooking the Colombia Gorge. I like flying through the forest, every bit as much as I thought I would. We spent the night at the Lodge, in a room overlooking the river, and in the morning we hiked one of the trails, again through the forest.

This treat is thanks to Northwest Yearly Meeting of Friends who, last year, gave a gift card to the lodge as a retirement gift, and we have managed to squeeze three trips out of it. This trip maxed out our card, but what a fine way to celebrate 70 years of life and grace.

Here are some photos.

Through a mirror darkly

I have new eyes, and I couldn’t be more delighted. I can see individual leaves on distant trees and spot squirrels in the grass even before they move. The colors are more vivid than I have experienced for a long time. The light swimming through the forest is alive.

Put less poetically, my cataract removal/lens replacement surgeries were successful. It’s a new world out there, and I’m loving it.

Except when I look in the mirror.

When did I start getting so old looking? Where did these little lines and blemishes come from? Why do we have so many mirrors in this house? I feel the need to eliminate most of them.

And why does this matter so much? I’m probably only looking my age, so it’s all natural.

But it does matter. True confession. My surrounding youth culture does affect me.

I have, however, discovered that I have another mirror, one that tells me a better story.

It’s this: that even after 47 years of marriage, Hal still sometimes looks at me as if I’m the best thing he’s seen coming down the pike in a long long time. He doesn’t need to speak a word. His look says, “lovely, good, beautiful, chosen” even “gorgeous.”

Just possibly—I’m not totally sure about this—but just possibly the mirror in his eyes may be telling a deeper truth than that critical too bright square in the bathroom.

And I can decide which mirror to believe.

Sacred passage

Last week Hal and I had the privilege of being with Hal’s mom as she died. We had spent the night with her in the hospital, and that morning five of us brothers and sisters (including spouses) stood around her bed singing hymns and reading the Psalms that she had underlined in her Bible. We watched her becoming less and less responsive.

And then, at exactly 12:00 noon, she stopped breathing. Without a sound or movement. Very gently, she went home. It was a holy moment.

We stayed there by her body for just under an hour, crying, praying, remembering, laughing.

Later this week the family will gather at the burial site to worship, in the same spot we gathered five months ago to honor the homegoing of Hal’s father. They’re together again. In three weeks we’ll remember her life with the extended family and many friends as we hold a Quaker memorial service.

Mom, Esther May Thomas, was 95 years old, and Dad, William Thomas, 97. It was time.

The day after Mom’s death, I went to the Newberg Bakery with my 19 year old granddaughter. Breanna is a university student, newly engaged, and faces her future with hope and anticipation. Her face is as lovely and smooth as her great-grandmother’s face was lovely and wrinkled.

I have such a sense of the ongoing seasons of life and of the beauty of each season. I have a sense of the beauty of resurrection and the brightness of the hope we have in Jesus. I’m closer to one end of the cycle, but I face my own seasons with the same hope and anticipation I see in my granddaughter’s face.

God is good. Life is sacred.  All of it.

Prayer on growing older, 17th century

Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody. Helpful, but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom--it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends at the end...

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point swiftly. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others' pains, but help me to endure them with patience. I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a sour old person--some of them are so hard to live with and each one a crowning work of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so. Amen.

“Advanced old women”: A warning

When I spend extended time abroad, as in this current two-month trip to Bolivia, part of my strategy for relaxation and relief is reading. My Kindle lets me bring along a whole library, and part of the fun of preparation is choosing what new books to include.

This time my repertoire includes two murder mysteries by Dorothy Sayers, friend of C.S. Lewis, Charles Williams and J.R.R. Tolkien, and member of the Inklings, the literary group these remarkable writers formed in the first half of the 20^th century.

Sayers’ mysteries are not overtly Christian, other than the fact the justice is always served, and right and wrong are clearly delineated (eg., murder is always wrong.) What I especially enjoy is the person of Lord Peter Wimsey, a staunch member of England’s upper crust, and a brilliant amateur detective. He works through impeccable logic to puzzle through the pieces of a mysterious crime, but he depends on intuition to arrive at the aha! moment that actually solves the riddle. He reminds me most of Chesterton’s Father Brown, the priest who also is a brilliant amateur detective. And just as dryly funny.

Lord Peter Wimsey (great name!) gives off these wonderful asides of wisdom as he goes about his crime solving business. One of these especially struck my fancy (interesting phrase) last week. Wimsey is reflecting on his mother, an extremely upper-crusty Duchess, and he observes that, “Time and trouble will tame an advanced young woman, but an advanced old woman is uncontrollable by any earthly force,” (from Clouds of Witnesses).

I wonder if Sayers was writing about herself? At this time in my life, the idea of “an uncontrollable advanced old woman” appeals to me. Is this something to aim towards? Maybe. Maybe not.

At any rate, thank you again, Dorothy Sayers. Something to think about.