Transitions and changes

Two graduations and a wedding! The graduations happened last week, both marking the transition from middle school to high school.

Here is our beautiful daughter Kristin, with Reilly. He graduated from Thurston Middle School and was honored as the best band student of the year. 

And here is our son (also beautiful), with Alandra who just graduated from Chehalem Valley Middle School right here in Newberg. Also with honors, for good grades. (And, again, beautiful.)

If I sound proud, well, I am.

And a week from today we celebrate the first grandchild wedding. How can that be?

This baby...will be a bride.

And the river flows on. All glory to God.

Damp but not defeated at Silver Falls

We decided to go anyway. The weather report predicted a 90% chance of rain, and in Oregon we learn to take that seriously. But we had made our reservations weeks ago, managing to get the very last tenting site available in Silver Falls State Park.

Piggy-backing on the end of a family reunion, the dates were not negotiable. And what’s a little rain to Oregonians?

Our son-in-law helped by loaning us their larger, more water-proof tent. And our brother-in-law kicked in my setting up his canopy over the tent. We pitched the tent on the highest ground at the site and hoped we’d be able to stay dry.

We enjoyed the first night, the sounds especially. It wasn’t just like being in a forest in the rain. We were in the middle of the trees, with the music of real rain all around us.

Our careful preparations worked. No outside water creeped into the tent. We stayed dry.

The next day showed us once again that you can’t always rely on weather reports. A window of clear skies prompted us to hike one of the waterfall loops. We walked for about six miles alongside a flowing Silver Creek, making our way from one waterfall to another. It was glorious, a sensual feast. On the last leg of our hike, the rain returned and we let ourselves enjoy it, all part of the adventure.

After supper, which we cooked and ate under our tarp, a make-shift kitchen, we entered the tent to prepare for sleep. It was then that I discovered that the water bottle I had left upright had tipped over and soaked the inside of my sleeping bag.

By then it was cold, rainy and dark. We needed to wait for morning to pack up, a day early, and head home. So we improvised once again and made it through the night.

Looking back, I’m grateful for the beauty, the adventure, and all the creative improvisations we came up with. We’ll so it again, probably consulting the weather reports.

But it’s ironic that after all our carefulness to make sure water didn’t get us from outside the tent, it finally defeated us from the inside, sending us home a day early. Through my carelessness. From my water bottle.

Surely this is a metaphor for some great life lesson.

But I think I’ll let it go. My good memories are more than enough for now.

Awful grace

Our gathering word in unprogrammed worship on Sunday came from the ancient Greeks. Aeschylus wrote, “He who learns must suffer, and, even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.”

In the silence, I wrote two questions in my notebook: 1) Is suffering an inevitable ingredient of the kind of learning that leads to wisdom? And, 2) Is wisdom the inevitable result of suffering?

I think the answer to both questions is “no.”

Life testifies that suffering can, indeed, result in wisdom. But delight and great joy also provide a path for learning. As a young person preparing for a career in teaching, I memorized a paraphrase of one of Solomon’s proverbs: “A wise teacher makes learning a joy.” That became my aim (if not always my reality) as a high school teacher.

As to the second question—Is wisdom the inevitable result of suffering?—I observe that while suffering can lead to wisdom, it sometimes ends up as bitterness.

Maybe it depends on the attitude of the sufferer.

Maybe it depends on the awful grace of God.

Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. Let my sufferings today, large and small, lead to wisdom. Make me tender, not witty. Amen.

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.

Getting ready for Planet Friendsview

Once again we are about to change planets, and this move catches us by surprise. In two weeks we move into Friendsview Retirement Community.

In our plans, carefully laid years before, this move was to take place five to ten years in the future when we would actually be “old.” But circumstances and unique openings have persuaded us that now is the time.

So, once again, we find ourselves in the uncomfortable position of being surrounded by boxes, piles of stuff and books, books, and more books—each one needing a decision. Do we give it away, throw it away, sell it, or keep it? Our soon-to-be-reduced living quarters dictate we’d better not say “keep it” to too many of those precious pieces of our lives.

Marie Kondo, high-priestess of declutter, tells us to toss all our stuff, by categories, in a pile in the middle of the room, then hold up each item and ask, “Does this give me joy?” We then keep only that which delights us.

Unfortunately, I am too easily pleased. And if something doesn’t presently delight me, I remember when it did or consider that it might give me joy in the future. Kondo, executioner as well as priestess, would say, “Off with its head” to any past or future delight. Now is what matters.

Maybe. Maybe not.

We look at each other in amazement these days. Are we really doing this? Are we old enough? Is this move a capitulation? Are we finally admitting that we’re old and giving up?

No, to that last question. This is a new beginning (we tell ourselves). This downsizing will free us. The new life style and community will allow us to move into new (I use that word a lot these days) areas of ministry, relationship, and creativity. (Can you hear us talking to ourselves, trying to convince?) At least we pray towards these ends.

Some positives:

--A full wall of windows from our fifth-floor apartment with a view of the Chehalem Mountains;

--Two large rooms (this is not a studio apartment);

--A kitchen that lets me continue to prepare our own meals;

--Vouchers to the community dining room that let us “eat out” four times a week (and the cuisine at Friendsview is superb);

--Enough privacy to let us lead our own lives and follow our own pursuits…

--…but in the context of a new community with friends to be made and stories to hear (and write);

--the assurance of continuing care, no matter what our future holds.

Our grandchildren have asked if they can still have sleep-overs at our new place. (Of course!)

I envision myself sitting in my new easy chair, facing the mountains in the early morning, writing poems.

I envision myself discovering hidden treasurers in my new neighbors, listening to their stories, learning more about grace—and capturing it in words. There are still books waiting to be written.

I envision bike rides and camping trips, as well as new opportunities for service.

I intentionally envision and imagine. It’s part of my strategy as we prepare for this huge change in our lives. I need to do this preparation because we still, everyday, look at each other in amazement, asking, “Are we really doing this?”

Once again, this basic prayer comes to mind: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us.”

Bolivia: From one extreme to another

Yesterday we came home to La Paz after a week in Santa Cruz, the lowlands! All that oxygen was wonderful, and our bodies rested in spite of the tropical heat and humidity. But when we got into our room here in La Paz, we found that the drinking water we had boiled and left in the pot on the stove had frozen. Not just a skim of ice, but one big ice cube. From one extreme to another! No wonder my body is confused.

We loved staying in Santa Cruz with our friends (also Friends) David and Arminda Tintaya and their girls. The family had just returned from a mission trip to India with Evangelical Friends Mission and they were bursting to talk about it. Many among Bolivian Friends are experiencing a revival of interest in missions. While in Santa Cruz we participated in the district’s first annual Congress of Missions, talking about missions in the history of the Bolivian Friends. Two of the Titnaya girls, Anabel and Anahi, are sensing a strong call to participate with God in mission, somewhere in the world.

Tintaya family, Santa Cruz

On our way home we flew closer to Mt. Illimani that I have ever been. It was a bit scary, but so beautiful.

The taxi ride from the airport to our room up in the Friends complex up on Max Paredes Street was another adventure of inching our way through traffic snarls, made worse by demonstrations down town.

The demonstrations have to do with the upcoming political referendum. This coming Sunday, everything will shut down in Bolivia. Everything but the poles, where the issue is whether the Bolivian constitution will be modified in order to let current President Evo Morales become president for life. That sounds as scary as flying too close to the Andes for comfort. People will vote either “Yes” or “No.” It’s up in the air as to which side will win, and with what consequences. It seems a little bit like theater-of-the-absurd, and more and more people here feel that way.

     We’ll wait and see. Like everyone else. Meanwhile, life goes on. With all its crazy beauty and dizzying extremes. Life goes on in the middle of the extremes, and its ordinariness is as beautiful as Mt. Illimani.

Facing the darkness…with love

This is a strange title for a progress report, but it’s what best reflects my sense of where we’re at. In regards to immediate time, we have three weeks left here in Bolivia to gather data, interview people and discuss our findings with our Bolivia team members. In terms of the overall project, we’re entering the fourth year of this five-year project to research and write the 100-year history of the Bolivian Friends Church (INELA).

A recent breakthrough (as in two nights ago) encourages me. It seems the official yearly meeting books of minutes from the year 1993 through the present time had gone missing. These are primary documents that include the time since 2002 after the mission had retired. I knew I wouldn’t be able to advance in my investigations without these resources. But Saturday night Tim did one more search in his office---and found them! He had a huge grin on his face as he brought the eight volumes down into our room and laid them on the table. (Timoteo Choque is the current president of the INELA.)

Although this means more detailed scanning work for me, I also grinned. Now I have something concrete to work with. I also groaned. These are eight volumes—200 pages each—of closely hand-written minutes. Some secretaries have clear hand writing; others don’t. Bolivian law requires that official minutes of legal organizations be hand-written and notorized.

(Pardon my spelling. The computer is telling me that “notorized” is misspelled, and suggesting I change it to “motorized.” I needed that suggestion. I need to laugh. It helps me work better. Right now I am imagining how I would handle all these hand written minutes if they were also motorized. I guess I would have to catch them before I could scan them. And would they even hold still for me? Probably not. They’ve been very elusive so far; why stop now?)

But more than the nitty gritty work load, I am feeling bowed down by the negative patterns we’re finding as we sort through all the data down through the years. We’re reminded that the church, while being the body of Christ in the spiritual realm, is also a human institution, affected by its surrounding culture, pounded by the events of history, and run by fallible human beings. This story is permeated by both light and shadows. The shadows tend to get to me. I find I have to fight against cynicism.

And fight I must. A year ago, our team adopted one of Paul’s prayers as our working motto, and we have it up on the wall in our office. Paul prays for the new believers in Philippi, “And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best….” (Philippians 1:9-10). We need faith to believe that this is God’s church, that the light (“all the light we cannot see”) is greater than the darkness. Above all we need love—love for God (we’re doing all this work for the glory of God—really, that’s more than a cliché to us), and love for the church herself. And not just the church as a shining spiritual concept, but the church as in the very real women and men, past and present, who attempt to follow Christ, who fail and fall, and who get up and keep going, sometimes groping, forward. According to Paul, it’s love, then, that will abound in knowledge, wisdom and discernment.

And that’s exactly what we need to move forward in this history project.