Category Archives: Aging

BFF

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As Birgitta readies for university life, she and I have talked about the friendships awaiting her, some she will treasure for life. Although she’s already made many friends, some very special ones are in her immediate future.

This week one of my own lifelong friends visited me, a “girl” I met during junior year in college whom I’ve loved ever since. Because she is one of my Widow Warriors, she gives good counsel and lavishes encouragement on my adjustment to being without Nate.

Carole lost her husband to cancer 14 years ago, after 26 years of marriage and seven children, three natural-born and four adopted. In addition to fostering 65 other children, she teaches crochet classes for adults, sings in her church choir and enjoys having her daughter’s family live with her – nine people in a 1200 square foot house.

Carole and I are close in age, sharing in senior moments and decreasing in physical stamina at the same time. Despite our living 800 miles apart with only rare visits, our friendship seamlessly picks up where it left off and never runs out of talking points.

Years ago when we got together with mobs of young children, Carole and I would begin a conversation that continued throughout the visit, whether it was two days or two weeks. If the kids needed something and tried to cut in, we trained them to stand and wait next to us until we turned and said “Yes?” Sometimes they had a long wait, but that only served to separate the important requests from the unnecessary. If they decided it wasn’t worth it, they’d step away, and we could keep chatting. After all, with 14 kids, there was a great deal of ground to cover.

This fall will mark 45 years that Carole and I have been friends. What is it that holds people together over that many years, despite the obstacles of distance, busyness and infrequent contact? Part of it is growing through life’s changes simultaneously: marriage, children, mortgages, middle age. Another part of it must be knowing each other so well that all false pretense is gone. It’s a blessing to be with someone who doesn’t distance themselves, no matter what you do or say. Close friends are also bound by their beliefs and standards. They share at least some commonality in the things that make them tick.

We all know the misery of “high maintenance friendships,” relationships that require walking on egg shells and making contact on a scheduled basis “or else.” Other relationships are lopsided with one person doing all the taking, the other all the giving. And we’ve all known people who ride a never-ending emotional roller coaster to the point that we never know what to expect when we’re together.

Today I was thinking about heaven, as I do every day, wondering about Nate’s friendships. Scripture tells us Jews and Gentiles who share a belief in Christ will sit down together at God’s banquet table with some of the famous characters of the Bible. If we’ll be chatting over a meal with some of them, no doubt we’ll be making contact with all of them. And since heaven will be about harmony and happiness, my guess is we’ll be long-term friends (really long-term) with everyone!

God is all about relationships, between himself and people, and also person to person. I know he will bless Carole and I with a continued friendship in the next world, most likely to brand new levels. So I’m praying Birgitta will seek out friendships this fall that will be satisfying and long-term, too, during her years in school. Hopefully they’ll remain strong all the way into eternity.

“I tell you this, that many Gentiles will come from all over the world — from east and west — and sit down with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob at the feast in the Kingdom of Heaven.” (Matthew 8:11)

The Old Folks club

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I know I’m getting old, because the government told me so. When I hit 65 this summer, I’ll be officially over the hill. That’s when I become eligible for Medicare, the government program to take care of the elderly. [Although I could go off on a tangent here, I’ll resist.]

It used to be that turning 65 meant you got your gold watch on Friday, and on Monday you were out of a job. Of course that’s different these days, as many work into their 70’s and even 80’s. Don’t the Boomers preach that 50 is the new 30?

Don’t believe it.

Sixty-five still feels like ten long years past 55, and that particular decade takes a big toll, bringing nearly as many changes as the first ten years of life. Who knew?

I’ve been calling myself “middle-aged” far too long, about 25 years worth, even though recently I’ve repackaged it by saying I’m “in the autumn of middle-age.” Who’s fooling who? Lately, I’m liking the sound of being “in the spring of old age.”

I know a couple who moved to retirement housing when they were younger than I am now. Although Mom once called these places “a sea of white hair,” when she finally went to live there, she and her white hair loved it. Besides, being in the spring of old age and living with people one and two decades ahead of me might have a few fabulous perks. Wisdom falls from these people like snowflakes from the sky. If I walked beside them, some of it might just fall on me.

Mom didn’t really want to give up living in her home, which is true of most of us, but a couple of health crises dictated that she go. Once she got to the retirement village, however, she made a host of new pals and kept an ever-growing list of blessings.

None of us wants to rock our boats by moving “down” in terms of independence by leaving our own homes or by condensing our possessions by three-fourths to live in a smaller space. But there are many advantages. For example, people like me who get tired of cooking will only have to glance at the clock to know dinner is ready. And lavish dinners they’ll be, with multiple courses and choices.

And what about having a nurse on call for those occasional mishaps? When I went over the bike handlebars two weeks ago, I couldn’t manage my own drive to the emergency room and had to ask for a favor from (i.e. become a burden to) my next-door-neighbors. A nurse down the hall would have been quite convenient.

And what about dealing with all those other old-age secrets we’ve never been told about? Stiff joints in the mornings. Toe nails so thick they become hard to cut. The deterioration of night vision for driving. Mysterious aches and pains that make a person wonder what’s really wrong. How nice to live with a crowd of people who “get it.”

I’m about to officially join the Old Folks Club and get acquainted with those things and probably many more. I think of the Scripture verse that describes our bodies growing older with more problems every day. (2 Corinthians 4:16) But God encourages us in the same verse by reminding us that our inner selves, the parts that matters most, are being renewed regularly. And that’s the biggest secret among Old Folk’s Club members. While living in a retirement center, once they get to where they’re going whether it’s the dining room, the craft room, the beauty salon, the pool room, the game room or the conversation circle, they have a blast! Their daily-renewed innards have grown exceedingly wise and rich in fine character traits, although they don’t mention all that. They just wink at each other and smile at the rest of us while thinking, “Before you know it, you’ll be in our club, too.”

As for me, I’m looking forward to it!

”I pray that from [the Father’s] glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong.” (Ephesians 3:16-17)

Love in a Crawl Space

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Before we moved from Illinois to Michigan, the girls and I emptied a very full crawl space measuring 25 ft. square. The most valuable thing in it was a trunk-sized cardboard box I hadn’t looked into since before we got married.

But it was time to downsize, and we needed to be cut-throat about trimming debris from our lives. The box was marked “Memorabilia” and I had no idea what was inside. It was also marked with water stains from a basement flood two houses back, and I wondered if the box was even worth opening.

After peeling off the dried out, curly-edged masking tape, I opened it to find every letter I’d received during high school and college years, each one still in its envelope, the oldest with four cent stamps. In a day without cell phones, texts or Facebook, handwritten correspondence was the only way we kept in touch. The letters were organized by author, nearly 30 different people, each stack secured with a rubber band and ordered by date. Although the rubber bands had rotted and the letters were stuck together, all were readable.

Tucked in the bottom of the box were my journals from the same time period. Although I didn’t have the letters I had written in answer to the ones I’d received, my journals showed what was on my mind.

After finding the letters, I went upstairs and announced to Nate I’d be taking a few days off from packing up the house to take a trip down Memory Lane. I invited him to join me, but he smiled and said, “No thanks.” He knew how goofy I was as a kid and had better things to do than wade through hundreds of old letters.

Every evening after dinner I “descended” and sat among stacks of boxes that were packed and ready for our move. Author by author I went through the massive letter-box, “visiting” each friend and our shared past.

There were cousins, girlfriends, boyfriends, my sister (after she went to college), my brother (after I went to college), my parents (mostly lectures-in-envelopes), and a number of letters from military guys fighting the Viet Nam war. The whole assemblage was a storyline of life in the sixties, from the peaceful beginning of that decade to its tumultuous end.

I’d forgotten most of the details in the letters but certainly remembered the people. After reading what the girls had written, I packaged those bunches up and sent them to each author. Some guffawed, some cried and some went through a crisis after reading their own writings. As for the guy letters, I read each one, then filed them all in the recycling bin.

The most interesting part of my trip down Memory Lane was to note how all of us had changed, what decisions we’d made since the sixties and who was doing what now. Some have compiled many years of marriage, others had suffered through divorce. Some had no children, others had lots. Some now live in foreign lands, others haven’t gone much of anywhere. Some are wealthy, others are struggling. And a handful have already graduated to eternity.

The letter-box had nothing in it from Nate. That’s because once he and I got to writing, his stack grew so well, it needed its own box. I kept that “set” to open after we’d moved. Going down our own private tour of Memory Lane would be, I thought, something the two of us would have time to share, once we moved to Michigan.

But God had a different plan, and we never got to open that box. My guess is that Nate now owns all knowledge of our past, even without the letters to jog his memory. It no longer matters to him like it still does to me. I believe when we get to heaven, we won’t have forgotten a thing. To the contrary, we’ll probably remember everything more precisely.

One of these days I’ll “descend” to our Michigan basement and open that box marked “Letters from Nate” to make that  trip down Memory Lane by myself.

But not yet.

“The memory of the righteous will be a blessing.” (Proverbs 10:7)