My Mother's Home

After many years of living and traveling in a motor home, my parents have moved into a home made for solid ground. It's easier for them while my father is traveling through a battle with cancer. 

"Your mom must be so glad to finally have a home," a friend shared. I laughed.

This friend does not know my parents. My mother's home is wherever my father is. Being together is home. Camping out, staying in a motel, visiting children or grandchildren, or in the snowbird park where they winter, they always feel right at home.

Together my parents built a home out on the farm and changed their world one person at a time, one day at a time, for over fifty years. Long after the house and land were sold, their life of adventure, serving God's purposes, has continued.

A bag of grapes and some homemade cookies in the cooler, shared memories, old family sayings and routines combine to set up a temporary home wherever they have traveled. The familiar keeps them comfortable, peaceful, ready for different circumstances and enjoying people. They like to be together on a new adventure.

A homeless man in our city frequents a corner on the route to my house.  If no cars are behind me, I usually talk to him for a few minutes. He always grins and waves at me. He plans to be traveling on soon, but for a little while, this is his home. He makes a fairly good living here, but he hopes to go where it's warmer.

I know a lady who never slept in a bed until in her thirties when she went to prison. She travels in and out of the prison system and I'm always glad to see her. I welcome the opportunity to remind her she is loved, to caution her about taking her medicines, to guide her feet back to solid ground. "I'm home," she will say as she walks into the prison chapel. She likes to be where it's safe, where she's loved.

"This world is not my home. I'm just a passin' through." My family used to sing the old gospel song on stage after stage as we traveled around during my childhood. The song is engraved on my heart and when life gets troublesome, the words are a reminder that wherever my heavenly Father is, that is home. He is my strong tower, my refuge, my solid ground.

"Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me. See on the portals, He's waiting and watching, watching for you and for me. Come home. Come home. Ye who are weary, come home."

Words to Live By

Not quite 3 years outside of 60 it surprises me, this joy in getting older. I feel not so much a survivor of life as a person who is on her way.

My granny said that would happen. She was 98 at the time, with nearly a half-decade yet to walk by faith.

"Loving flowers and gardens and children does that," Granny said."Don't just watch, really see what is growing." She was giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

A picture of Granny, my great-grandmother, is etched into my heart. She is standing in her garden out on the farm, her blue bonnet blowing in the morning breeze. Leaning on a hoe, resting, I'm certain she is watching her garden grow.

Cup of coffee in hand, just before sunrise, I visit my rose bushes, columbine, irises and daisies. I walk through the garden and notice significant changes in the vegetables growing.

A rabbit has bruised a flower in full bloom. A deer has chomped a vine. Soil has grown weary and parched. Blooms appear from buds never noticed. Soft, sage green Lamb's Ear sprouts in an impossible to grow area. Cilantro has sprouted among the garden rocks.

My grandma and I left the porch swing where we had been snapping green beans, and stretched in the sunshine. As we picked favorite zinnias for a bouquet, she talked about the boldness of colors, the varied petals. Wiping dust off tiny yellow tomatoes we popped them in our mouths one after the other. She talked about life.

She was teaching me to see what was growing around me. She was giving me words to live  by, watching me grow.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" my mother would chant in our garden. We would laugh and quote nursery rhymes and poems over and over again. Often she would point to our Guernsey cattle on the hillside. "Aren't they pretty?" she would say. We would sit on the front step drinking iced tea, deciding whether we wanted a bouquet of roses or peonies on the table.

She was teaching me to see what was growing around me. She was giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

Set up signposts to mark your trip home.
Get a good map.
Study the road conditions.
The road out is the road back.
Come back, dear virgin Israel,
come back to your hometowns.
How long will you flit here and there, indecisive?
How long before you make up your fickle mind?
God will create a new thing in this land:
A transformed woman will embrace the transforming God!

A Message from Israel’s God-of-the-Angel-Armies:
'When I’ve turned everything around and brought my people back,
the old expressions will be heard on the streets:
‘God bless you!’ . . . ‘O True Home!’ . . . ‘O Holy Mountain!’
All Judah’s people, whether in town or country,
will get along just fine with each other.

I’ll refresh tired bodies;
I’ll restore tired souls.

Just then I woke up and looked around—
what a pleasant and satisfying sleep! 

The Message, Jeremiah 31:21-26

God is teaching me to see what is growing around me. He is giving me words to live by, watching me grow.

I know the sun is not really waking up, stretching itself into view as I watch the sun rise. Mrs. Lee, my third grade teacher, explained the science of rotating planets around a stationary sun. I'm just not sure I ever believed her. Nearly every morning I watch the spring sun peep over the horizon and touch each flower head bringing it to full glory.

Time is coming. Time is not going.

Follow the old ways. Look around.

A Pie for Lynette

One of my earliest memories is making pies alongside my mother. I stood on a chair rolling dough to fit two little aluminum pans, one for my brother, Larry, and one for me. My pies were lopsided, unlike the excellent pies my mother could make.

My pies are still lopsided. My sisters, Kathy and Nancy, both make beautiful pies. I could eat a piece of Nancy's raspberry pie every day. Heaven on a plate.

It isn't the recipe. I have been given four no-fail pie crust recipes. What makes a blue ribbon pie for someone else is always lopsided for me.

My cousin Laura, like my mom, says the secret of pie excellence is using lard. She laughed at my frown, knowing I didn't want to put lard in my clean arteries. "But pie is a special treat," Laura explained. "How often does a person eat pie?"

So I tried. But it's not the ingredients. I've tried them all.

I called my aging friend Lynette on the phone one morning to encourage her during her long terminal illness. I offered to deliver dinner, clean her house, do some laundry or bake cookies.

"Oh, I can't think of anything you need to do," Lynette assured me.

"Is there something I could cook for you that sounds good? Maybe one of those favorite recipes you've cooked a thousand times," I suggested, wanting to make anything that would give comfort and cheer.

"A piece of pie would taste good. Any kind of pie," she admitted softly.

I laughed, lifted my eyes to heaven, shaking my head. "Sure," I told Lynette. "I'd love to make you a pie! What kind sounds good?"

"Butterscotch pie?"

Butterscotch pie. Butterscotch pie?

After she ate my pie,  Lynette asked, "How in the world do you make your pie crust? What's your secret? It was excellent, so flaky! Best butterscotch pie I ever ate. It tasted wonderful!"

My secret? Pillsbury pie crust. I knew how to make meringue so I put it together as best I could. Turns out meringue evens out a lopsided pie quite well.

It's not the gift we place in a weary soul's hands that matters so much. It's the love we place in a heart that changes the world. We offer a little bit of who we are and what we can do.  Out of our little, God creates much.

I didn't get a chance to bake a pie for Jesus when He was weary and worn, but I made a lopsided one for Lynette and God blessed it.

During my last conversation with her she squeezed my hand and whispered weakly, "You keep on making pie. Doesn't matter how it turns out. Matters that you made it."

One of Lynette's favorite verses was Psalm 121:1

I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. 

To make a pie alongside God is to have the greatest of all Makers helping me.

Look! A Hero!

"You're one of my heroes," I say, knowing Marjorie will burst into loud, infectious laughter.

She's a plain woman, stooped from nearly a century of hard work and disappointment. Though sometimes she appears at my doorstep looking a bit odd,  gray hair straggling about,  sans glasses and teeth she often misplaces, she is always a welcome sight.

"Good morning, my dear one. How are you today?" she always greets me, collapsing  into a chair, ready for her piano lesson.  She hands me her books and begins to play an old hymn. Arthritis and age have twisted and gnarled her hands, but the music comes from her heart.  Her fingers become a part of the instrument as sweet music fills my home..

"I love those old hymns. Never forget them." she laughs, after a hymn or two played by ear. "Alright, Girl! Now, teach me how to play this piano right. I've spent hours in practice. You're going to be so very proud of me."  

She studies diligently, learning  the names of the notes she has been playing by ear for well over half a century. It's her way to rest from work. For a couple of hours each afternoon she plays her assignments over and over again.

Most of her days are spent raising a grandson and caring for an elderly neighbor who is twenty years younger than Marjorie. She studies the Word of God long past midnight, preparing sermons for her church on Sunday.  Besides cleaning her house, mowing her yard and working with people who live in poverty and weariness, she visits a prison every week.

"I don't have a real big ministry," she explains. "I just go around seeking out the lost and seems like I always find some. I just encourage folks. That's all."

It is common to believe we must have an opinion on every issue and tragedy in our news focused world. People complain about the world around us, about the weather, the cost of food and gas, or how often we all complain rather than give thanks. 

When we stop wasting time wondering where the heroes have all gone, we find them. And, more importantly, we are inspired and motivated by them. 

A Litany for Children

In an old hymnal that I discovered among my Great Aunt Sis's treasures, I found a lovely gem calling me to love the children and bless them, and in so doing, to become like them.

Jesus, from thy throne on high,
Far above the bright blue sky,
Look on us with loving eye:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Little children need not fear,
When they know that thou art near:
Thou dost love us, Saviour dear:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Little hearts may love thee well,
Little lips thy love may tell,
Little hymns thy praises swell:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Little lives may be divine,
Little deeds of love may shine,
Little ones be wholly thine:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Jesus, once an infant small,
Cradled in the oxen's stall,
Though the God and Lord of all:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Jesus, thou dost love us still,
And it is thy holy will
That we should be safe from ill
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Be thou with us every day,
In our work and in our play,
When we learn and when we pray:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Make us brave without a fear,
Make us happy, full of cheer,
Sure that thou art always near:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

May we prize our Christian name,
May we guard it free from blame,
Fearing all that causes shame:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

May we grow from day to day,
Glad to learn each holy way,
Ever ready to obey,
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Jesus, Son of God most high,
Who didst in a manger lie,
Who upon the cross didst die:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Jesus, from thy heavenly throne,
Watching o'er each little one,
Til our life on earth is done:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.

Jesus, whom we hope to see
Calling us in heaven to be
Happy evermore with thee:
Hear us, Holy Jesus.  Amen.

~Thomas Pollock, 1871

The Piano Man

Cortney Chintermeyer

A large crowd gathered in the noise and fray around the auctioneer.

The man in the red hat wanted to buy the piano.

The man in the green hat wanted to buy the piano, too. He called out a bid to counter the first offer.

A woman in the crowd asked who was bidding against the man in the red hat. Someone answered, "Frank Sutton."

I looked up at my Grandpa. His jaw was tight.  His eyes were focused. He held my hand, squeezing it too tightly.

Time seemed to stand still as my mind recorded snapshot moments. The sun in the blue sky. The man in the red hat. The man in the green hat. The auctioneer with his hands scanning across the sea of faces.

A hush fell over the crowd as the crescendo of anticipation intensified, but in my head there was a roar as loud as a freight train.

 "SOLD...to the man in the green hat.

Someone yelled,  "Did that little girl get her piano?"

Grandpa laughed and waved his green hat in the air as he pulled me into a hug.  My life had been forever interrupted,  changed by one extraordinary moment tucked into the corner of an ordinary day.

Usually we are too preoccupied with the mundane around us to live fully awake. But life is in the interruptions. The moments that catch us off guard wake us up and cause us to focus on the important rather than the urgent.

My piano student stopped suddenly in the middle of a song and stared at blood dripping on the keyboard..  As she touched her wiggly front tooth, her eyes widened with panic.

After I had pulled the tooth and cleaned her mouth, she poked her tongue through the hole and laughed. "I'm bigger now, Teacher! I got bigger right here in the middle of my piano lesson. We didn't know that would happen, did we?"

The Old Rose

My Valentine's Day flowers are perky with life. Fresh stems stand tall, blossoming flowers drink in moisture and gradually bloom. Buds are gently nestled, slowly awakening to purpose. The bright colors and aroma offer a colorful welcome to passers by.

Photo by Sandra flickr.com

While arranging the flowers in a vase I discovered a small dying rose. It was wilted, broken, starting to decay. After the unexpected, unsettling find, I began to enjoy the old rose.

There is poignancy and power to beauty nearly spent. A remnant of what once was flourishing has a faded grandeur to it. The rose flowers with beauty and purpose, but it must go to seed and die to bloom again.

Life rises from death. Youth passes us by, but we are so often blind to what we are gaining. God offers beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, a mantle of praise for the spirit of heaviness.

One of my childhood friends left earth this week to live with Jesus. I have wrestled with the pain and disappointment her loss brings to the world. She shined brightly like the stars of the universe. Her faith walk made a difference in the lives around her.

We see death as an enemy, and so it is, but there is beauty in her victory. She leaves a blessing of grace as her legacy. She flourished in life, planting seeds of gentle reminders and loving people to Jesus. So also in death, she leaves seeds of gentle reminders and continues to love people to Jesus.

There is regal purpose in her victory. Beauty rises from ashes. Pain stirs memories and causes us to seek hope. Loss awakens determined endurance. Grief gives opportunity for growth and wisdom. God's comfort spurs us on to compassion.

Life rises from death. Beauty rises from ashes. Youth passes us by, but we are so often blind to what we are gaining. Open my eyes. Let faith arise.

Run a Negative Split

Photo by Sally Rae
(flickr.com)

I had kept a slow and steady pace, but was more tired than expected at the end of five miles. This was my first attempt at a negative split.  This means running the second half of the miles faster, stronger, than in the beginning.

The tendency is to go out too fast in the beginning of a race when strong and rested, then slow significantly as fatigue sets in. It takes a lot of discipline and practice to achieve a negative split. I wanted to try it this morning because the idea intrigues me, not only as a physical discipline, but as a spiritual discipline.

I have loved the hymn "Last Mile of the Way" since Carl Blacketer sang it in my home church years ago. The words challenged me even as a young child to begin looking at my life as a journey.

But I am a late bloomer, a slow-to-get-it sort of person. I have so far to go before I become the person God wants me to be! I will probably be like one of those flowers that lives a lifetime, blooms for an hour and dies. I think I might learn to be holy for about an hour when I'm 100, then God will say, "Okay, you are finally finished. C'mon in."

But, I want to live my life in a negative split. Remembering the first half of my journey tires me with lessons slowly learned, stumbling on unnecessary detours in the darkness, my lack of concern for others running the race alongside me.

I can go the last miles of life's journey racing with the energy and focus I held back. I can train harder to finish victorious and strong.  I can renew my focus on the goal and keep determination steady. And, I can race in a way that encourages and sharpens those who run, stumble or wobble alongside me.

Are you running the race to win? Do you hear the crowd of witnesses in the stands cheering us on? Faithful is He who calls you and He will bring it to pass if you do not give up.

Miss Mildred and the President

Photo by Courtney Chintermeyer
flickr.com

"I'm not smart enough to understand politics much," Miss Mildred commented, "But it's a right dandy thing we be havin' a black president for a time, sweet potata girl."

I picked up my tea cup and grinned.  "I'm not sure I'm smart enough to understand politics much either, but I sure would like for you to tell me what you know."

"My roots go all the way back to slave trade, sweet potata girl. I heard stories from my Granny that was told to her when she was a little snip of a girl. Slave days was awful dark times for the blacks.  Folks could come take your babies right outa your arms and sell 'em off.  Might never knowed what happen to 'em."  

As she sipped her tea, her dark eyes went far away in thought. She laughed suddenly, "Oh, sweet potato girl. I 'bout forgot what I was sayin', didn't I?  All people's gotta have rights and that's what politics is to me. Givin' folks they rights."  

I nodded in agreement, thinking it was a pretty good definition. "And you think having a black president for a time will help make that happen, Miss Mildred?"

"I do indeed, sweet potata girl.  It's gotta be a good thing to one day be a country where little black children get ripped from they granny's arms and another day a little black child grows up to be president!"

"I absolutely agree," I said. 

"And a country where not only that, but where instead of ripping away little children from they Granny, we give food stamps to help a granny get by.  Now I know people go different in how that oughta happen.  I've seen many a people who aren't glad I have food stamps and think I oughta not even have all these children to raise. But sometimes life is just how it is and you gotta do the best you can with what God gives you for your portion. But having a black president for a time is a hopeful thing whether you agree with him or not. It says we're a country that's a gonna keep tryin' til we get ever'thing figured out. We set to changin' bad ways as best we know. And that's an awful good thing, ain't it?"

"It's a wonderful thing.  And I like him. A lot. And I really respect him and his family."

"Me too, sweet potata girl. Me too." And the wise old woman took a bite of her cookie, toasted me with it and whispered, "And he's kindy cute, ain't he?" 

Sweet Potata Girl

Photo by Wally Hartshorn
flickr.com

"My roots go back all the way to slave trade," she said softly. "I don't be knowin' all 'bout what that was like, but I knowed 'bout hard times in my days. I learned 'bout makin' it through 'gainst all odds."

Swollen crippled feet had propelled her through the market. Her arthritic hands dropped a 2 page shopping list as she struggled to move a box of produce.

I picked her list up from the floor and moved the box.  "Could I fill your list for you? I'd be glad to do that," I offered.

"Oh, my, no, sweet potata girl," she laughed. "The good Lord gave me 8 kids and more grandkids than I can be countin' any more so I guess He'll just keep me spinnin' on forward. It's a long line of hungry folks I need to be feedin' and you got your own work. God will get me through."

She was collapsed with exhaustion on a bench, her cart piled high with food bags when I left the store. Rubbing stiffness from her hands, eyes closed, her silent tears trailed down wrinkled brown cheeks.

"I care about you," I told her, sitting down on the bench beside her. I handed her a handkerchief.

"Oh my, sweet potata girl! That's a lovely old hanky! Now I'm just fine. I'm too tuckered out today is all."

As she wiped her eyes she shared her life. Divorces, custody battles, drug addictions, prison heartbreak and little children with no place to go but to their old broken-down granny. She told me how grateful she was for a country that helped with food stamps, prisons that helped folks get straight, teachers that hugged learnin' right into kids and for all the blessings found in loving people.

I helped her into my car, loaded the piles of groceries into my back seat and phoned her neighbor who had not yet shown up to give her a ride home.

"Why do you call me sweet potata girl?" I asked, once she was settled into her house.  She rested at the table taking some medicine while I put away the groceries in her kitchen and created an impromptu tea party.

"Been a lot of times with nothin' to eat but a sweet potata. It was a blessin' from the Lord on them days. You can live a right long spell on a sweet potata.  Lotta people don't see the blessin' in hard times. I learned from my own granny that hard times is blessin' just like good times. You been a blessin' to me, sweet potata girl. I was plumb done in and set to frettin', but God sends help ever' time to me. Ever' time. Ever' time. Ever' time. Ever' time. Now you be rememberin' that from an old woman, sweet potata girl. Ever' time."

Uncle Paul's Barn

Beyond the Sunset

Uncle Paul's barn was a big place. When a farmer has a trail of little girls and a dog running alongside to help him, he needs a big place.

I thought I knew a lot about farming back then. I knew how to milk a cow by hand or by machine. How to turn milk into butter. How to bathe a cow. And I knew how to coax Princess out of the barn when we all became too much help at sunset. There are a lot of rules on a farm and life taught most of them.

Decades later, I stood in the old barn with my cousin, both of us grandmothers now.  In our memories the farm is forever alive. Freshly mowed clover hay filling the senses. Wet tongue tickles as newborn calf sucks little girl fingers. Rich, dark soil sliding over palms and under finger nails.

"It used to be bigger, didn't it?"

Did Laura say it first? Did I? We shared the thought, the moment, the memories. We had grown, changed, lived ourselves out of the farm and into the city.

I love getting older and seeing my life unfold. We are here on earth for such a short moment. But someday, beyond the sunset, I will view my life more clearly. I will smile and remember when I thought I knew so much, understood the rules of life here.

"It used to be bigger, didn't it?"

I don't know if Laura will say it first or if I will, but we will both know it. We will have lived ourselves out of the world and into The City.

The Mean Old Man

I expected him to be gentle and kind. I expected him to be wise. After all, he had been alive nearly 10 decades. 

I was six. My Aunt Evelyn had taken me on my first nursing home visit to pass out bananas and magazines. I was wearing my favorite little sailor dress and I had new blue ribbons in my hair.

I liked elderly people. My grandparents and great-grandparents as well as the older people in my neighborhood and church were familiar, trustworthy, beloved.

I can still see his face in my mind a half century later. He jerked my arm and he pinched me. Hard. I shrieked, horrified. And then he laughed. And pinched me again, bruising not only my skin, but my heart. 

Years later I felt a similar confusion looking at pictures of Nazi war criminals discovered and captured during their old age. A grandfather holding a child. A neighbor walking a dog. An old man in the market.

Not everyone gets character lines as they age. Some people just get wrinkled...and meaner. Roots of bitterness dig deep and we reap what we have sown. 

I expect to be gentle and kind. I expect to be wise. But as I age, I can already see the struggle it is to hold my tongue, to control my spirit, to become God's best version of me. Just expecting it is not enough. It's not nearly enough.

Walking with Granny

When my Great-Granny Sutton was 89 I asked her when she first realized that she was old. Her eyes crinkled a million wise wrinkles as she squinted at me, reading my innermost thoughts. With the experience that raised 8 farm children, buried most of them and survived a dozen lifetimes in one, she snorted. Then she burst into laughter.

She shook her head at me and said, "I never did. Truth is sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and nearly scare myself to death a wonderin' why in the world is there some old woman in my bathroom! I still see a young girl when I look at myself." She took my hand. "We live forever. It takes a forever to get old. I'll get there. Then you will."

Though Granny left me a hundred memories and a thousand words when she died at 102 1/2 (a half year matters, don't you know?) it is her outlook on aging that has woven itself into the fiber of my being and continued to bounce around in my heart. 

I am me. I am gonna be me...forever. 

Put me in a group of people and I immediately start to notice all the ways I am not like them. Life can be a challenge because I am not a joiner and I am spastically self-conscious.  I ramble on much too generously yet crave the words of others to soothe and bolster me. The young girl inside me is still desperately struggling to become the best version of herself.

I hit the pause button on that thought in January to study it. By September I am beginning to understand. There just might be unseen value in something as eternal and unique as me. 

It's a forever road I'm traveling. God knit me together in my mother's womb and decades later He is still working on me. My God always finishes what He starts. I am the apple of His eye and, while some of the refining and knitting may hurt a little bit, what He creates is always good. It just takes a little time sometimes. But, He's a forever God and we aren't pressed for time.

Elevator Going UP

The elevator door closed and the man looked at Roy. "How far up are you going?" 

"All the way up," Roy replied, grasping the opportunity for conversation with a stranger. "All the way up and straight into heaven." 

Though Roy shared his evangelism story with me decades ago and today is indeed all the way up and into heaven, his example continues to provide encouragement, prodding me on to love and good works in every elevator I enter.  

"Are you going down?" the man asked me as the elevator door closed. 

I nodded. "On this elevator I am going down to the hospital lobby.  In my life, I'm going up. All the way up and straight into heaven."

"How do you know?" he asked, rubbing a feeble trembling hand over his scruffy beard. His dirty wrinkled clothes and posture spoke volumes of his fatigue, loss and discouragement. He couldn't accept my invitation to breakfast, but we did have a chance for encouragement and a short visit.

This morning I saw that man in my neighborhood and asked him about his life and his struggles with addiction. He remembered me, but more importantly he remembered my assurances that God is real, the Bible is true and Jesus is alive.  

He took a long drink of coffee and chuckled.  "You told me the elevator of life keeps going up as well as down and I can change my direction at any time. You told me I didn't need to ride it all the way until I hit bottom. It was a kindness to an old drunk."

Then he laughed out loud and strong. "And I ain't just an old drunk any more. And I speak up about where I'm headed every time I'm on an elevator. Now, girl. Do YOU have time for breakfast?"

Best slice of toast I ever had. 

Make My Lifesong Sing

Make My Lifesong Sing.

That's my "One Thing" for 2012. It fills me with hope and excitement. What might God do in my life this year?

Billy Graham's excellent new book, Nearing Home was written when he was 92 years old.  It was a delight to read a book about being elderly written by such a trustworthy elderly Christian.  He offers the challenge to live a well-ordered life and to finish the life race strong.

I will be 55 years young in April.  I am enthusiastic about getting older and becoming the woman God is creating me to be.  But I have not adequately prepared myself spiritually for old age.  This year with much help from God, I will change that fact.

There are entire industries and hundreds of books dedicated to preparing ourselves for our senior years.  We get plenty of advice on how to prepare financially, medically and legally.   We plan ahead to ensure adequate housing and to provide for our families.

But are we devoting as much attention to preparing ourselves spiritually for old age?  Why is it we seldom hear sermons or read books with specific advice on how to prepare for a faith that will sustain us through our elderly years?

It's January now, and I'm thinking and planning and brainstorming ideas on how to train myself to sustain my song of praise through all the seasons of my life.  By December I will have a year of training behind me and be much better prepared for the years ahead, whether they be few or many. 

Losing my hearing doesn't mean I need to stop listening to God's Words.  Losing my eyesight doesn't have to take away my spiritual vision. Losing my independence doesn't have to be overwhelming if I am depending on Him.

Let my lifesong sing to You

I want to sign Your name to the end of this day

Knowing that my heart was true

Let my lifesong sing to You

Lifesong, Casting Crowns

The Grandma Person



Love them to Jesus.


Look at your mom's face when she picks up that old ornament you made in kindergarten. Watch her eyes, her smile, as her mind relives memories of your life that you have long since forgotten. You remember the faded construction paper ornament because it's on the tree every year. She remembers the day you proudly presented it to her.

Encouraging young mothers during the season to be jolly is one of my favorite things. Somehow they seem to discover the energy to trim the tree, make ornaments with toddlers, plan parties, bake cookies with six year olds and enjoy Christmas movies anew. God is able to bless mothers with supernatural energy, joy and creativity.

Don't forget to encourage them as well as pray for them. Cut out some sugar cookies for them to decorate, pick up a Christmas CD to surprise them, read Christmas stories to their children, play a board game, put together a puzzle.  Share your own holiday memories. 

It may be old fashioned in an age of video games and rental movies, but the best babysitter for a child, is still a"Grandma Person", as my little Lydia once called me. And no child can have too many of those.

Fountain of Youth

"Moisturizer keeps skin from feeling like a desert ready to bloom cacti. I get that. But sorting through potions to erase wrinkles is beyond me," I confessed.

The lady next to me smiled, tossing jars and bottles into her Walmart cart. "Being beautiful is expensive. It takes a lot of time, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure how this all works. Do I need to make a schedule of when to use each product?"

She laughed. "And in the end, we have to get older and die anyway, don't we?"

She accepted my offer to buy her a cup of coffee and after the usual small talk about our lives, I shared with her that I'm not that crazy about wrinkles; but the truth is, I enjoy the growth of character, the understanding, the strength and wisdom that come with age. Regardless of the reality of problems, I love living life.

Youth is elusive so why try to hold on to it? Splashing today in an eternal wellspring of life that overflows with joy and every good thing? Schedule me in for THAT beauty treatment.

"Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life."

Castles in the Sky

I am building a castle.

Before spring break I had never heard of Whimzy Pets. Now I have ten of the 3-inch high colorful, cuddly stuffed animals. They are tagging along with me as I imagine their blossoming personalities and listen to their secrets while building their home. I left behind spring painting projects and garden preparation to create a cardboard Wonderland.

The little women in my life are about to discover something new to do, something new to think about, and hopefully, something new to love. I can hardly wait to hear the stories that await me once we're together!

My large desk, heaped with old calendars, brightly colored paper, scraps of stickers and vintage valentines filled me with eagerness and creative thought. Blankets have been made from lace handkerchiefs. Rugs have been formed from old countercross stitchings and a boat has been formed from an egg carton. It's quite a lovely and charming place to my way of thinking!

Building a castle from scraps has reminded me of the value of a home. A home takes a lifetime to build from a little bit of this and a little bit of that, precious scraps of our lives. Those crayon drawings, the encouraging quotes, that silly squirrel you watch every morning, lullabies sung slightly off key are the scraps that make up the castle of your life.

I live in a modest dwelling by some standards, a castle by others. It's quite a lovely and charming place to my way of thinking. It's my home and it's filled with memories that comfort and cheer me. Oh, others may not see the beauty in the fingerprints on my stairway or the torn quilt on the sofa, my worn out Bible or the Raggedy Ann doll atop the shelf, but they are precious to me beyond words because they tell the story of my life.

Heaven is a real place, a land with golden streets and grand jewels, mansions of glory. There is a castle prepared for me by God's own hands, the one made just for me from the bits and pieces of my lifesong. The closer I get to the end of my journey, the more precious my heavenly home becomes to me. Oh, the people I shall meet and the stories we shall share!

"In My Father's house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you and, if I go, I will come back again." ~Jesus

Granny's Mirror

My great-granny still mopped her own kitchen during her 96th year. Having finished the job one morning, she sat down on the sofa and sighed in weary contentment. I smiled at her, wondering if I would ever consider a freshly mopped kitchen worthy of such joy. "Granny," I asked, "When did you know you were old?"

"I don't know it yet!" she chuckled. "Sometimes when I'm in the bathroom I see an old woman in the mirror, out of the corner of my eye, don't you know? And I holler because I think some old woman is in my bathroom with me!" We laughed, then she added, "I'm still that young girl on the inside. I guess you never lose her. She just stays around inside of you to see what happens."

Living among college students for over 30 years causes a woman to either grieve the aging process or embrace it. I was once an energetic sister-girl, maneuvering through my own early womanhood. Later I became a spiritual mother, learning the joys of being an older woman (30 is older on a college campus). The 18 year old freshmen appear younger and younger to me every year. It's quite simply the result of one's aging perspective, of course, but it's actually a little unnerving from time to time.

I have begun the second half of my first 100 years. Even women entering their third decade look younger and younger every year to me now. It's the continuing result of my aging perspective, of course, but, I confess, it's still a little unnerving from time to time.

But, it's true what my Granny said.

That young girl has stayed inside of me even though I now see a grandmother in my mirror. So full of hope and dreams, she was, so energetic and eager, delighted to watch the future unfolding. I'm glad she came along on my journey. I'm learning to not only like her, but appreciate her. In so many ways, I want to be just like her when I grow up.

(Painting by Mary Cassatt, "Mother and Child")

Walk by Faith

I like Mondays. I like mornings. Being up early to catch the world awakening charms me. It's like the moment when you crest a hill and view all the beauty waiting to be discovered. New creative thoughts delight me. Deeper insights fascinate me.

"Come," Father beckons me. "Walk by faith and not by sight." Hope floats in during my prayers as grace washes me clean. Joy comes, refreshing me, spurring me onward. I am learning to welcome the passing of time. Morning by morning new mercies I see. It is both reassuring and motivating, this mystery of aging.

Anticipation. Whether we approach life with joy or sorrow, eagerly or filled with dread, much depends on how we have discerned our time and priorities. Worry, fear and regret eat away my heart and health as well as my hours. I find myself resigned to loss, failure and disappointment. I become selfish, crabby and discouraged. That hasn't worked well for me.

On this, the first Monday morning of the new year, my life is a clean slate. I am choosing an inspiring guide word for myself each year of this decade. My word for 2011 is walk.

I'm moving forward and climbing higher this year. Will you journey with me by faith and not sight? Come. Walk alongside.