Aging — Page 10

Report from the Front

June 24, 2014 By Diana

The last 12 days have felt a little like I’ve been struggling my way up from the deep water, and awkwardly paddling toward the light, the air. It’s been a limiting, sometimes frightening, always exhausting experience.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had surgery* of any kind. A long time. And I knew this would be a rough one going in — there is no way to avoid the ‘roughness’ of being almost 70 years old, with a badly injured left foot, dealing with blood thinning medication from a previous event/insult to the body, and being told that there will be no weight-bearing for eight weeks.

No way around it.

And, to tell you the truth, it’s every bit as difficult as I anticipated. Pain medications kept me foggy and slightly nauseated for ten days, the shots-to-the-belly required to manage blood thinners lasted two full weeks instead of 10 days, and trying to be a ‘good girl,’ obedient to the doctor’s instructions to keep-that-foot-higher-than-your-heart-for-as-many-hours-a-day-as-possible-for-the-first-two-weeks. Well, let’s just say that the word ‘boredom’ has taken on several new layers of meaning.

I thank God for several good gifts in the midst of the crush: my husband’s faithful attendance (much, much more is demanded of him than at any point in the previous 48 years!), my children’s kind visits and assistance, my prayer-group-friends boxes of good cheer which have been arriving with lovely regularity, and my new Kindle Fire, a Mother’s Day gift from our kids.

I have watched six seasons of “Inspector Lewis,” a six-part documentary on “The Celts,” and every Jane Austen film production my Amazon Prime account gives me for free.

In the last three days, I have found the energy and focus to read again, and that has been delightful. I just began the “Anne” cycle last night for the first time in over 40 years, and am partway through both Emily Wierenga’s new memoir and a fun book sent by a prayer friend called, “Leonardo’s Foot.” Perfect topic, or what?

And then, of course, there is my new best friend.

This has since been tricked out with a little scooter bling by another of the prayer group friends. Tassels and a small bell.

This handy-dandy little 4-wheeled vehicle is called a knee caddy. A wonderful invention, but not without its flaws. LOUSY turning radius, requiring me to bodily pick the entire front half up off the ground to make a 90 degree turn. Still – it’s worth it. I spent the first three days hopping behind a 2-wheel walker, so this is a vast improvement. Our son-in-law built me a ramp to cover the two steps down from the master bedroom area to the living room/kitchen and I try to carefully maneuver that at least once a day.

I am both looking and feeling my age and am aware of some pretty deep levels of exhaustion and anxiety. By the grace of God, I am trying to remain open to the graces to be found, even here, even now. Giving up self-reliance is a huge monster of a thing for me. Just an ugly, hard thing. I like being competent and in control, even though I know that any semblance of control is always but a ghost of reality, a trick of the mind.

Because as it happens, there is very little in this life that we can control. Except, perhaps, for our responses to whatever it is life hands us at a given moment in time. I remain grateful that God invites me to partner in this life-course, daily choice business of discipleship. I am not a puppet nor is every detail of my day-to-day life mapped out ahead of time. I still get to choose. There are events, circumstances, illnesses and injuries that are beyond me, beyond any capacity of mine to change. But there are always choices. Always.

I can choose to say thank you to those who help me, who pray for me, who bring twice-weekly meals, who send love in a cardboard box, who pay a visit and offer a sympathetic smile.

I can choose to value my family, to appreciate their encouragement, support, assistance and great good humor.

I can choose to lean into the fear when it rises, to say the Jesus prayer whenever necessary, for as many times as it takes to slow my breathing and return my focus to the goodness of my life. Even here, even now.

I can choose to look for God’s grace and goodness, even when it hurts, even when I’m bored, even when I’m tired, even when I’m confused.

I can choose to lean and to learn, to seek and to find, to listen and to look, to love and be loved.

I can choose.

And so I will.

In two days, we return to the surgeon. Hopefully the cast will come off, the stitches will come out and there will be early evidence of the bone beginning to heal, the tendon attachments beginning to take hold. Then I’ll go into a removable boot for the remaining six weeks, which I hope-and-pray will mean the ability to shower without a huge plastic cover-up over my left calf.

I’ll report again after that appointment.

*For those who do not know what this surgery was about – a brief synopsis Last summer, I injured my left achilles tendon while taking an early morning walk when we were vacationing in Hawaii. I began physical therapy when we returned home, with very good results. Near the end of those sessions, I had a firm massage from the therapist in which the outside of that foot was pressed against the edge of the massage table and I was instructed to resist that movement. In doing so, I somehow managed to rupture the pereoneus brevis tendon, which comes down from the back bone of the lower leg and wraps around the ankle before heading to the outside of the foot and attaching to the little toe. It runs adjacent to the peroneus longus, which takes a turn at the ankle, going under the foot and over to the big toe. After trying three different appliances from three different doctors in an effort to avoid this surgery, the orthopedic surgeon took an additional series of x-rays which revealed a congenital malformation of the heel bone, likely contributing greatly to the tendon rupture in the first place. So. In two different incisions, which I have yet to see, he went in and broke the heel bone, straightening it and pinning it upright with screws and he cleaned up the torn tendon and reattached it to the neighboring one. And yes, it hurts about as much it sounds like it would.

Filed Under: Aging, community, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Hard Things, personal journey, Slowing Down, Suffering

A Granddaughter Remembers — A Guest Post from My Daughter

June 3, 2014 By Diana

Visiting the blog tonight is my middle child, Joy Trautwein Stenzel. Joy is exactly what her name says she is – a joy to us. She and her husband Marcus are raising three good young men in Monrovia CA and are both special education teachers, working with blind students across the age span from pre-school to 22. (Our eldest daughter also does this good work.) Our children grew up with their paternal grandparents less than five minutes away and were often in their home, as you will see. I love the way this piece celebrates what some might call the ‘old-fashioned’ virtues. To me, there is nothing old-fashioned about any of it — it’s a heritage we are humbled and pleased to call our own. Interspersed throughout her lovely words are photos scanned for us today by one of our grandsons, Joel Fischinger. Here’s Joy:

Joy, Mama, Lisa – on vacation at Mammoth Lakes, an annual excursion for many years.

Solid, dependable, disciplined, hospitable, thoughtful, committed, consistent.

My grandmother embodied these qualities. In an increasingly chaotic and unpredictable world, such characteristics are on the decline. And for an overly anxious and easily overwhelmed child, the unwavering reliability of my grandmother was a source of familiarity and comfort on which I knew I could rely.

The first in her family to graduate from college, at UCLA in the mid-1930s.

Mama was very steady and measured emotionally—quite the contrast to me. She rarely (if ever) raised her voice, and I only remember seeing her cry twice—when speaking of a beloved brother who had died too soon, and when her only daughter and her family were pulling out of the driveway to move across the country. Her level mood created an atmosphere of comfortable predictability for an emotionally volatile child—I knew exactly what to expect when I walked through her door.

So solid.

Enjoying Crater Lake with Jean and Richard, early 1950s

I knew when I went to Mama’s that there would be no surprises in either her temperament or the physical environment. Almost all of the furniture, toys, games, dishes, and appliances (no new-fangled microwaves for Mama!) stayed the same in their Wagner Street house from the time I was born until they moved to Santa Barbara. I played with my dad’s old toys, as did my children after me. I took great comfort in the familiarity of it all.

So dependable.

One of the last pictures of both Mama and Papa with all of their grandchildren, late 1990s

If we ever spent the night at Mama and Papa’s, we knew what we would find when we walked into the kitchen in the morning: the two of them seated at their little blue kitchen table, drinking coffee, reading the Bible and praying for family, friends, and missionaries.

So disciplined.

Same grandkids, several years earlier! On Kauai for M & P’s 50th Anniversary.
We hope to continue that tradition in the summer of 2015 – can you believe it?

We also knew that we would be well-fed when we entered their home. Mama was a wonderful cook, and hosted frequent meals for family and friends. She had a small but delicious repertoire of family favorites: BBQ short ribs, lemon meringue pie, tapioca, homemade applesauce—terrific food served on the same dining room table with the same china, flatware and crystal goblets year after year. To ensure that everyone would fit around the table, the piano bench served as a seat for the two smallest family members at one of the short ends of the table—no kids’ table at Mama Trautwein’s! Every leaf of that table would emerge from the closet so that we could all be together. That dining room set now resides in my own home, where I can only hope to entertain perhaps a quarter of the number of people she hosted so warmly over the years.

So hospitable.

Gathering around that dining room table, about 1979 or 1980.

When birthdays rolled around, we knew there would be a dinner in our honor at Mama and Papa’s house. Mama would let the birthday girl or boy set the menu. We always picked our favorite dishes (which probably weren’t her favorites!): orange jello packed with pieces of fruit, butter brickle cake topped with toffee pieces and hot fudge. When we became teenagers, Mama made each of her grandchildren a treasured cookbook filled with handwritten recipes for the family favorites we all loved, complete with personal notes and anecdotes related to certain dishes—a gift we all cherish and use regularly. My own children have even been fortunate enough to experience the anticipation of an unfailing Mama Trautwein birthday tradition—every year on their birthdays, she has sent them two dollar bills, the same number of bills as their age. Needless to say, they have amassed an astounding number of two dollar bills!

So thoughtful.

Not only did she host birthday dinners at her house, she also came to birthday dinners at our house.
We did birthdays up right in this family.
This picture cracks me up because the Birthday Boy almost got cut out of it.
And we just noticed tonight, he’s wearing doctor gear, of all things! And now he wears the real stuff. Go figure.

Mama established countless family traditions which were joyfully anticipated throughout the year. Every Easter, we knew we would receive a heaping plate of bunny and lamb cookies decorated with pink icing with chocolate chips for eyes. We dyed eggs every year at that little blue kitchen table, and Mama took us on annual Easter egg hunts at Descanso Gardens. Mama decorated a Manzanita tree every Christmas with tiny ornaments, and she gave my sister and me our own manzanita branches when we were in college, with new ornaments for them every year. Each member of our extended family had a stocking that had been lovingly decorated by Mama, unique to our interests. Mama found a lot of joy in holiday traditions.

So consistent.

This woman LOVED Christmas!

And the Easter egg hunts at Descanso continued with the great-grands, too. The four oldest, about 15 years ago.

Mama and Papa also loved to travel. They arranged annual extended family trips to Mammoth Lakes. These vacations gave the cousins a chance to bond, and allowed Mama and Papa to share their love of fishing, jigsaw puzzles, and board games with their offspring. Mama and Papa took exciting vacations without us as well, and invited us over for slideshows when they returned to share their adventures. They always brought back trinkets and souvenirs for us and sent us postcards from around the world. And Mama sent our own family off on road trips with boxes of cookies and wads of dollar bills to purchase souvenirs of our own. She did these things every summer, without fail.

So committed.

Mama, Papa & Jean visiting us in Africa, summer 1967.
I was 4 months pregnant with their first grandchild on this trip.

We will miss Mama, but many of the traditions she established continue in our own families, keeping her memory alive. We have been blessed indeed to have such an amazing woman so actively involved in our lives, setting an example we all aspire to follow.

Solid, dependable, disciplined, hospitable, thoughtful, committed, consistent.

Old-fashioned qualities? Perhaps. But never out of style.

Thanks so much, Joy. Beautifully said and right on target.

Kathryn Trautwein, in the early years at the Samarkand, before dementia.
A truly lovely lady in every way I can think of, a good, good woman.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Christmas, death, Easter, Encouragement, family, Family Portraits, Family/Travel, God's gifts, Grandparenting, grief, Guest Post, personal journey, Photo Essay

Chartreuse Cape in My Closet — SheLoves

May 24, 2014 By Diana

It’s always a joy to work with the grand people over at SheLovesMagazine. This is a small story about an old friend, who taught me a thing or two about living with flourish . . .

My online dictionary gives two distinct definitions for the word ‘flourish.’ One has to do with thriving in a particular environment; the other has to do with colorful, sometimes startling, ‘ta-da’ gestures.

My granddaughter is flourishing in the small Catholic school she attends. OR
My friend Nancy always adds a feather boa when she wants to say something with a flourish.

At first glance, the verb and the noun seem to have little to do with one another. To flourish is to bloom, turn toward the sun, become more of who we’re meant to be. A flourish is a more momentary thing, maybe even a flashy thing – a gesture, a brightly colored piece of clothing, a pose.

When I did a little looking, however, I discovered that they are actually very closely related. The verb form is older (about 800 years old!) and came into English from an old French word meaning to blossom; the noun came later and used to mean a blossom.

So, I wonder . . . what does it mean to blossom? What does it mean to add a blossom to what we do, what we say, how we live?

My friend Kathy helped me understand both meanings of this word.

I first met her almost twenty years ago, soon after my husband and I moved to Santa Barbara. She was in her early 80s then, full of life, and living that life out loud and in full Technicolor. Tall, statuesque, with brilliant blue eyes, she moved with a dancer’s grace and spoke with verve and good humor.

She’d known my husband before I met her and when she discovered that I was a pastor, she wasted no time in asking if I ever preached. “About 8-10 times a year,” I told her. And the very next week, she called the church office, asking for a preaching schedule and for immediate notification when my name came up in the rotation.

And every time I preached, from that day until a few months before she died, she came to hear me. She’d leave her expensive home at the golf course, driving her beat-up, 20-year old Ford station wagon into the church parking lot. I could always see her coming into the back of the gymnasium where we worshipped in those days, and I’d watch as she would gently genuflect and cross herself before the large wooden cross that hung at center court . . .

Come on over to SheLoves to read the rest of this story . . .

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Church, Creativity, Encouragement, Friendship, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, SheLoves

The Turning Point

May 8, 2014 By Diana

It was Wednesday yesterday.
Mom day.

We made the walk from her room
across the campus to the new cafe.
As always, we moved slowly.
Very slowly.

The day was warm and breezy,
sun shining, sky blue.
And the view is delightful.

Well, this view is delightful.
Mountain profile, green trees, red tile roofs.

This one is a bit more sobering.
It is a retirement community, after all.
And there were several old children,
visiting older parents this day.

My mom has had a rough month.
A bad, bad cold,
followed by a nasty case of shingles,
all of that taking its toll on her,
physically and mentally.

She is not eating much these days —
barely made it through half a hot dog,
one of her favorite lunches.

And the Diet Coke cup seemed to
freak her out this week.
She couldn’t understand why her
hands were wet whenever she
held her sweating cup.

But she smiled sweetly for the camera,
loving my company,
enjoying the day.

Making conversation is harder and harder to do.
She starts,
and I try to fill in the blanks,
but I can no longer guess
where she is heading.
There were a few moments
of remembering her childhood,
and a few wistful wishes
for more traveling.

But most of it was frustrating
for both of us.

We sat there for a good thirty minutes
after she had given up on eating anything,
just breathing together,
enjoying the warm sun
and the blue sky.

This last picture shows a weakness of my new camera.
It sometimes doesn’t know quite where to focus.
The woman in the background is crystal clear.
My mama?
Fuzzy, indefinite.

A perfect representation
of who and where she is right now.

Walking back to her room, I got a little ahead of her.
This is easy to do, as my stride is long
and even with an injured foot,
I walk a great deal faster than she.

So she said this:

“You may be older than I am, but you sure do move quicker.”

I was stunned for a minute, but came back quickly:

“I’m not older than you, Mom. How can I be?
I’m your daughter.”

“YOU ARE?
I didn’t know that!
Are you sure?
You didn’t live in our house, did you?”

“Yes, Mom. I lived in your house for twenty years.
And then I got married.”

Tears began to brim, but I cut them off.
She was so deeply confused,
and she did not need my grief to intrude
on her own.

My name she still knows.
My closeness to her she also knows.
Our blood relationship?

She no longer has a clue.

And I am bereft.

Filed Under: Aging, family, grief, Hard Things, memoir, personal journey, The Journey with Mom

Doubters Welcome Here

April 27, 2014 By Diana

They call this week “Low Sunday.” It’s the Sunday after the biggest feast in the Christian year, and every associate pastor in the world knows about it. This is a Sunday when associates are often asked to take the pulpit, providing an opportunity for the lead pastor to take a breather after the heavy push of Lent and Easter. And our fine associate stepped right up today.*

On the Orthodox calendar, this Sunday — which comes 8 days after Easter — is also known as the Sunday of St. Thomas, and the usual passage in their lectionary is the very one we used today. We have devised our own lectionary for this past school year, working through the gospel of John, and we are almost to the end. Serendipitously, Pastor Jon worked through these six verses from the end of chapter 20 in this morning’s meditation.

Here are John’s words, in The Message:

But Thomas, sometimes called the Twin, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.

The other disciples told him, “We saw the Master.” But he said, “Unless I see the nail holes in his hands, put my finger in the nail holes, and stick my hand in his side, I won’t believe it.”

Eight days later, his disciples were again in the room. This time Thomas was with them. Jesus came through the locked doors, stood among them, and said, “Peace to you.”

Then he focused his attention on Thomas. “Take your finger and examine my hands. Take your hand and stick it in my side. Don’t be unbelieving. Believe.”

Thomas said, “My Master! My God!”

Jesus said, “So, you believe because you’ve seen with your own eyes. Even better blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.”

Anyone who’s ever been to church knows this passage, right? That infamous stretch of scripture which has given rise to the descriptor, ‘doubting Thomas?’ How about ‘doubting Diana?’ Or ‘doubting _______ (fill in your own name?’ Because we all struggle with doubt, don’t we?

There are days when I not only don’t know what to believe, but I don’t know IF I believe much of anything at all. And almost everyone I’ve ever walked with on this following-after-Jesus-journey will admit to similar periods of wrestling, of questioning.

Madeleine L’Engle used to call it viral atheism, like a bout of illness.

Barbara Brown Taylor’s most recent book, ‘Learning to Walk in the Dark,’ speaks of her wrestling and wondering, of her deep desire to re-define the whole idea of darkness. She asserts that the darkness fairly shimmers with the presence of God Almighty, reminding me that God inhabited the darkness in the opening words of Genesis 1, long before any of the glorious universe we live in was even created.

Yes, there are good things to be discovered in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, doubt is the doorway to some of those good things.

Today, Pastor Jon also referenced Mother Theresa’s writings, writings culled from her personal journals, writings in which she, too, talked about doubt and an often overwhelming sense of God’s absence.

Interesting, isn’t it? My own devotional reading, conversations I’ve had with a wide variety of people — both IRL and online, and the sermon this morning were all connected, touching on the same basic topic, and providing a week of deep personal encouragement for me.

Why? Because I’m beginning to think that I may be in very good company indeed when I admit to doubt. And now, I find myself wondering what there is to be learned from this particular season of walking in the dark.

Thomas is a fine teacher, that’s for sure. He’s a toucher, is Thomas. A believer in the flesh, the in-your-face presence of another to confirm what his mind struggles to hang onto. He wants to put those hands on the scars of his Savior. He needs to see with his eyes, and touch with his fingers.

The hard part is that Thomas had to wait a while for his Resurrection experience, didn’t he? His friends celebrated right away — they heard and they saw and they touched. But Thomas was absent on that first remarkable day, for some reason, missing in action.

And hearsay was not going to cut it for this man. No way, no how.

When they gathered again, on that eighth day, Thomas made sure that he was there. And when Jesus appeared — in that mysterious, other-worldly way of his — he turned those laser-like eyes directly in Thomas’s direction.

Read that paragraph in the gospel reading one more time.

Do you hear any word of critique in Jesus’s invitation to Thomas? I don’t. He looks right at him and invites him to come and touch, to come and see for himself.

Caravaggio’s depiction of this scene was on our screens this morning. Look at this painting. Do you see how dramatic this encounter must have been? Look at how the hand of Jesus grips the wrist of Thomas so firmly, directing his fingers straight into that scarred chest.

No wonder Thomas cries out, “My Lord and my God!” Here is the proof he longed for, the touch he needed.

And then Jesus says something rather amazing. Amazing because I believe that Jesus was speaking those next words directly to me. And to you. And to any disciple who did not have the gift and the privilege of touching the resurrected body of the Lord:

“Blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.”

I cannot touch that wound in the side of Jesus, nor the nail marks in his wrists. But there are other wounds in this body of his, aren’t there?

So, I wonder where are the scars that need touching today? Because I believe that invitation given to Thomas is wide open for me, right here, right now. “Diana — are you wondering? Are you struggling? Then, come. Touch my side. Touch my hands.”

Here is where I am finding the wounds of the Savior these days:

This is the invitation for me right now. She is old. She is frail. She is blind and deaf and increasingly dumb, as words are harder and harder to find. So the touching of the wounds in this place is a primary point of ministry and of obedience these days; not one I chose, but one that is right in front of me, nonetheless.

She loves the ocean and she loves to take drives and she enjoys eating pizza once in a while. So today, in the middle of this current bout with doubt, with all this wondering and wrestling, I find myself looking for the wounds and trying my best to tend them a little.

We wrestle the walker into and out of the car and we sit across from one another at California Pizza Kitchen. And slowly, with lots of waiting in between, I hear pieces of her heart. I hear the words of old gospel songs. And I hear the phrases that she latches onto with all her might, phrases to keep her going during this terrible time of confusion and loss:

“The Lord’s been good.”

“We’ll just keep praying and believing.”

“Life is like a mountain railway . . . blessed Savior there to guide us.”

And so I am refreshed.

I am reminded that Jesus welcomed Thomas, doubts and all.

And Jesus welcomes me, too.

You can read the full text of Pastor Jon Lemmond’s excellent sermon here.

Joining with Michelle, Jen, Jennifer & Laura this week:

Filed Under: Aging, biblical reflection, Church, church year, Confession, Doubt, Encouragement, Hard Things, personal journey, Santa Barbara, Spiritual Formation, Suffering, Sunday Reflections, The Church, The Journey with Mom, The Sea, worship

Which Mirror? — SheLoves

April 5, 2014 By Diana

Can I just tell you what a privilege it is for me to post with the remarkable group of women gathered over at SheLoves magazine? Such beauty and goodness flowing over there. Our theme for April is “Mirror.” And here’s part of what came to me on this topic. You can follow me over to their site to read the rest of this piece. . .

I remember visiting an elderly parishioner who had a treasure trove of beautiful antique furniture in her home. The house itself was a Craftsman bungalow, with built-ins, high ceilings topped by crown molding, and beautiful wood trim around every door and window.

She owned several old dressers, with lovely framed mirrors attached, and there was one mirror in particular that I enjoyed. It had been in several homes over the years, and somewhere along the way, had lost a fair amount of its silvering, causing a series of dark spots to appear, especially around the edges.

When I looked in that mirror, I liked what I saw. And may I just say — that’s a fairly rare occurrence in my life? Generally, I avoid mirrors. And cameras, unless I’m shooting the pictures myself. I don’t like my image very much. I’m working on it and have actually mustered up a fair amount of what feels very close to affection for the tired, older face I see these days.

But when I was visiting this home, I pretty much avoided mirrors, except to do the most basic daily ablutions or to check for spinach between my teeth. Yet somehow, that old, spotted mirror was easier for me to look into.

Why?

Because if I positioned myself just right, I could blot out the parts of my body that I liked the least. And because the old silver could no longer hold as much light as it once did, everything else about me faded into a more impressionistic version of reality. I liked seeing less, I liked seeing a toned down version of the real me.

The real me, you see is quite often too much. I am too tall, too heavy, too opinionated, too candid, too loud, too bossy. And when I look in the mirror, I am uncomfortably reminded of all of that ‘too much-ness.’ And the truly weird thing about all this too-much is that it leads to my feeling a whole lot less-than most of the time.

Slowly, and with a large dose of intentionality, I am learning to look for different kinds of mirrors in my life. I’m not sure I’ll ever love what I see in the mirrors hanging in my home, but I think I’m making progress. And I think I’m heading in the right direction when I choose to see myself in some different kinds of reflective surfaces . . .

Join me at SheLoves to find out where I try to look now to see a truer version of me . . .

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Blogging, community, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, Grandparenting, Hard Things, personal journey, SheLoves, Spiritual Formation

“Empowered to NOT Do?” – SheLoves

March 15, 2014 By Diana

With my aching foot encased in a gigantic boot, propped high on pillows, and my heart wondering how or if this thing will be healed — whether by Holy Spirit power, mysterious and unseen, or by the skilled hands that hold the scalpel and the needle — let me think about that idea for a while.

I am used to going, to doing. Caring for others. Getting things done. I am not used to receiving help or asking for it. In fact, I hate feeling helpless. Hate it.

Now that I think about it, I suppose that makes me a control freak, of sorts. And let’s drop that ‘of sorts,’ shall we? Out-and-out, full-bore, driven, up-front — yeah, those are more accurate descriptors.

I’ve always been a take-charge person, a number-one child, a bit on the bossy side and pretty good on follow-through.

Right now, however, I can’t even follow.

I must sit. And wait. And wonder. And empowered is SO not how I feel.

When I take a breath, however, and slow my mind; when I stare at the sea or the foothills; when I open my hands and lower my weary head, that is when the truth sneaks in the door and tentatively settles around me. . .

Please follow me over to SheLoves to read the rest of this post . . .

Filed Under: Aging, Confession, Hard Things, personal journey, SheLoves, Spiritual Formation, Suffering

Sunday Dinner: A Deeper Story/Family

February 13, 2014 By Diana

Another installment in the series of reflections I’m writing on this final walk I take with mom, the one through dementia. You can begin reading here, and then click over to A Deeper Story, where I’m writing for the Family Channel today.

The sun streams in through the French doors on the south side of the building, adding warmth and light to the carefully set dining tables. It’s a lovely space, recently redecorated, with linen napkins popping up out of the water glasses. My husband and I eat lunch here every Sunday, joining our moms for a nicely presented 3-course meal.

There are floral centerpieces on each table, assembled every Wednesday morning by the people who live here, under the gentle direction of two volunteer Garden Ladies. Today’s bouquet consists entirely of white rosebuds and looks lovely as we take our places around the table.

I must say that the dinner guests are an interesting assortment. All of them are over 75, most of them over 80. A few – like both of our mothers – are over 90, moving closer every day to the century mark. They move slowly, these diners. A variety of metal walkers are lined up along each wall and I always hold my breath until all the stragglers are safely seated at the table of their choice.

Last Sunday, we counted 12 residents out of a possible 15. One is out to eat with family, one chooses to remain in her room, and one – my mother-in-law – is too sleepy to sit up at the table. One of those missing is a singer. During past dinners, we’ve heard the battle hymn of every division of the US military, “Home, Home on the Range,” “You Are My Sunshine,” and a few we don’t recognize.

This Sunday, however, that voice is missing. At first, it feels like a relief. A quiet meal! But after a while, the silence becomes thick and cumbersome, like a too-heavy blanket on an overly warm day.

You can continue reading this post over at one of my favorite sites on the web, A Deeper Story. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, A Deeper Story, Aging, Beauty, family, God's gifts, personal journey, The Journey with Mom

About Settling Down . . . A Deeper Story

January 6, 2014 By Diana

Every month, I share a story at one of my favorite websites ever, A Deeper Story. This month, I am once again writing for the Family Channel. Here’s a piece of this month’s story and a link so you can read the rest:

You think you know so much when you’re twenty years old. When that third decade begins, you’re a little bit full of yourself, impressed with what you’ve learned in school and in life, and convinced that you’ll be able to handle whatever life throws your way.

And, if you were a 20-year-old raised in the 50s and 60s, you also understood the order of things, especially if you were a female. Even more especially if you were a female raised in the conservative wing of the Christian church. Your life was pretty well mapped out for you: childhood, adolescence, a little bit of young adulthood, marriage, motherhood.

Being an eldest child with a strong sense of propriety and extraordinarily overactive responsibility glands, you did exactly what was expected of you. So, in the year you turned 20, you got yourself married. You found a good, Christian man, dated him (carefully!) for a good long time, got engaged and then, of course, you “settled down.”

Well, five out of six ain’t bad, right? The meeting, finding, dating, engaging, marrying thing you did according to plan. It’s the settling down part you’ve struggled with for the last — how many is it now? — FORTY-EIGHT years.

I chalk it up to delayed and extended adolescent rebellion, that’s what. As an eager-to-please, hyper-obedient child and youth, you never truly rebelled against anything or anyone. And that remarkable man you married? He wasn’t exactly a rabble-rouser, either, was he?

Yet somehow, you’ve traveled this wild and wooly, sometimes adventurous, always unique journey-through-life that began with an afternoon of “I do’s” at the end of 1965. Now you’re taking a gander at 2014, as it rises out of the fog and begins to take shape. Holy crap, next year, you’ll hit the big 5-0. Can you believe it? Doesn’t that happen to old people?

I look at the pictures from this most recent anniversary and I still see those kids in there, those good kids who so wanted to do ‘the right thing,’ whatever the heck that was. Yes, the years have added pounds to our frames and lines to our faces and a whole lotta white hair to the head of at least one of us.

But you know what else I see? A couple of undercover rebels, that’s what. We obeyed the rules, we followed the protocol, yet somehow, we never managed to settle down, did we? At least, not in the way our parents envisioned settling.

Please click on this line to read the rest over at A Deeper Story. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, A Deeper Story, Aging, Dreams/Dreaming, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Grandparenting, Marriage, parenting, personal journey

Holy Ground in the Lunchroom

December 4, 2013 By Diana

Wednesday is my day to take my Mom out to lunch.
She lives in a dementia unit nearby, a lovely place.
She loves her room, she thinks the food is great,
and she talks about moving almost every time we are together.

I get that, I do.
All my life, my mom has been a restless soul.
She loved to move the furniture around,
to create beautiful tableaus on tabletops,
counters, corners.
She dreamed of traveling,
and she did a fair amount of it, too,
and she often wondered if there was
more she could be doing with her life.

There are days when my mother forgets she is old.
Why not? She forgets lots of other things, too.
And I think there are days when she just
rebels against the whole idea!

And I get that, too.
I’m not crazy about all the indignities
that come with an aging body.

Today, she forgot to put her ‘teeth’ in,
a bridge across the back of her mouth,
and a ‘flipper’ in the front.
Usually, you cannot tell that her
front teeth are fake,
and you can never see that bridge.

But today, there was no denying it —
there was a gaping hole where her teeth should have been.
And her blouse was gaping in a few places, too.
One of the drugs she takes — which has almost
eliminated some troubling auditory hallucinations —
very occasionally causes weight gain in a small number of patients.

And, of course! given our genetic heritage,
my mom is one of that number.
She looks beautiful always, but a few of her clothes —
especially blouses that button — just don’t work as well
as they used to work.

And part of me found these small things
deeply troubling and sad,
further evidence of the ways in which
my mother, as I have known her,
is slowly disappearing.

But as I’ve thought about it and prayed about it
throughout this afternoon and evening,
I believe I’ve been given a gift today,
an answer to the pleading of my heart,
my begging prayer for a way to love my mother
exactly as she is right now,
a teary request to find a path through the sorrow.

So tonight, I look back on our time together,
and I see my mother in an almost ethereal light,
I remember a radiance that I cannot explain except to say
that Jesus lives in her —
the her she once was, and the her she is at this minute.
And that lunchroom where we sat?

Holy ground.

It was cold and blustery today,
too cold to take mom outside her facility,
too cold to go up and sit by the pool, as we often do.
So we sat together at the familiar tables
of her dining room, quietly enjoying
a turkey sandwich, Waldorf salad, jello.

And I watched as my mother smiled her beautiful smile
at every single person she saw.
I listened as she said to the aide,
“How would I get through a day without you?”
I heard her tell me, after we returned to her room,
and I set up a few small Christmas decorations,
“Oh, how lovely! Thank you so much, Diana.
I love you so much, I’m so glad you came today.”

By this time, we had found her teeth.
I had persuaded her to give me the blouse,
to store with her spring clothes,
which sit in a bin in my guest room.
She donned a new knit pullover shirt
in a beautiful magenta color. . .

And there were no more gaps.

The truth is, there never had been.

Thanks be to God.

Joining this tonight with Ann, Jennifer, Jen, Emily and Heather: