Aging — Page 11

The Sliding of the Seasons

November 29, 2013 By Diana

Today is the day after, the sliding day, the one that marks the shift from one special day on the calendar to an entire season of special. We chose to be quiet this day, to stay at home, eat leftovers, enjoy the freshness of the sky after rain.

So I sit in my usual spot, computer on my lap, and I drink in the richness of the gifts with which we have been lavished.
Sixteen of us gathered at our son’s home, to feast and laugh and say ‘thank you.’ The chiminea was lit, the appetizers spread, and we carefully helped my mother maneuver the short distance from car to house.

Our gifted daughter-in-law had a spread worth gaping at, with contributions from her mother and my older daughter, and a magnificent bird, smoked after brining.

The table was laid, complete with candy turkeys and bright colored decor, handmade by the 3-year-old at nursery school.
Laughter floated on the breeze, children implored Poppy to play games, food was warmed and presented and appreciated.

We have about four vegetarians and one vegan in our number, and Rachel and Lisa had prepared several scrumptious dishes that they could pile on their plates. We all had a Feast.
And dessert? Fuggedaboutit. An amazing collection of things divine and delish. Joel contributed hand made Bordeaux candies, Lisa baked pumpkin cookies and hand-sized apple pies, Rachel a decadent bourbon/maple pumpkin pie. I added some lemon pie squares and mom contributed a box of See’s Nuts ‘n’ Chews. Yeah, we had enough to eat.
Luke played a little piano, the kids and young adults played a little dominoes, and to cap off the evening, those not interested in watching football had a lively conversation about lasers and accelerators and all things strange and wonderful. My mom didn’t understand a lot of it, but she loved it. I think it helped her to remember who she is – a vibrant, interesting, interested woman who is always searching to learn more. The words will be lost, but the emotions will stay around a while.
And as we carefully got mom back in the car for the drive across town, I took a last look at that candle in the middle of the table. It seemed the perfect closing image for the day – one small light in the midst of it all, a beacon, a reminder of this next season of holy waiting, this time of Advent.

On Sunday, I will begin a daily small series, an Advent journey. A photo, some scripture, a few words of reflection, a prayer. Nothing grand, nothing splendiferous, just a small offering of thanks and worship as we slide into the next season.

Filed Under: Advent, Aging, Beauty, Birds, community, family, Fun, God's gifts, Grandparenting, personal journey, The Grandkids, The Journey with Mom

Philip or Andrew?

November 17, 2013 By Diana

I am indebted to the fine homiletical work of our pastor Don Johnson for the thrust of this reflection. His sermon this morning was dead on, and so very important. Please read the gospel lesson, the Word of the Lord for the saints in Santa Barbara this morning:

John 6:1-15, NLT

After this, Jesus crossed over to the far side of the Sea of Galilee, also known as the Sea of Tiberias. A huge crowd kept following him wherever he went, because they saw his miraculous signs as he healed the sick. Then Jesus climbed a hill and sat down with his disciples around him. (It was nearly time for the Jewish Passover celebration.) Jesus soon saw a huge crowd of people coming to look for him. Turning to Philip, he asked,“Where can we buy bread to feed all these people?” He was testing Philip, for he already knew what he was going to do.

Philip replied, “Even if we worked for months, we wouldn’t have enough money to feed them!”

Then Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, spoke up. “There’s a young boy here with five barley loaves and two fish. But what good is that with this huge crowd?”

“Tell everyone to sit down,” Jesus said. So they all sat down on the grassy slopes. (The men alone numbered about 5,000.) Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks to God, and distributed them to the people. Afterward he did the same with the fish. And they all ate as much as they wanted. After everyone was full, Jesus told his disciples,“Now gather the leftovers, so that nothing is wasted.” So they picked up the pieces and filled twelve baskets with scraps left by the people who had eaten from the five barley loaves.

When the people saw him do this miraculous sign, they exclaimed, “Surely, he is the Prophet we have been expecting!” When Jesus saw that they were ready to force him to be their king, he slipped away into the hills by himself.

It was hot, dusty, flies and people milling about,
buzzing, buzzing.
Over 5000 folks climbed that hillside with the water view,
oldsters and children, men and women,
seekers and hangers-on —
wondering and wandering and wanting to see
what the rabbi might do,
to hear what he might say.

Jesus was the newest ‘show in town,’ and everyone was curious.
They had seen (or heard) about the healings, the ‘signs,’
and they wanted to see a few for themselves.
So they hoofed it, out into the countryside, hiking up the hill by the lake,
hanging around, waiting for the show to begin.
The star of the show, however, gathered his closest friends and went to
the tippy-top of that hill and . . . what?
Gathered the props for a magic show?
Laid out a careful plan for crowd management?
Discussed what the format for the day should look like?

None of the above.
None of it.
Oh, there is a sign coming —
and a doozy of a sign, too.
And the crowd will be pleased,
so overwhelmingly convinced that Jesus
is the latest hot number,
that they will succumb to mob mentality
and try to force the guy to become
their next Grand Poobah.
(Something which Jesus will have NONE of.)

No. There is no talk of technique or teaching,
there is a simple lesson in faith, told to two particular disciples.
Rather than a story about the crowd.
or even a story about a ‘trick’ or a sign,
this is something else entirely.

This is a story about
contrasting worldviews,
personal invitations,
scarcity and plentitude,
faith and doubt.

This is a story about possibilities
and whether or not those who follow Jesus
are open to them.

This is a story about Philip and Andrew.

And this is a story about giving what we have,
no matter how small it might look to us,
to the gentle, prayerful care of Jesus the Christ,
and then waiting to see
how too little
becomes more than enough.

That is a barley loaf in the pictures above.
Poor people’s bread in 1st century Palestine,
the bare minimum for a day’s calories.
Crumbly and salty, even tasty, when you get used to it,
what a mother might pack for her son
for a picnic by the lake.

A far cry from Philip’s anxious bean-counting,
(“Even if we worked for months, we wouldn’t have enough to feed all these people!”)
and the only small thing that Andrew could dredge up
in his cursory survey of the crowd.
A boy’s lunch basket.
That’s all he had.

And it was more than enough.

Neither Philip nor Andrew could see that more-than-enough
when they looked at that little lunch.
But Andrew had a hunch, just an inkling,
and he wasn’t all that sure about it, either.
But he brought that small bag of food,
and he gave it to Jesus.

What small thing can I bring to the top of that hill today?
What paltry gift can I bring?
Can I take my eyes off of the need that seems to
surround and overwhelm,
and look only at Jesus?
Only at Jesus.

Can I resist the attitude of scarcity that oozes out of Philip,
can I turn away from my proclivity for anxiety rather than trust,
my inclination to look at the crowd rather than at Jesus,
my unholy need to control outcomes
rather than let the Holy-Spirit-power-of-my-Redeemer
have its way with the little, the last, the least and the lost?

Ah, Jesus. Have mercy on me, a sinner.
Help me to be an Andrew.
Not quite sure, but willing.
Wondering about outcomes,
but handing it over,
no matter how small it looks.

After church,
after lunch,
after a deep breath and a deep sigh,
we piled my 92-year-old mom into our car
and headed 80 miles east toward her 90-year-old sister,
who is dying this week.

When pastor Don asked us to write down the small things we have,
the things that we find when we search our hearts
and our calendars and our commitments,
the things we need to bring to Jesus —
these two were on the top of my list:
my writing
my mother.
And today was a day for my mother.

It was a hard day, a tiring one, filled with confusion
and fear and grief.
It was a day when I had to pray for grace and for patience
every second of every minute of every hour.

I had a hard time looking at Jesus
in the midst of this particular crowd.
I had a hard time sitting down on the grass
and partaking of the bounty that comes
from not enough when it is given over to the Savior.

But there were glimpses.
There was beauty.
There was grace.
My beautiful cousin, looking at her mama with so much love.
My beautiful aunt, rousing just enough
to grab her sister’s hand and cry, “Ruthie! Ruthie! It’s you, it’s you!”
My beautiful mother, having to meet her grief
over and over and over,
as she forgot who the woman in the bed was,
and then remembered when I gently repeated,
“This is Eileen, your sister, your best friend.”
And the beauty of old songs, sweetly sung.
“On a hill far away. . .”
“For God so loved the world. . . “
“Away in a manger. . .”
“I come to the garden alone. . . “
Every word sung by the sisters and the cousins,
every word an offering of love to each other,
and to the God who gives us songs to sing.

Every word, a reminder that when we give it to Jesus,
the little things are more than enough.

An update, late on Tuesday night: my much-loved, delightful, charming, fun-loving Aunt Eileen
moved into the arms of Jesus at 9:46 p.m.
Thanks be to God and peace to her memory.

Offering this small thing to Laura, Michelle, Jen, Jennifer, Ann and Emily this week, grateful for the ways in which they each point me to Jesus and away from the crowd.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, biblical reflection, death, family, God's gifts, grief, Lament, memoir, personal journey, Storytelling, Sunday Reflections, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized, worship

31 Days of Giving Permission . . . TO CHANGE

October 10, 2013 By Diana

Everything changes.
We live in a world that is bound by time.
And time passes
and things (and people) change.

And we don’t like it very much, do we?
We label this process ‘aging,’
and I suppose that is true, as far as it goes.

But there is so much more to changing over time,
so much more.

Appearances definitely change over time, don’t they?
Last week, we had the joy of viewing this glory, up close and personal.

Now, we are back at home, glad to be here, and we brought with us a few souvenirs.
This is all that remains of the outrageous conflagration of color
we gasped at all over the New England states.
These leaves, no longer connected to the tree,
still beautiful, but fading.

And eventually, disintegrating to dust.

Today, I visited my mother and my mother-in-law.
70 years ago, my MIL looked like this –
young, enraptured with her firstborn,
dark-haired, smooth-skinned.

And 66 years ago, this was my mother,
holding her nearly 2-year-old firstborn,
pregnant with number two,
joyful, loving life, energetic.

Today, I found them both happily enjoying the beauty of cut flowers,
which they were helping to arrange themselves.
These vases go into their rooms,
to add color and life,
and will be replaced next Wednesday,
when the Garden Ladies come again to brighten their day.

Their skin is wrinkled, their hair is gray, their memories
are shrinking, narrowing.

And of course, this aging process does not apply to our parents only;
Dick and I have seen our share of wrinkles and gray hairs, too.
Here we are in 1968, just after returning from two years in Africa.

And here we are last week, sitting on a rock overlooking a New Hampshire hillside.

Yes, indeed, we have changed in appearance.
And we have changed on the inside, too.

We’ve grown up as well as grown old,
we’ve grown a family and careers,
we’ve been enriched by living, and loving, and losing.

Everyone changes.
And though it is sometimes hard,
it is always good.

Always.

Even when change brings the smart of tears to our eyes,
they are tears of joyful memory as well as sorrowful reality.

Because, you see, the past is always part of the present.
because we bring it with us.
We are who we’ve been becoming,
gray hair, expanding waistline, and all.

And you’ll get there, too.
So start now to give yourself permission to change,
to grow, to age – like a good cheese or a fine wine.

Every stage of life is a gift of God, even the hardest ones.
And change is something to be embraced,
and lived into gracefully.
Even though it’s sometimes scary and hard,
life is a gift.

First and foremost,
life is a gift.

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Beauty, Blogging, death, Encouragement, Family/Travel, God's gifts, Uncategorized

Giving Permission . . . to LEARN

October 2, 2013 By Diana

These words speak to me today,

“Come to me, all you that are weary . . .
take my yoke upon you, and learn from me;
for I am gentle and humble in heart
and you will find rest for your souls. . .”

I consider myself a ‘life-long learner.’
I enjoy learning new things, re-learning old things,
challenging myself with new ideas and difficult concepts.

But some things . . .
well, some things, I never seem to learn deeply enough.

And these lovely words from Jesus tell me that
THIS is one of those things:

resting in Jesus.

Oh, my. I say I love to learn,
that I’m eager to try new things.
But this one?
This kind of learning?

I am a slow student in this school,
plodding through life on my own strength,
adding responsibilities,
accumulating too much stuff,
making too many commitments.

There is a drivenness in me that
pushes me to jump on that merry-go-round,
the one that spins on my insecurities
and overweening ego,
the one that makes me dizzy and tired.

So today, I am going back to school.
I want to learn from Jesus about gentleness,
about humility,
about rest.

What about you?
Is it time to rest from the spinning,
to let a plate or two drop,
to admit that you aren’t a super-powered human being?

Because the good news is that Jesus wants us to be life-long learners.
As long as this lesson is on the top of the to-do stack:

“. . .take my yoke upon you, and learn from me . . .”

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Blogging, community, Encouragement, friendship. personal journey, God's gifts, prayer, Words

Making Poetry . . . Together

September 20, 2013 By Diana

As we journey with our moms down this last leg of the journey, I find myself doing a lot of reading and research about dementia. There was a link this week to an absolutely beautiful video, a video that tells the story of an Alzheimer’s patient who began to paint lovely watercolors, whose right brain flourished even while the left brain was diminishing.

My mom used to draw occasionally, and if she had her vision, I would be loading up on artist’s supplies for her. But she can no longer see well enough to write her name, much less wield a paintbrush. So I began to wonder about words, and letting them flow when relaxed. Not words she was trying desperately to remember, but descriptive words, feeling words, reflective words.

We went to lunch yesterday, as we try to do once each week. She needs a break from the dormitory-like existence of a memory loss unit and I need time with her when she’s not focused on introducing me – yet again – to every aide, every resident. We crossed the parking lot outside her unit, rode the elevator up one floor and wandered down to the swimming pool and patio. There is small cafe where we can order lunch in a box, and after we had eaten our fill, I began to ask her some gentle questions and then to record them in my iPhone, using the notes app.

When we had finished, I read out to her what she had said, what she had noticed, what she had felt.

And it was lovely.

And uproariously funny at a couple of points, because . . . well, she has dementia, you know! And not everything connects to everything else in the usual way.

Here, interspersed with photos from a gloriously beautiful afternoon, are my questions to her and her responses to me:

What do you see when we’re here having lunch by the pool?

I see that it’s wonderful,
that there is beauty here.

I love the tall and thin palm trees;
something about them reminds me
that I better get my hair done!

I appreciate the beauty of the day
because it is private here,
and the weather is great
And the tall trees surrounding
the swimming pool are beautiful.
I feel like putting on my shoes and walking.

I love sharing this beauty with you.

What do you hear when you’re sitting here mom?

Because I know there’s building going on,
I can hear that work.
Makes me want to take a walk
and see how far they’ve come.

I see my flag up there too.
And I stop and I think how blessed our lives are.
I’m glad that the flag is flying today.
There’s just enough wind so that it’s waving.

The flag is flying,
and it signals the comfort
of living in a good world.

I enjoy all the green things.

I like to see the wind move
across the swimming pool.

Seeing the water makes me think that
God’s in his heaven & all’s right with the world.

And Yankee doodle is alright too.

Because she had mentioned taking a walk twice during our shared reverie, I suggested we walk by the new construction and over to the koi pond and magnificent, large magnolia tree that gives that section of the campus its name.

Sitting in the sun is good medicine, I think.

And so is making small poems together.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, hope, memoir, personal journey, Santa Barbara, The Journey with Mom

Missing Them

September 18, 2013 By Diana

Whenever I can, I like to join in Heather King’s “Just Write” meme. Today was a day with a layer of sadness pushing its way up to the light, needing to be looked at and prayed through. Here is what comes when I ‘just write’ it out:

I sat on our swing today, for the first time in a few weeks.
It’s a favorite spot for being still, centering, reflecting.
Today, as I put my feet up on the bench and swayed beneath the old oak,
I held before the Lord the names of all my friends who are struggling,
and of all the dear ones closest to me, my children and my grandchildren.
The older two of our eight are wrestling their way to adulthood,
asking good, hard questions.
The youngest is living with chronic illness at the tender age of three.
And my friends are struggling with physical illness, with sick kids,
with broken marriages, and dying dreams.
It felt good to simply say their names,
to remember who they are,
to take their struggles into the presence
of the God who loves us all,
and whose ways are mysterious, indeed.

And then I thought of them.
Our two mothers,
valiant, beautiful women, both of them,
women who poured themselves into faith and family
all their lives, their long lives.

Fiercely intelligent, strong, funny, tender, loving,
each of these women had a profound influence on who I am,
on who my husband is, on who my children are.

And I wept for them, and for us, and for all the unknowns
of where we are right now.
I admitted that I don’t understand why they suffer like this,
why their lives of faithfulness are ending in
confusion, anxiety, insensibility.

And I realized that I am missing them.
They’re here with us, we see them twice a week,
I talk with my mom on the phone in between those times.
They’re here.

But they’re not here,
not all of who they are. So I allowed myself to miss the
pieces that have floated away, the mothers I once knew so well.

Their long lingering is, of course, teaching me things.
Important things, necessary things.
Most especially, I am looking at my assumptions about
what it means to be a human person,
created in the image of God.
I am learning to release the idea that Descartes made so
‘popular’ generations ago: “I think; therefore, I am.”

I have bought into this mythology at a very deep level;
I have believed that intelligence is the single most important indicator
of the imago dei. I have dreadfully limited my understanding of
who we are as children of God, children who are loved
whether or not we can think coherently.
Whether or not we can remember,
whether or not we can communicate verbally,
whether or not we can command our minds to do what we tell them to do.

And I am learning to let go, a little more each day,
and to value them, not only for who they have been in the past,
but for who they are now.
For these bodies that bore us are still lovely,
even as they gradually fade away.
There are whispers and echoes of stories we share,
there are wisps of songs that rise to the surface,
there are traces of who they are in a glance, a smile, a single word.

And there is love.

Always, there is love.

My mother-in-law on her 97th birthday, January of this year.

My mom on her 92nd birthday, around the same family room table,
in the same memory loss unit, celebrating her 92nd birthday in July.

Filed Under: Aging, family, hope, Just Write, personal journey, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized

iPhone Journaling: Just Write

August 26, 2013 By Diana

For years I kept prayer journals, the only kind of journaling I’ve ever really done. I have never enjoyed handwriting, and now increasing joint pain makes it difficult. All the writing how-to books say you have to write longhand to get to the heart of things, however. Clearly, that is not working for me. So, I’ve adapted to technology just a little bit and have occasionally used the microphone system on my iPhone to get my musings written down. This is the most recent of those musings. Joining this with Heather’s JustWrite linky for the first time in months.

I watch them, has they wield their strollers past my car. Young, strong, beautiful. One stroller with two babes inside, maybe nine months separating them in age. Another with a single ten-month old.

They’re smiling at each other, laughing as they push their beautiful burdens up the hill. It’s funny how I don’t remember laughing very much as a mother to very young children. I’m sure I did. My children were delightful, smart, and funny. And much of that time in my life was, indeed, joyful.

But mostly what I remember now is the fatigue. And the doubt. And all the questions about whether or not I was enough. I don’t remember having very many friends who had babes in strollers at the same time I did. I remember feeling alone, very alone.

We’d been gone for two years, So most of our college friends had moved on, going in other directions. I had one neighbor with young children, but she worked. I remember joining the food co-op, getting a weekly delivery of fruits and vegetables. And out of that group, a babysitting co-op grew, and there I did connect with others who were at the same stage of life.

Maybe that’s why I have a hard time relating to so many of the young moms who write in the blog-o-sphere, those who connect at a heart level with other mothers of children the same ages as their own. That kind of connection was very difficult for me to find, and if found, for a long list of reasons, very hard for me to continue.

What is it about me that resists friendship.? I have a lot of “friends” but how many know my heart? Thankfully, there are some. And at this juncture in my life story, I am finding it easier to connect via the internet than in real life. Why is that?

I’m sitting at the ocean, trying to sort through the mass of mixed feelings going on inside me right now. I carry my mom around with me most of the time. I carry my children, and my grandchildren. I’m looking at some fairly minimal, but still invasive health issues, and I always find that wearying and worrying. I need a Spiritual Director, and I’ve been looking for over a year. Pursued several different avenues, none of which have worked out thus far. Lord, whom shall I see? Who would you have me work with?

Today as I stare at the sea, this is what I see:

The ocean is relentless. It keeps coming. The waves roll, whether small or large, but they roll. The surface today is relatively calm, and the kelp beds are not moving much. Very few waterfowl today, either. I keep looking for pelicans, so far I see none.

I wonder if the dolphins will peek through the water with the tips of their fins; they always bring a sense of hope and a spirit of playfulness to my day. I think I could use a good dose of both right now.

Another day, another doctor’s visit. This one for my mother, she has a nasty bruise on her lower right calf and now, a low-grade fever. So we’ll go back to the doctor – we were just there five days ago, And two days before that. And in between her medical visits, I have my own. It’s funny how these medical events seem to come in seasons.

Make that ‘funny peculiar,’ not ‘funny ha-ha.’ There’s not a lot of ha-ha-ing going on just now. All of it together creates a sort of low-level sense of anxiety, sometimes for days in a row, and I always find that wearing.

I’m grateful for this parking space, and the sound of the waves. Now I see three pelicans, the holy trio winging their way further out to sea. No dolphins yet, but I remain hopeful.

The undulating water somehow centers my spirit, and calms my heart. I can feel my breathing slow down, and my muscles relax. This morning, everything is thick with fog, something I usually dislike intensely. But today, it suits my mood.

There’s something womblike about it, soothing, calming, Like a balm to my wounded self. Henri Nouwen talks a lot about wounded healers, and I believe him. I just don’t much enjoy the wounding part. I wait, with some sense of restlessness, for the emerging part of this process.

To emerge from the woundedness is a good and important thing. On the other side of this season of sadness, I look forward to offering words of hope and healing to others who find themselves where I am now. In the meantime, I will continue to drive down our hill, turn my car around in the middle-of-the-road, and park on the edge of the bluffs. I will roll my window down, push my seat back, and stare out at the sea.

And I will wait. I will wait for the movement of the Spirit, I will wait for the stirrings of hope. I will wait for what comes next.

Filed Under: Aging, family, Just Write, personal journey, Spiritual Direction, Words, Writing

The Beauty That Remains

August 25, 2013 By Diana

My thanks to my good friend, Sherry Peterson, for this photo,
which she took as she was walking by us at The Samarkand. Sherry is lead chaplain there,
and mom told me she preached a powerful sermon this morning!

We take the walker everywhere now;
her balance isn’t what it once was,
and we all feel just a bit more secure,
knowing she’s got support when she walks.

On Wednesdays, I join her for lunch.
And while the weather is as glorious
as it is right now,
we’re choosing to eat that lunch outdoors.

There’s a small cafe near the community swimming pool.
Sandwiches, salads, occasionally soup
and a hot choice.
And a small freezer full of ice cream delights.

We don our pink hats, steer that walker towards the outdoors,
and wend our way over to the beautiful place,
the space where the sun shines and the breezes blow,
where we can talk if we wish,
or just sit and enjoy the distant mountain view.

We share a bottled Diet Coke
and laugh about the tickle-fizz of it,
and the sharp taste as it slides down our throats.
She always asks how my kids are doing.
Always.
And I say, “They’re doing just fine, Mom. Just fine.”

Conversation is harder to come by these days,
but we are relaxed about it.
She often surprises me with a small joke,
usually one that is self-deprecating.
We both laugh.

Sometimes, she seems aware of things
happening outside her increasingly small world.
We’ll touch on it gently,
and then she’ll say,
“Well, if they’d only ask us,
we could solve all the world’s problems, couldn’t we?”

That was a favorite line between us for years,
a sentiment that one or the other of us offered
whenever we spent any time lamenting
the current state of affairs in the world.

Somehow, it was a way to close off
that section of the conversation,
to move away from what sometimes
began to feel like constant complaining.

Neither of us can sit in complaint for long.

This week she asked me something
that felt a bit as though it came from out of the blue.
I’m learning that things seldom are as random
as they might feel in this strange, half-lit world of dementia.

“Do you know this song?” she asked me.
“It’s been going through my head all the time lately.
It’s called, ‘Life Is Like a Mountain Railroad.’“

“Nope, Mom. Never heard of it. Tell me how it goes.”

She’s a bit embarrassed to sing,
her once lovely alto quavery and weak these days.
She is 92 years old, I gently remind her,
and eventually, the words come out.

Life is like a mountain railroad,
with an engineer that’s brave;
We must make the run successful,
from the cradle to the grave;
Watch the curves, the fills, the tunnels;
never falter, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
and your eye upon the rail.

Refrain:
Bless’d Savior, Thou wilt guide us,
Till we reach that blissful shore;
Where the angels wait to join us
In Thy praise forevermore.

You will roll up grades of trial;
you will cross the bridge of strife;
See that Christ is your Conductor
on this lightning train of life;
Always mindful of obstruction,
do your duty, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
and your eye upon the rail.

Refrain

You will often find obstructions;
look for storms of wind and rain;
On a fill, or curve, or trestle,
they will almost ditch your train;
Put your trust alone in Jesus;
never falter, never fail;
Keep your hand upon the throttle,
and your eye upon the rail.

Refrain

As you roll across the trestle,
spanning Jordan’s swelling tide,
You behold the Union Depot
into which your train will glide;
There you’ll meet the Superintendent,
God the Father, God the Son,
With the hearty, joyous, plaudit,
“Weary pilgrim, welcome home!”

Refrain

–M.E. Abbey & Charles Davis Tillman

The words are close to kitsch
and they make me smile.

My momma remembers one verse and the chorus,
and I pull out my iPhone and find the rest
on Google, astounded as always,
by what you can find in 30 seconds
in this internet world.

Hearing it sung helps me to see
the church into which I was born,
the one where my mom and dad met and married.
That old brownstone in downtown Los Angeles,
whose nooks and crannies were as familiar
to me as my own home.
That place where I learned sometimes bad theology,
but a lot of absolutely magnificent ecclesiology,
where church was welcoming, warm,
even fun from time to time.
Where I went forward to receive communion
at the rail, while my dad played the piano,
and my mom sang in the choir.
That place where Jesus was near.

We never sang that song while I went there.
Oh, we sang lots of gospel music,
a gift for which I am deeply grateful.
But never this one.

Somehow, it feels perfect for this summer luncheon,
perfect for this old saint and her old daughter.
Thank God for the brave engineer,
the One who will carry her safe-home.

And me, too.

Here is a link to Johnny Cash, the Carter Family and Earl Scruggs (among others) recording two verses of this old chestnut. (They use ‘railway’ rather than ‘railroad.’)

It’s perfect.

“Life is Like a Mountain Railway”

Joining this one with all my friends on this lovely Sunday evening. Most of my writing efforts this week will be directed toward a small sermon, to be preached next Sunday in my mom’s ‘church,’ the chapel she can walk to from her room.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Church, death, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, memoir, parenting, personal journey, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized

Toward A More Perfect Union — A Deeper Family

July 4, 2013 By Diana

It’s the first Thursday of the month! And that means I’m writing over at A Deeper Family today. It’s also our national birthday – the Fourth of July – so here is a picture of some fireworks we enjoyed while we were in Dresden, Germany, about two months ago. Please come on over and join me at ADF to read the rest of this reflection . . .

The heat is rising in waves from the concrete deck, shimmering in that strange, invisible way that heat waves do. The whole of southern California is turning up the AC, blowing fans over bowls of ice, taking quick dips in the pool or bathtub, trying to even out the air temp in as many creative ways as possible.

Here, in our coastal town, we’ve had temperatures in the 90’s for almost a week now – unusual in early July. Often our national holiday is shrouded in fog; the annual fireworks display can only be seen in bits and pieces, when an occasional rocket climbs above the layers of goop circling round the end of the pier.

This year, however, the show should be grand. But we will not be there.

We’ve seen lots of fireworks in our day, and sent more than a few brilliant displays into the skies ourselves. Yet these days, listening to the pops and bangs and whizzes is almost as much fun as seeing their aerial display. Maybe we’ll watch the televised ones from DC and NYC, who knows? I only know we won’t be joining the throngs who will jam the beachfront boulevard and then struggle to make their way, ever-so-slowly, up to the freeway and home again, home again.

At this end of 47+ years together, we are increasingly careful about how we spend our time and energy, wanting not to waste any of it with crowds and confusion. Maybe that makes us old fogies. In fact, I am SURE it makes us old fogies. And you know what? I am more comfortable with that idea than I ever dreamed I might be. Believe me, it’s not all bad, being a fogey. It has its perks.

Like . . .

Wanna know what those perks look like from our end? Well, come on over. Just click this sentence and you’ll find the list.

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, Aging, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Grandparenting, Marriage, memoir, personal journey, Uncategorized

5 Minute Friday — Rhythm

June 20, 2013 By Diana

It’s been a while. Lisa-Jo’s got such a good thing going with these Friday prompts and I’m trying to make room for doing them more and more often. If you hop over to her blog, you’ll see lots of folks’ 5 minutes of unedited reflection on the prompt for the week.

The prompt for today is — rhythm

GO:

Sometime, it feels like we should all be dancing —
all the time.

Everything about this earth of ours is marked
by rhythm of one kind or another —
the seasons,
the years,
the rising and setting of the sun,
the ebb and flow of the tide.

The beat of our hearts,
the changing tempo of our breathing,
the swirling of our thoughts —
how do we keep from tapping our feet?

Why are we so often mired in the monotony of stability?

Don’t get me wrong — there’s nothing wrong with steadiness.
But even steadiness has a beat to it, right?

I sit beneath a slowly circling fan,
listening to a bubbling fountain just outside our bedroom door.
Occasionally,
I hear a frog-song,
a bird-song,
the wind soughing through the trees.