When I am 86

Not too terribly long ago, my parents moved into a retirement community just over twenty miles from my home. A few days ago I made the forty-minute drive to accompany them to a parent and adult child gathering. This get together came to be as two daughters navigated health issues and transitions alongside their aging moms. They became friends and support for each other, and they wanted to extend this possibility to others who may one day be in the same situation. Though my own parents are on the younger side of the crowd, watching my mom care for my now almost ninety-eight year old grandmother is instructive. So many of my peers find themselves in challenging care-taking roles with their parents.

At the reception, I met a number of interesting and engaging people from both generations. But one particular conversation resonated with me and has captured my imagination.

Daughter: “We recently moved my parents from a small house into a one bedroom apartment after Mom had some serious health issues. See my dad over there. He is eighty-six years old. He has trouble walking. We ended up being the ones to go through all of their stuff in an unexpectedly hurry-up period of time. My husband is a teacher and had some time off. He tackled my dad’s closet. One day while I was at work, he called me and said, ‘why in the world does your dad still have scuba gear, ice skates, and cowboy boots?!’ I said, welllll actually, I think it is snorkeling gear.”

Me: “Well, did your dad want to keep any of those things? (I fully expected her to respond with either ‘no’ or cowboy boots.)

Daughter: “Yes, the ice skates.”

Me: I chuckled and then said, “You have given me something to think on and ponder.”

I shared this story with a friend who commented, “denial.” Maybe so. But I have also wondered if the ice skates represent something else. Maybe they hold the memory of a special moment or signify a hard fought battle to learn something new or contain echoes of a long ago childhood or championship or . . .

As someone living in my mid-fifties, I realize that in the matter of “living life as a senior adult,” I am up next. What will be my ice skates? Maybe the shelves and shelves of well-loved books or certain shoes that help me feel tall and beautiful. It is hard to know right now, but if I live long enough, the day will certainly arrive. Thrift stores are full of once prized crystal and china that for some represent days gone by of beautiful holidays and parties. While these are not my particular “thing,” I am quite sure that my version of ice skates will make itself known.

Letting go of material things is symbolic. As we age, our lives focus into smaller spaces, often both literally and figuratively. Downsizing requires the culling of things that once played practical or sentimental roles along the story paths of our lives. Reduced energy and mobility invite us to prioritize our time and choices in an ever more focused way. When I am eighty-six, I wonder which things that I can hold in my hands will matter most.

+++ What are your ice skate moments with your aging parents or yourself. I would love to hear your story.

Darkness and Light

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5

I went reluctantly. The day before, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, was a sad day. It almost always feels that way to me. I cherish the time with family - the relaxed rituals of food and football and game playing. There is much laughter and connection and memory made during our Thanksgiving days. I always feel a Sunday melancholy. I know well the hustle and bustle that so often are a part of the weeks to follow.

Monday morning offered three plus hours in a contemplative space. It is a monthly invitation to spend quiet, reflective, holy time with fellow sisters. Despite my sometimes reluctance to dedicate a morning to the pursuit of silence and contemplation, I almost always leave satisfied. Monday was no exception.

After thirty minutes of silence experienced within community, these words were spoken: “In the darkness, we may be pushed to make changes in our lives that we would never have considered otherwise. We may be forced to look at hidden wounds and inner issues that we had always been able to shove aside. We may be led to appreciate life and our gifts at a much deeper level. Most always, the womb of darkness is a catalyst for creativity and for a deeper relationship with God. Always it is a time for trust in the transformative process and for faith that something worthwhile is to be gained by our waiting in the dark.”*

I wholeheartedly agree and have lived the truth of these words. Yet there is also something within that fiercely fights against the idea of ever returning to such darkness. I prefer to live in the light.

On Sunday, my post-Thanksgiving doldrums were not just the regular sadness I feel when parts of my family separate out and away to their various places. That particular day also cast shadows of a years ago dark time within myself and my family. Things happened on Sunday that beckoned my memory back to a time and place that I desire never to repeat. Despite the healing and grace that I received as a result of that season of darkness, it is most difficult to imagine a return to that place. 

Within Monday’s contemplative space, an invitation was issued. Choose a bulb, the oversized seed of a promised flower, and push it deep down into a crèche filled with black, rich soil.  After spending time in the darkness where unseen forces are at work, a green stalk will one day push up through the dirt and enter the light. In time, flowers will offer beauty to all who behold them.

I accepted the invitation. I pushed my bulb deep into the loamy soil. My hands got dirty. Most often that is necessary before darkness turns to light.

During this advent season, we wait in darkness. Secret, mysterious forces are at work. The light is coming. 

* written by Marilyn Bender, former co-pastor of Raleigh Mennonite Church

The day I cried at yoga

Very early this morning, after a mere two hours of sleep, my anxiety woke me. After watching the end to an awful and divisive presidential election, rest mostly eluded me. I have made no secret of my own particular leanings this year. I felt devastated as the reality of an ending that almost no one predicted rolled out over hours. How the hell am I going to explain this to my daughters? They have heard with their own ears the way that this president-elect speaks about women and immigrants and people with disabilities and… “Will my Muslim friend now be deported?” “Is he really going to build a wall?” “Mom, I am afraid.”

So I headed to a place where I most often find peace. The yoga room. My teacher walked in with intention. She almost sounded like a drill sergeant as she grasped for words of response to the early morning news. I imagine that she leaned the same way that I did – most yoga instructors probably did. She reminded us of the sacred community in our midst on several occasions. We focused on heart opening exercises. At one point, she had us balance multiple times on each foot. There was so much wobbling all around.

Toward the end of class, she said, “I invite you to join in the river of the room.” We all lined up right in the middle as she instructed us to put our hands on the shoulder of our neighbor. Then we balanced once again. “How does this feel differently when we lean on and support each other?” It was like night and day. I was at ease and knew that my neighbor would not let me fall down. Cleansing tears were released to flow down my face. I have never before cried during yoga.

My greatest concern with this president-elect is how he has normalized the speaking out loud of things racist and misogynistic and hate-filled. Yesterday, I listened to the story of a Vietnamese adoptee who passed by one of his political rallies on her college campus, and his supporters felt the freedom to yell at her “go back where you came from.” She was shaken to the core. She looks very much like my daughters.

The sludge of human prejudice that we all battle inside has been emboldened to shoot out loud from mouths more freely and without pushback from those who know better. We are closing our ears and our hearts to those we deem “other.” I want to be able to tolerate the voices of the “others” in my life, but when that which is being spoken is filled with contempt and hatred, I draw a line. I will not be silent.

I will continue to return to the river that my yoga instructor invited me to this morning. When my daughters looked at me this morning with fear and confusion, I hugged them and said, “We will love and support each other, we will love our neighbors, we will love God, and we will move forward.” When a man with skin tones different than my own arrived to work at my home this morning, he said, “you were up late last night, weren’t you?” We hugged each other. For this day and this moment as well as any challenging ones ahead, I will do my best to stand in the river.

The girl in the polka dot dress

Last night, my girl wearing a now tattered and torn polka dot dress, twirled in it for the last time.

A hand me down dance costume among many, for some reason this one became the most loved. Beginning at the age of three, it was worn hundreds of times and for many an occasion. Sometimes she could get her more tomboyish sister to join in the dress-up fun, but the polka dot dress was the one she almost always chose.

Maybe it was the twirlability of this garment that drew her again and again to put it on. Or maybe it was something else - the feel of the material, the sparkly red trim, or the polka dots. Which of us can fathom the magic that is present when a childhood object becomes our very own velveteen rabbit?

Her petite frame squeezed one last time into this polka dotted space. Today, I fold up this dress and place it back in her memory box. Maybe someday another little girl will embrace this now frayed and worn childhood costume.

As my girl declared that this was her very last trick-or-treating Halloween, I once again felt the co-mingling of joy and sorrow along this journey called motherhood. Her choice of costume is deeply symbolic. One last dance with a swiftly passing childhood.

As I reflect on last night and the history of the polka dot dress, emotion wells up and tears moisten my eyes. The focus of these days is “where will she go to high school?” How did we get here so soon? You would think that as a mom with twenty-nine years in the trenches, I would not get surprised. I know where this pathway leads. Yet the speed at which a childhood goes by has once again ambushed my mother’s heart.

As I take another step toward letting her go out into the world, I hope that she always remembers how to twirl. I hope that the sheer abandon and joy that she expresses when she hits the dance floor is always accessible to her. I hope that she knows how very deep and wide and piercing and profound is the love that her mom feels for her. I dream of days ahead when there are still moments and days in which we twirl in and out of each other’s lives. 

ADHD and Parenting

Two days in a row, I heard the exact same message from two different people, living in two different parts of the country.  I highly respect each of them as both parents and human beings. One described an argument that he had with his mother-in-law, and the other posted on her Facebook page. Each of them communicated almost verbatim “ADHD is not caused by bad parenting.” Each of them has been accused of this.

My initial reaction was, “Wow. Are there people out there who truly believe that the reasons for ADHD have to do with parenting?” As I listened to each of my friends, I could hear frustration, anger, and hurt beneath their words. Which of us doesn’t feel the same when we are unjustly accused?

ADHD is not alone in this category. At times in history as well as today, there are those who work to explain children’s characteristics and behaviors as a direct result of “bad parenting.” Addiction, homosexuality, and autism are just a few that have spent time in this space. Much pain and suffering has been caused by such ignorant indictments.

photo credit: hrringleader.com

As I received my friends’ stories, I also tried to put myself in the place of their accusers. Whenever I have felt this type of judgment toward others, it is always accompanied by a great deal of pride and arrogance along with great fear. Such a hurtful stance is most often born out of the utterly terrifying vulnerability that comes with being a mom.  The myriad of things that are simply out of my parental control is overwhelming. When I can lay the blame of any problematic situation at the feet of “bad parenting,” then in some twisted way I convince myself that “this could never happen in my family.” I believe that I am in control. I cling to a lie.

Such a judgmental and delusional stance was beaten out of me as I faced my very own overwhelming parenting challenges. A number of years ago, I wrote the following words:

“Living life with a child that demands we march to the beat of a different drummer is indeed a gift. It is like going to the school of what really matters. It is a crash course in getting over pleasing other people. If embraced, this new perspective quickly leads to a far less judgmental stance toward others. We are acutely aware that we never truly know what is under the behavior of that screaming child in the grocery store or that teenager who is “acting out.”

Rather than judge and put myself in categories separate from parents struggling in some way, I join their ranks. Compassion arises for myself and for others as we all do our best to parent the particular children we are gifted for such a short time. Rather than look for a cause and effect to explain all things challenging as a mom, I will try to make peace with the unknown and the mystery. When I don’t truly understand or have not walked the path of another, I will seek to be silent and offer a listening ear. I hope that others will offer the same gift to me on my most difficult days.