Senior Moments

• When you find yourself saying, "Where did all this extra stuff come from?" and you're looking at your body, not your house.
• When your phone can find your keys and your keys can find your phone, and you can't find either one.
• When things go missing like your muscles, energy, waistline, hair/hair color.
• When the TV channels you prefer to watch mostly advertise reverse mortgages, walk-in tubs and incontinence supplies. 
• When you start paying attention to those commercials.
• When they give you the senior discount without even asking.
• When you have to make up in hand rail what you lack in knees.
• When your childhood lunchbox is in the antique store, along with the cookie jar you're still using.
• When you realize you ARE the old people you used to leave close parking spaces for.
• When you and your spouse hold hands and people say, "Aw, look at that.", like when the ring bearer and flower girl hold hands at a wedding. 

I'm Getting Way Too Much Out of my Bible Study

I get sad when I read of the death of Moses or Joshua even though I know they are in heaven and I can reread their stories anytime I want. It's not like I have to take my Bible back to the library. It is just that I have enjoyed our time together and now we will walk separate paths for a while.

I also get sad when I reach John chapter 12 because the remaining chapters are shadowed by the cross and I'm not ready for Jesus to leave yet.

I got annoyed with God for empowering undeserving judges to deliver the undeserving  Israelites from their enemies until I realized He had also delivered unworthy me.

I got a hit of endorphins from Judges 11 where Jephthah, an outcast, but mighty, bastard, is called on by his people to save his nation. Sounds familiar. I wonder how Jephthah wore his hair?

I also got the connection between the Ammonites and the Palestinians. In Judges 11, the Ammonites ask Israel to give back Ammon's historic land even though God took it from them for being cruel to Jews in their wilderness wanderings. Btw Ammon had not bothered to reclaim it during the 300 years it was occupied by other nations before the Jews conquered it. At least the Ammonites had a king who could rule it. Palestinians? not so much. Jephthah suggested they ask their god for land. Palestinians ask the U.N.

The Lord, as the Angel of the Lord, made a personal appearance and miraculous promise to Samson's mother and her name never appears in the text. Would she be happy about that? relieved? First mention of prenatal diet instructions, being a Nazirite from the womb meant beginning at conception, not birth.

Her husband, Manoah, who heard all the same instructions and promises, still thought they were going to die for seeing the Lord. A sensible wife reassuring her doubting husband. That seems familiar too.

In chapter 14, I got for the first  time how close Samson was to his parents. The words father or mother and father are in the chapter 8 times in 20 verses. He shares his honey with them (although not its gross origin), wants their involvement in his wedding (although that was also customary), justifies not telling his bride the riddle answer because he hasn't even told his parents, goes back home after his bride's betrayal. And what kind of sucky guests threaten the bride on her honeymoon?

     Now that our son is staying sober, and I'm not coming to the Bible like a starving leech, I can enjoy the more subtle textures and flavors of the passages. I feel like we are nearing the end of this time of testing, so I can apply more than just the first aid of wisdom and encouragement. My Bible study is no longer just life support, it is a feast. Frankly, Judges has never excited me before. It is richer and more applicable than I remembered, and I hope I can continue getting way too much out of it.

"Be"ing

     I am by nature task oriented. I get a great deal of satisfaction from making and crossing off lists. Long before my kids knew their days of the week, they knew about cookie making day, sheet changing day, shopping day, house cleaning day. My morning prayers were a recitation of my plans for the day with an addendum requesting God's blessing. When my children began school, I exchanged some of those home routines for volunteering there. I had a long schedule then. It often necessitated packing the car in the morning with everything my kids and I would need for the whole day. Snacks. Band instruments. Sports equipment. My BSF lesson to work on during practice. (This was in the olden days before cell phones were common.) As the kids began to leave home, I noticed there were still cookies left on baking day, I didn't need as many groceries, the house was not necessarily dirty in a week. The rope of routine that held my life together became stretched and frayed.
    When I added part time work to my schedule, it made up for some of my lost home routine. My lists now became about places I needed to go before and after work: errands, the gym, etc. Even when we traveled and I had the day to spend however I pleased, I made a schedule for myself, so the time would not feel wasted.
     We have been traveling a lot lately and I have begun to learn the art of "be"ing. I have learned it is okay to sit in the sun and think. About God. About life. My prayers have become less about lists and more about listening. When it is a beautiful, sunny day at home, I can't sit outside for long without feeling guilty about something that's not getting done inside--not that I necessarily do the things that need doing, but the odds improve when I'm in the house. However when we travel, there are no cleaning tasks calling my name, no dinners to plan. Why do  I feel like I'm wasting time when I  enjoy the beautiful place God gave me to live? It is a gift I barely glance at as I move on to other things.
     There is nothing wrong with being organized, it is the way God made me and it has come in handy when our families celebrate special events. But the older I get, the more I understand that God is not particularly interested in my plans. He is more concerned about what's in my heart than what's on my calendar. I should at least give God the time and attention I willingly give to Facebook. If I want to become like Christ, I must spend time thinking about who He is. And if  that is the only task I accomplish in this life, well, I'll be.

Why I Can't Die

•      I am not afraid of dying, although I am intensely curious about the process God has chosen for me. When the worst thing that can happen to me is that I die and go to heaven, it's hard to be fearful. But I feel compelled not to die because of my husband's disability. He is a man. He does not know where things go in the kitchen, though they have been in the same place for 20 years. He is unaware that there is enough food in our pantry and freezer to feed us for months. He doesn't know that I keep a spare bar of soap under the bathroom sink. Why bother when he can just ask me to get it? I am expected to know where everything in our house is located, even items I have never used. We own a lot of things, therefore, I can't die.
•     When we married, Reed only knew how to cook two things:  hamburgers. . . I no longer remember the other one. Neither does he. Now, after 40 years of marriage, Reed can only cook things he can barbecue. Even when dinner consists of microwaving leftovers, he waits for me to choose food for him and heat it up. I refuse to do it, but you see the problem. I can't die.
•      In Reed's world, dirty clothes disappear from the hamper and reappear, folded in his dresser. What happens in between is a mechanical mystery he has no interest in solving. Reed has a hard enough time remembering not to wear ripped, stained clothes to church. If he is ever to appear in public again, I can't die. 
•     When I asked him to vacuum the living room, and Reed didn't know how (or that it was necessary) to empty the dust cup on the Bissell we had owned for seven years, I realized I had spoiled my husband. And, if only for the sake of our nice home, I can't die.
•     Throughout our marriage, Reed has provided nearly all the income with which we pay our bills. Aside from my extreme thriftiness about spending, my financial contributions to our lifestyle would scarcely be missed, but Reed does not know how I pay the bills. Despite numerous nagging attempts, he has no interest in my filing system, the specifics of our budget, or how to use online bill pay. If I die, I'm afraid he will revert to his bachelor system of throwing bills in a random drawer and paying them when he happens to remember. For the sake of our bank and payees, I can't die.
•     Reed handles all sorts of secretarial duties at work, but I am the home office manager. If I'm not what they now call an "administrative professional", I am at least an administrative amateur. If I say so myself, I write a masterfully polite, mean letter. I can dress disapproval in such diplomatic language it is difficult to discern if you are being disrespected. That's why I prefer letters to phone calls, it is hard to be combatively civil on the spur of the moment. Through the years I have written many business letters to appeal, complain etc. Our recent refund of timeshare money is the most lucrative letter writing of my volunteer career. If someone needs to be mean in person or on the phone, I tag in Reed, but if a poisonously polite letter is needed, it's up to me. I can't die.
•      I am even afraid of becoming incapacitated to the point where Reed would answer medical questions on my behalf because he has poor pattern recognition. Yes, he knows that I have high blood pressure, thyroid problems, bad knees and migraines, but he decides at random moments that they have never been this bad before. This doesn't make me feel unnoticed, he is similarly surprised by his own chronic health problems. Though I'm glad Reed doesn't notice how old and fat I have become, I would hate to be in a position where some doctor acts on Reed's that bad information as if it were true. If only to avoid unnecessary testing, I can't die.

    Of course there are many things I would not know how to do if Reed died. Despite watching him replace cords in our pleated shades for 20 years, I don't even know how to remove them from the window. I don't know how to start our gas yard care equipment or repair anything on our car or house. I'm sure our grown children could, and would, help with all those things, but it would be way simpler if Reed also decided    he can't die either.
   

Dear Inn

Dear new owners of The Inn at Gig Harbor,

     Thank your for declining to honor the quoted rate of our reservation and refusing to offer a corporate rate to our corporate employer for your hotel rooms. Because of you, we are staying at the much nicer Best Western Wesley Inn. Although we enjoyed the oversized rooms we were usually given at your hotel, our suite here is not only oversized, but has a jacuzzi and fireplace in the bedroom. And a pocket door separates the bed and bath from the living area. We enjoyed the made to order breakfasts that were included with the room, but there is a nice, free breakfast here, with no asterisks. Hopefully you have changed the lobby music from 30's era nightclub, which sometimes drove me out into the rain to escape, but music is a matter of preference and the front desk staff were friendly and helpful enough to endure the bad music. They play Christian music here. And instead of outside seating on the hot concrete facing your parking lot, I can enjoy the sun by the beautifully landscaped outdoor pool area. Or I can choose to relax in the other courtyard by the gas fireplace. Too bad you don't have a pool or a courtyard, people appreciate those amenities.
     I don't even have to keep the fan on constantly here to drown out traffic noise. This Best Western is in such a nice part of town, I was convinced it must have started out as an apartment complex or assisted living facility. But no, it was built by a retired pastor named Wesley who looked on hospitality as a ministry, not just an industry. The motto here is, "May you come as guests, and leave as friends." Based on our employer's booking experience, I'm guessing that's not your motto.
     We have stayed at your facility nearly every June for six years for my husband's contract work. Good luck with filling the 40 night vacancies you lost between the two, 20 night room reservations. Even at a discounted rate, that represents a lot of money. But, as I said, we are delighted with the way things turned out, and you made it happen.

                                                                     Thanks again,

                                                                                      The Lambs

                                                                                     

Only God Can Do That

     We are back in Gig Harbor for the next three weeks--a gig Reed has had nearly every summer since Semitool sold their Falcon 50 to an operator here seven years ago. Since the jet's annual inspection is due in June, we usually celebrate our anniversary, the 25th, at Anthony's in Gig Harbor. One year, when Reed's help was not needed, we had no idea where we should go out for dinner--in our own hometown. Last year was our 40th anniversary, or as Reed would say, 50 years with the chill factor. We were looking forward to our familiar getaway. But then our son, who was living with us, relapsed/drank and we realized we could not trust him to be alone in our house. Of the options that occurred to us, the simplest was to bring him along. I wanted it to be punitive for him. I was convinced it would be punitive for us. Sharing a hotel room with a grown son on our 40th anniversary sounds more like a sitcom episode than a romantic interlude.
     Providentially, the one unit at the hotel that had a separate bedroom was available. Reed wanted Tracy to join him at the airport in the afternoons and work on the inspection, both to repay the extra expenses of bringing him along and, because he is a mechanic and familiar with airplanes, he could be helpful. And there's also the punitive factor, this was not a vacation. (Although, it is for me.) In spite of that, we didn't make him go with Reed in the mornings because he was recovering from adrenal surgery and his energy level was still low. So some days after breakfast, Tracy and I would go to the harbor, a museum etc. before I took him to the airport to work.
     God made something much sweeter than lemonade out of those sour circumstances. It was wonderful to have someone accompany me sightseeing and learn to love the places I already did. At the airport, Tracy removed panels, cleaned parts and was generally useful on the inspection. And he enjoyed being part of the team and an atmosphere of camaraderie rarely found in auto shops. In the evenings, we went out for dinner and Reed had someone to share the triumphs and trials of the day with who actually spoke "mechanic". To our surprise, we all had more fun on the trip because Tracy came along. Only God could turn a booze binge into a blessing.
     The Bible is full of examples of people in the mess where sin had placed them encountering God, experiencing blessing, receiving promises. I have been studying Judges lately and have been struck again by how unworthy of help the Israelites, including the judges, were. When God raised up Gideon to deliver them from Midianite oppression, the people were still so idolatrous they threatened to kill Gideon for pulling down their Asherah pole. He was only spared because it apparently belonged to Gideon's father, who told them if their god couldn't defend himself, no one else should either. This is another incident that contrasts the huge difference between me and God. I would never have sent those idolatrous ingrates a deliverer even though I, too, am an unworthy ingrate.
    Only God has the ability and, more importantly, the desire to turn our well deserved consequences into undeserved blessings. When Tracy said he wished he could come to Gig Harbor this year, we wished he could too. We missed the camaraderie and having him as part of our team. And now, since he will be moving back to Kalispell in a little over a week, he can come. We are flying him to Seattle for the final week of inspection and, especially, to help load and tow a large aircraft "jig" Reed is bringing back from Nampa, ID. There's a saying, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.", but to turn the stinking leftovers of sin into a feast that you long for again--only God can do that.
    

Not Playing That Game

     I read an editorial letter recently urging those of us who vote by mail to wait until the campaign is nearly over to cast our votes. In other words, he wants us to willingly participate in the political party game of saving some information dirty bomb they have been sitting on for months, so they can detonate it just before the election when it is too late to determine if it is fake news. The writer cited last year's night before the election dust up between Greg Gianforte and a British journalist. I hate to break this to him, but I was an election judge that year and the comments I heard from voters were 4 to 1 in favor of what Gianforte did. In Dave Barry's 2017 Year in Review, he wrote that this signified "that in much of the nation journalists enjoy the same level of popularity as head lice." Fortunately,  I have no personal experience with head lice, unfortunately, I have more respect for them than the press. I believe journalists are often guilty of trying to be the news instead of report the news. But this is not "much of the nation", this is Montana. Gianforte's opponents spent a lot of time and money pointing out that Greg was guilty of not being from Montana. His election eve body slam established for many of us native born that Greg is a Montanan at heart. Montana has a long standing tradition of election night fights.
    So Mr. Editorial writer, I am no more likely to wait until election day to fill out my ballot than I am to disable the spam filter on my computer. I do not rely on last ditch propaganda to make my decisions. If I want fake news, there's always Facebook. But to delay voting until the last morsel of mud has been slung--I'm not playing that game.