If 60 is the new 40, shouldn't somebody tell my knees?

The curious never fail to ask me what happened. The curious are mostly people I have never met and am not likely to see again, but noticing my uneven gait, they feel the need to ask. I don’t feel obliged to tell them, but propriety dictates that I respond, so I say I was injured while sliding into third base. Invariably they pause, eyes scanning me from head to toe (is my nose growing?) and then laugh, guessing my answer is too preposterous to be true. I join in their laughter, and we move on.

The truth is, I popped my knee just walking across the room. I say popped because that was the sound it made an instant before my leg buckled and I landed on the floor in an undignified heap. As I recall, I was wearing sensible shoes that day, not flip flops, not pointy toes or platforms, not high heels. In fact I was dressed in a manner well befitting my sixty-plus years.  

But nobody told my knees.

Knees are peculiar objects. They’re designed to bend in one direction, but only so far. They act as shock absorbers, protecting the body from jarring motions, bending at angles that enhance walking, running, jumping and jogging or they hold steady for standing, locked into place by the sheer will of the knee owner, and nothing else. Mine must have forgotten how to function, for they just buckled. I tore the meniscus in one knee, fell to the floor, and suffered yet another of the many indignities of aging.  

I get the feeling it’s expected that the twenty-first century, sixty-year-old should be able to see as clearly, work-out as strenuously, eat as sparingly, move as nimbly, speak as fluently, sleep as peacefully, love as passionately, and laugh as heartily as the forty-year-old of past decades.

Not so!

I knew it would be a challenge to maintain my activity level and general lifestyle when I achieved the big Six-O. In fact, I started making adjustments to my lifestyle the day I turned forty. Today my heels are lower, my glasses thicker, and my fingernails shorter. I dare not indulge in a glass of iced tea or mug of cappuccino after four o’clock in the evening for fear of sleeplessness. I wear little eye makeup as I no longer can see well enough without my glasses to apply the darn thing without smudging. The nodding acquaintance I had with Miss Clairol in my forties has blossomed into a full-blown, love-hate relationship. And as for shedding hair – well let’s just say if I have to listen to my husband complain one more time about the hair on the bathroom floor, that dear balding partner is likely to be on the receiving end of a mighty thump in places better left unmentioned.

Still, there are small mercies: The plumbing functions well, even if I have to schedule relief sessions or run the risk of springing a leak; my heart beats out a steady cadence unaided by medical devices; the LDL, HDL and A1C are at appropriate levels; and, (wonder of wonders) I can still touch my toes. Once.

No sixty is not forty – it never was, it never will be - but sixty isn’t so bad. And in spite of an occasional early-morning twinge, these sixty-year-old knees still have the ability to whomp a soccer ball past a grandchild of sprightlier age. And that’s good enough for me.

An Angel Unaware?

I couldn’t remember her name.

     She shouted at me from the far end of the food court in the crowded mall. It didn’t seem to matter to her that I was checking the price and cut of a really nifty linen jacket hanging on the sale rack outside the boutique. She just kept calling my name until she had my full attention. That had always been her way. Having set her sights on something of interest, she went after it with dogged determination. Like a racehorse with blinders.

     I set aside the jacket and waited for her to come closer.

     I greeted her with a smile. Had she been less determined to hold my attention, she would have noticed that my bland smile said, your face is familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who you are.  

     “I want to thank you for helping me with my baby,” she panted, her breath coming in quick bursts after her uneven run-hop dash across the mall. “You’re an angel.” She leaned into me and threw her arms around me. “You made me have my baby.”

     Her words should have given me a clue as to who she was, but I was still coming up blank. I stared back at her, riffling through my memory for one tiny hint of our connection, while attempting to keep my face from showing the bewilderment I felt inside.

Emulating the Good Samaritan

She marched toward me, her steps short but deliberate. Her path was hampered by the bustle of shoppers in the local convenience store, people jostling for a place in the checkout line while precariously balancing containers of coffee and juice, bagels and donuts. It was the morning rush hour, but unlike those customers, I was heading out of state for a weekend vacation and was in a pretty laid-back frame of mind. That might have been the reason she zeroed in on me. 

Our eyes met. I gave her what I thought was a courteous but unengaging Good Morning smile. She smiled back. Balancing my coffee and cinnamon roll in one hand and my purse in the other, I attempted to side-step her, but she blocked my path. 

    “Can you give me a ride home?” she asked breathlessly. 

I was caught off-guard. I had never met her before and I was pretty certain she didn’t know me. She must have sensed my confusion because she added, “Your daughter said I should ask you.” I looked around for my daughter who stood halfway down the aisle. Her shoulder-shrug and perplexed eyes told me she didn’t know the woman either.

In twenty-first century, crime-ridden America, do rational, safety-conscious people approach total strangers and ask to be taken for a ride in the strangers’ car? Do rational, safety-conscious people comply with that kind of request and assume the responsibility of transporting a stranger to an unknown address?  I didn’t think so.

     “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said without further thought, and moved away.  

Besides the safety issue, I had good reason to refuse her request. My daughter, grandson and I were only twenty minutes into a six-hour drive that would take us across four states to see my granddaughter perform in her first stage play, Peter Pan. She was playing Wendy. We had promised to be present for opening night. Our tickets had been purchased. A detour would have blown our schedule. Walking away from that stranger was justified on so many levels.    

The woman followed me to the checkout line. From behind me she whispered her story: She is diabetic. She had walked from home in the early morning to keep an appointment with Social Services and, in her hurry, left her medication at home. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her hands tremble.  Was her story true, or was she just a very glib con artist? I offered to buy her a container of orange juice to temporarily stave off a diabetic crisis. She declined, saying she had just eaten a piece of candy.   

It was a beautiful day outdoors. Sharp sunrays glinted off the mirrors of cars lined up in the parking lot. But clouds whipped across the bright blue sky the result of a brutal wind reminding me of Al Roker’s morning forecast of 11 degree temperatures and intolerable wind chills. I knew it would be dangerous to walk a long distance in that kind of weather.  

I was reminded of a story Jesus told: A man was attacked by robbers as he was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. A priest and a Levite saw the beaten and broken man but walked away, probably out of fear for their own safety, or maybe out of cold-heartedness. But a Samaritan bandaged his wounds, took the man to a safe place and paid for his stay. Jesus asked his audience, “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”[ Luke 10: 30-37-NIV] 

 I wonder, is it still possible or even wise for an ordinary upstanding citizen to be a “Good Samaritan” in this era of random attacks on unsuspecting citizens, or, like the priest and Levite, would it be more prudent to ignore this plea?  Was there a way for me to go and do likewise without risking life and limb?

How easy it has become to be caught up in the fears of this world and forget that we are sheltered by the One who protects us in every situation. How quickly we latch on to the advice of the overly cautious naysayers who say Stay away, when Jesus clearly says, Go... and I go with you.

I decided to grant her request - first taking some precautions:

I asked her point blank if she was carrying a weapon. I had to let her know I was a little suspicious. She said no. (Yes, I do realize she could have lied.) Next, I asked to see photo identification. She complied without question. Then I texted her name and contact information to my husband along with a description of how she was dressed. Finally, I had her ride in the front passenger seat while my daughter drove. I would be able to watch her every movement from behind.  

It goes without saying that the ride was uneventful. In fact, it was quite pleasant. We delivered her safely home without crisis. We arrived at our out of state destination with time to spare. Most important, we acted on faith, trusting God to keep us safe, and in doing so, were able to share the love of Christ in a simple, tangible way.  

So this little blog post is to remind you that you need never succumb to the fears of this world. Be prudent, yes. Take reasonable precautions, yes. But never neglect the opportunity to be the Good Samaritan, the helping hand that Jesus intended us to be. He left us here to be his arms to provide comfort, his feet to go into the dark places where others are reluctant to go, and his heart to show real love to those who are loveless.

Keep the faith,
Maxine

Are you having a problem seeing?

Rev. Carroll Bickley, retired.
Guest blogger

      My grandfather went blind in the 1930’s. He underwent surgery in the hope of restoring his sight but was only able to distinguish between light and dark, and only for a while. He had to sell his farm, house, animals and all farming equipment.  He was only in his 50’s.  Several years ago I began to have difficulty seeing as a result of cataracts.  Remembering my grandfather’s ordeal I went to the ophthalmologist who recommended surgery.  Technology has improved since my grandfather’s day and I can now read most of the newspaper without glasses. 

     In my 60-something years in the ministry I have discovered there are many people who can’t see – not because they have aged or have an eye-related illness, but because they don’t use spiritual eyes. They are the ones “who have eyes to see but do not see” (Matthew 13:13).

     Some experience myopia – near-sightedness. They only see things that are close to them. They have lost sight of their spiritual destination because they are so caught up in present-day things. They have become intolerant and lack discernment.  

     Others experience presbyopia.  No, that is not a disease of Presbyterians. These people lose their ability to see things that are close up; they view everything from a distance. They lose the fervor and joy that once motivated and inspired them to be happy today.

     Yet others have astigmatism caused by the eye being out of balance. What is seen is distorted. They are unable - perhaps unwilling - to see the whole picture and listen to God’s voice in every situation.

     Some experience macular degeneration where their vision is impeded by blind spots. God shows them His Word and His will, but their blind spots cause interference.  (I have a freckle in the back of my right pupil; it resembles macular degeneration and interferes with my vision.)

     But the biggest problem is the one that most of us experience from time to time. It is the whole “I” problem - our self-absorption, our arrogance, our conceit.  Paul cautions in Romans 12:3  - “For I say, through the grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith.”

     God has been dealing with me over the past several months, allowing me to see myself more clearly.  What I see disturbs me. But God also reminded me that He still loves me, that He went to the cross for me, that I am covered by His shed blood.

 _____________

Thank you Pastor Carroll for sharing your experience and your heart.


Readers: Are you experiencing a seeing problem? Or an "I" problem?
Were you able to see past the apple core in the picture above? Step back and look again.
I’d like to hear your "sight" story. Please leave comments below.
Maxine 

According to Your Word

My #1 favorite, most satisfying thing to do at Christmastime is to sing in our church’s Christmas musical (cantata for you traditionalists). The songs help me realize again the real meaning of Christmas – that Jesus, God in human form, came, out of his great love, to save us. I leave the performance feeling centered, revitalized, content. It is a fitting culmination to frenzied weeks of preparation.

Beginning in September when relaxing vacations are only vague memories and hectic school schedules loom ahead, the choir begins behind-the-scene preparations for its largest presentation of the year. Singers pore over new music, audition and rehearse; technicians tune instruments, arrange lighting and sound elements; actors and directors work out dramatic interludes; seamstresses repair robes and costumes; carpenters design and construct sets.

 By mid-November, amid technical glitches and musical challenges, we question our ability to bring the program to life. Is a performance really worth this effort? Can we do justice to the writers’ words and the composers’ music score? Inevitably, in December, the miracle occurs, the tedium decreases and the message comes to life.  

This evening our choir presented the third of three performances. One particular song pierced my heart more deeply than the others. It is Mary’s song, the words of a young, pregnant, unmarried girl who learns she is carrying the longed-for Messiah. Even in the midst of her fear, she presents her whole self to her Lord, content in the knowledge that His Will is sovereign and that she is His vessel to be used as he desires. The song, Be it Unto me according to your word speaks of her simple faith, her childlike trust and her wholehearted commitment to whatever God places in her path.

Even now the words resonate within me. It has become my prayer. I pray it will be yours throughout this special season and always.
 

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

It’s been a while since I blogged.  For a while now I’ve told myself that the muse deserted me never to return. Some call it “writer’s block.” Some call it fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Maybe. I am determined to find it again. Get back in the saddle, so to speak. And so I write...

I hate cold weather.

This island girl has never adapted well to the changes in seasons. Not once in forty-plus years of living in America’s northeast have I welcomed or even cautiously anticipated winter. Yes, I do welcome the relief of cooler temperatures after the piercing heat of summer. To be sure I admire the vibrant colors of fall. There is admittedly no more beautiful sight than the leaves of a mighty maple slowly surrendering its lush greenness in favor of bright orange, sienna and vermilion hues. But somewhere around mid-August I become keenly aware of shorter days, cooler evenings, waning sunlight, falling leaves, wooly caterpillars, chirping crickets, migrating geese, and a backyard swimming pool that urges me to take one more dip if I dare.

But it is mid-November. We’ve already experienced our first snowfall, the first frost and the first pea-soup fog of the season. Even the last geese have begun their flight to warmer climates. It all serves to remind me of a poem by the late English poet, Thomas Hood whose thoughts must have been as morose as mine:  

No sun, no moon,

No morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member,
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November.

But there are moments of wonderment too. This morning I awoke to unexpected sixty-degree temperatures, a warm breeze and amazing sunshine. Tomorrow it will be cold again; today I will relish in this unexpected blessing.

And soon it will be spring.

 

Parenting our parents

    Not very long ago my elderly mother drove herself and her friend to Walmart. Backing into a parking spot, she miscalculated her turn and hit another car. (No damage done and no one was injured.) Mom, who was in her eighties at the time, pulled away from the car and promptly swung into another more accessible parking spot, at which time both she and her friend casually exited the car and continued their shopping expedition. (I should note that until this occurrence Mom held an exemplary driving record.)

    My sister, the owner of the car and my mother’s “caregiver,” became aware of this misdemeanor when the insurance company called her with details. It seems that a bystander had witnessed the event and made the report. Mom came clean when my sister confronted her with the indisputable details. So, in a subsequent telephone conversation, we, her daughters, agreed that since Mom was of the mindset that it was no big deal to hit a car and not report the accident to the authorities, it was probably time for her to relinquish the car keys and end her driving career. Thus began a struggle between mother and adult daughters that has continued to this day – Mom’s struggle to maintain her independence and her position as matriarch of the family, and her daughters’ determination to protect her and prevent further infraction with the unsuspecting public. We’re setting boundaries for our mother; parenting our parent, so to speak.

    The conversations have been painful. Our arguments in favor of limiting Mom’s freedom are shadowed by our desire to allow her the independence she craves. Quite often we capitulate (except for the driving thing), throwing up our collective hands in despair. Parenting Mom is unarguably the most challenging task we’ve undertaken. We understand it’s a task we cannot shirk, but we don’t like it one bit. The upside is that this has motivated us, the daughters, to initiate the conversation early with our own adult children. Jim Comer gives great advice about how to start the conversation on his own blog: www.parenting-your-parents.com/blog.

  

    Have you had “the conversation” with your aging parents?

    How did you start the conversation?  
I'd like to know...and I'll keep you posted on how it's going in my family.
Maxine