The silent boom

Baby boomers, born between 1946 and 1964, have lived through a lot. I know. I'm a boomer.  But lately I feel as if I am slowly, inexorably becoming invisible, my past experience, mistakes, awards, successes, and achievements ignored or even mocked. Labeled insignificant, judgmental, old fashioned, out of touch. Does not matter that I experienced social upheavals, watched as Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, the self-conflagration of monks in Hanoi, the assassination of JFK and his brother and their funeral cavalcades, the explosions of Mt St Helens, and lived through the Korean, Vietnam, and Cold Wars, and watched the Berlin Wall fall. I was in my 30s when the computer lumbered into businesses, so huge that one mainframe filled an entire city block. I've used a telephone connected to the wall, then cordless phones (actually calling people on them); my generation dreamed up, then built and produced Microsoft Windows, the iPhone, laptops, and the internet.  

I remember the Dewey decimal system and card catalogs, and laboriously researched papers and theses at the library, meticulously typing out double-spaced term papers on a manual or possibly IBM selectric typewriter, using whiteout and chalk to cover errors. I remember chalkboards before chalkboard paint was a trend.  Carbon paper. Encyclopedias. Home cooking. Full-service gas stations. Cloth diapers. Church bingo. Mister Softee. Cooling off by running through sprinklers. Fourth of July parades.  Butcher shops.  Hallmark cards.  Writing letters. Coin collections. Catcher in the Rye. Doris Day and Rock Hudson. The Fonz. Sunday dinners. Photo albums. Kodak cameras. Records—33, 45, and 78 rpm. The protests of the 60s, flower power, and Woodstock.  The opening of Walt Disney World and the riots in Harlem and Watts. Easter bonnets and dressing up for church, speaking in hushed tones, genuflecting. And getting the “look” from mom when I were too wiggly in the pews. 

My generation heralded the eradication of smallpox, survived chicken pox, measles, mumps, whooping cough, rubella, and tonsillitis without a vaccine. Dated, married, held my own newborn children and the hands of my parents on their deathbeds. Bought homes, paid them off, and owned several cars. Watched as the interstate highways connected travelers and families. We went to college, held several jobs, and had the first all-volunteer military. We were the first to sign up for direct deposit and IRAs. Corrected scores of kids’ homework and attended their basketball, football, and band competitions. Nursed them through flu, strep throat, surgeries, and worse. Many have lost a child, a spouse, a sibling. 

We’ve finally made it. We have accepted, adapted and adopted this brave new world. All we want now is to share our hard-earned wisdom and knowledge and experience. To be deemed useful. Needed. Respected. Honored.  We desperately ache to make a difference. To leave some small trace of ourselves as we fulfill the plans God has for us.  We don’t want to go silently into that good night. 

Yet those who are younger think they are smarter, faster,  more important. They see our wrinkles and grey hair not as badges of life, but as handicaps.  We begin to fade, the edges get blurry and colors melt into each other.  Finally we disappear. Until nothing is left but an epitaph and two dates separated by a hyphen. 

And the world is the poorer for it. 

Uprooted

My husband and are finally at that point in life where we can enjoy the fruits of our labor; we have fewer surprises, and things are slower, easier, more relaxed,  and less frenzied. We have the luxury of not having to work; we can finally sleep in and not stress about schedules, housekeeping, or finances. We can stay home, go on a last-minute trip, or plan extravagant holidays--our affairs are in order and our children are grown with kids of their own. We'd buried and settled the estates of all four of our parents, found a wonderful church home, and are financially secure.  Nestled in the beautiful mountains and forests of Western North Carolina is our lovely log home where we plan to spend our remaining years. My husband loves to plan RV trips and is an avid pickleball player; my passions are tutoring elementary school children, writing, and sewing. Our golden years were truly going to be just that--golden. 

Or so we thought.

To be closer to one of our daughters, we bought a little house on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Now we have two houses, one which we love and one we are beginning to love--slowly. Two church homes with two different pastoral styles (Assembly of God vs reformed Presbyterian). Two cities with radically different demographics, weather, and population size.  Two addresses and all the headaches that come with making sure mail and packages get to the right one.  Two electric, gas, internet, property tax, and homeowner insurance bills. Two of everything--confusing on the good days, overwhelming on the bad ones.  Two timezones, for goodness sake! The struggle is real, folks!

Let's face it...I am well over the age of 65, and my body and brain remind me of that every single day.  I do not like change or driving in unfamiliar, new places--thank goodness for GPS and Bluetooth hearing aids. Not only are the heat and humidity hard to get accustomed to, the accents...oh my stars and red garters, those accents! As a person get older it becomes harder and harder to understand accents different than her own, and hearing aids do nothing to help that, so why of all places on God's green earth did we choose houses in Appalachia and southern Mississippi? Why aren't we spending all our time and money on cruises and trips to Europe instead of going back and forth between two homes, especially when we have to get out of the car every two and a half hours to stretch and go to the bathroom? 

Family, that's why. The chance to leave an imprint of ourselves with those we love and cherish, the opportunity to exhibit Christ's love in all we do, and to plant those seeds that others will water. To read books to granddaughters, attend school fall festivals, take kids shopping, hug our adult kids (when they will let us), play paper dolls, build Lego creations, give advice and support, and, most of all, to be God's hands and feet wherever He may lead us.

Tonight a little girl ran into my room and hugged me when she heard me crying about missing my Augustine tutoring up in Rosman, NC, saying, "Grandma you need a hug." That little girl revels in sitting next to me in my oversized chair listening to me read one of Katherine Applegate's books, and she adores joking around with her grandpa, swapping riddles, and helping him make cupcakes. And as I sit in my homey and comfortable Mississippi living room decorated with love by our daughter, I am at peace. 

“One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts.” – Psalms 145:4

DNA does not mean you are connected

 

Whether brothers or sisters, in our lifetime no one person will ever have more of the same DNA makeup as we do than a sibling. Whether we share both parents or only one, that genetic bond is unbreakable. Sadly, though, the same cannot be said of the relational bond; from birth and throughout childhood, sibling relationships have to be nurtured by parents. When a family has more than one child, each child must have equal love and equal time and feel equally as important as their siblings without being treated the same--each one must be loved and accepted for the individual each one is But when the kids leave home and strike out on their own, it is up to each of them to keep that relationship alive and growing, through open communication, visits, and acceptance of each others' differences, discounting those separated at birth or otherwise growing up in a different geographic location, 

That doesn't always happen. In my world, it rarely happened. 

The dying art of friendship

If I asked you, "How many friends do you have?" what would you say? How would you quantify that question? Your Christmas card list (assuming you still send Christmas cards)? High school friends? Drinking buddies? Folks you work with? Or would you totally miss the boat, open your FaceBook app, look at your profile photo, and recite that number under your name? It all boils down to how you define that word, 'friend.' And how do you know, without a doubt, someone is your friend? Throughout my life I’ve made several friends, grown out of some, and even married one. Acquaintances and work relationships often blossomed into friendships--high school, military career, volunteer life, church, etc. I am not at a loss for friends. My problem is I often confuse 'friendly acquaintance' with friend, and then I attach qualities and requisites of a friend to people who, through no fault of their own, never meant to be my friend...they were simply being someone and kind, keeping me company. 

So what is a friend? Acquaintance? Social media follower? Confidant? Companion? Bestie? What are the qualities of that person that makes them your friend? Is it how often you see each other? The things you have in common? The American Heritage Dictionary says a friend is "a person whom one knows and trusts, is allied with in a struggle or cause, and one seeks out the society of someone out of esteem and respect;" and the esteemed Merriam Webster dictionary echoes that by saying a friend is "someone attached to another by affection and esteem"(while at the same time saying it's a person included in the list of social media connections.) 

But seriously, do you really need to use a dictionary or Google to define what you consider to be a friend? Ask the smallest child to name one of their friends, and you will get an answer in seconds, so it seems children know a friend when they see one. My first friend…I was five years old, we’d just moved into my nana’s house and I was sad. I was lonely. As I sat on the concrete steps of the front porch I watched as a little girl about the same age as me walked up the sidewalk to the porch, stopped, looked at me and said, “Hi, my name is Tina.  Wanna be friends?”  She was my friend no matter how my day was going. Four years later we clung to each other, sobbing, each one trying to console the other…I was moving…again.  Over six decades later I still remember her name, her smile, her family, and reminisce about all the fun things we did, games we played, Barbies we dressed, and the giggles we shared. I was her friend, she was my friend; there was no doubt about it whatsoever. 

Kids make friends pretty easily, probably because there's no baggage attached, no preconceived notions, no gossip. It's when we get older that making and keeping friends gets more difficult, complicated; for some reason human beings become jaded, suspicious, guarded, and self-centered instead of open, curious, and compassionate. Watch a group of kids in a school lunchroom, a playground, or at an event their parents dragged them to...the children naturally seek out other children, take interest in what the other is doing, and want to join in. Recently I took my 9-year old granddaughter to a community river fest in a small town near our home; the fest included river fun, information tents sponsored by various nature groups, food trucks, and tons of families. Within 10 minutes, Sophie asked if she could go play with the kids by the river; I agreed as long as she stayed where I could keep eyes on her. Four hours later, when everything was shutting down and it was time for folks to leave, kids all over were hugging and hollering their goodbyes, looking as if they were losing their best friends, friends made that afternoon. 

Whether we as a society have forgotten how to make friends, how to treat them, or how to keep them, I do know FaceBook is not the answer.

The narrow focus of self-pity

I struggle sometimes...okay, I struggle a lot...with feeling sorry for myself, when one of my kids doesn't call me for a while, or a friend doesn't reach out, or I feel like no one is listening. And I absolutely hate that about myself. At this point in my life I feel I should not have the self pity monkey hanging out on my back, whispering "oh you poor little thing" in my ear, weighing me down, pushing my head down and keeping me looking at the ground instead of where I am going, instead of looking up to the hills...you know, the hills from whence my help comes from. 

Sometimes, though, a little self-pity does go a long way in helping me see how ridiculous I can be and how narrow my focus is when the lens is zoomed in on my little sad self.

For the record, though, the pain and loneliness are real...I hate being confined to a chair, a bed, or behind a walker. And using a toilet riser is just weird. And I miss my nightly baths.  

For the folks who have taken time out of their busy schedules to see me, call me, check on me, make food...thank you. You renewed my hope in humanity. 

You're killing me, Smalls....

Yes...the small mindedness. The ridculuousness. The tribal mindset and groupthink. The divisiveness. Destroyed friendships. Family separation. Name calling. WHY????

Because someone does not like the way someone else voted. Today I saw the most vicious, vitriolic, hateful, vulgar, disgusting, name calling, post shared by a person I hold extremely dear, a freind I have known for 30 years, someone I would do anything for. 

Do I take that post, and others like it, personally? You bet I do. Because it is meant as personal. Others have called "all those Trump voters" racists, misogynists, stupid, and ignorant. Those "Tru

I do not care how you vote. It is none of my business.

I do not care who you have sex with, or if you have it all. It is none of my business.

I do not care how much money you make. It is none of my business.

What do I care about?

I care about my faith. I care about Jesus. 

I care about my family.

I care about civility and kindness, and not provoking anyone with language or actions. I care about the old adage of treating each other as you would be treated, and if you cannot say anything nice, say nothing at all. 

I would love to say we are better than this, that "Americans" can be kind and gentle. That people are not driving around with political hit lists, or destroying police cars and blocking highways. 

Disclaimer: I do not expect a lot of likes on this post. There are not any cute cat videos or granddaughter photos. No flag waving or marching bands.

Independence Day. A day Americans celebrate their freedom from British rule with parades, reading the Declaration of Independence, grilling a lot of meat, and of course, fireworks. A time for fun and family, good memories.

But today I went to a friend's page to see how she is doing ,and saw the most vitriolic, vulgar, hateful post, aimed at dehumanizing others, through the use of four letter words and angry rhetoric, so hateful it actually brought tears to my eyes. I cried. I am saddened by the hate and divisiveness that has become the norm in American society. People are no longer kind. The old adages of "do unto others as you would have them do unto you," and "if you can't say anything nice, do not say anything at all" have all but disappeared.

People are not kind anymore. How you vote or voted defines you as a person, and everyone says whatever the heck they want on antisocial media, and oftentimes in person. Friendships are lost, family members are alienated from each other, and groupthink and autonomy have replaced civility, kindness, and community. Adults--grown adults, mind you, not children--routinely call each other horrible names, all because of who they voted for. It is shameful, juvenile, and uncalled for.

I am so sick of accidentally seeing such horrible things being said by people I thought I knew and respected, even veterans I served with, and especially those who proclaim to be Christians. They put such filth and hate out for anyone and everyone to see, but mostly to spread divisiveness in this tribal mentality world we now inhabit. So sick and tired of it. It makes me sad, angry even, to read or hear such hatred.

Freedom is not a license to shout fire in a crowded theater. It is not celebrated by inciting anger or calling people names just because they do not agree with something you say or do. And no, I am not singling out any one political bent, because as a nation, as "free" people blessed with the ability to elect their own government every four years, to have their own representation, we set a horrible example not only for our children but for the rest of the world.

In 2017, Mark Zuckerberg once said that FaceBook would become the "new church" by giving us all "a sense of community." Hah.
True freedom is not won through reading the Declaration of Independence, wars, riots, protests, government, and definitely not through posts on FaceBook or any other media.

True freedom, freedom from the consequences of sin as a result of our selfishness, is not won, it is a gift. From the Creator through His son, Jesus Christ. True freedom is not "whatever feels good, do it," or "anything goes." True freedom is surrendering ourselves completely to Christ, and then living out Christ's message by sharing the gospel in word and in deed.

In my 70 years on this planet have I consistently done that? Heck no. I am a sinner, but I am a redeemed sinner. God has done so many wonderful things in our lives and taught me so much about patience and waiting. My life (in fact no one's life) has not been easy; it has been fraught with crises and stress, deaths and sickness, lawsuits, and the shunning by family and friends. Through it all (the operative word being "through") God leads the way, and I follow (albeit not always my first inclination--I like to be in control).

In Luke 4:18 (ESV), Jesus said: “He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed.” He is still doing that today, through His followers.

As I look back over these past seven decades, I am astounded and amazed at the beauty of His plan, His will for my life. I would love to share the good news with you, with my friends, with anyone who is tired of the hate, the tribal mentality so prevalent right now. If that is you, I will gladly buy you a coffee, listen to your story, and pray with you.

It would be my honor.

I had no idea...

Being a caregiver is hard. Being a caregiver of an intellectually disabled adult is even harder still. But being a caregiver of someone who cannot be civil or have any concept of showing appreciation is exasperating. Even though I accepted this appointment as guardian knowing he had limitations, challenges, and behavior problems, I really had no idea how taxing this would be emotionally and spiritually. Over 20 years ago, when our father asked me if I would take care of David when he was no longer able to, I agreed wholeheartedly to be his guardian and caregiver, and asked Dad what I needed to know to take care of my brother.  His answer? "Barb, you have no idea." That was it. I thought, "Well that is a strange answer! That's it? 'You have no idea'? Really?"

Fast forward to the present, I still have no idea what to tell people who ask that same question, so I too say, "You have no idea." Period. Nothing else. Just that.  I have tried to define the person that is my brother, to describe his personality and quirks and issues and care needs. But all people really see is whatever persona David presents upon that first meeting. I had no idea how exhausting and overwhelming this journey would be. To provide total care to a 73-year-old child trapped in a man's body. Who upon meeting anyone new, says, "Hi, I'm David." What does that mean? Who is David?

David is the oldest of five siblings, my sweet brother, and I love him dearly, with all his issues and idiosyncrasies. He was born with his disability, and our mother, who was mentally imbalanced and cruel, abused us all, but most of all, David. When she and our dad divorced, she was awarded custody of us, but after a year she put 13-year-old David, a pillow, and a suitcase out on the porch, locked the front door, and called my dad to come get hi "$%*! son!" as I watched from the living room.  My dad and stepmom took care of him for the next 53 years, putting David's needs above their own, even moving three times to ensure he had the best special needs programs. When Dad's 94-year-old body began to fail on New Year's Day, 2018, David moved in with us; since that time I have been his caregiver, guardian, trustee, and surrogate parent.

By the end of 2018, I knew exactly what my dad meant. Or thought I did.

I had no idea... how sweet David could be. He always remembers birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, and hugs everyone (and anyone) he meets. He loves music, old TV shows, food, bowling, and looking at photo albums. He saves everything anyone gives him, whether a picture, card, memento, or ratty t-shirt; I know because I have had to purge his closet and dresser numerous times. He has photos in his wallet folded so many times the images are barely recognizable. 

I had no idea...about the depth and breadth of his love for music. He owns over 200 record albums (yes, vinyl record albums), both 33s and 45s, and well over 200 music CDs; his most prized possession? His record player. The music genres span not only decades but centuries: classical, jazz, big band sounds, Motown, disco, movie soundtracks, patriotic tunes, crooners, ballads, R&B, soft rock, and some country. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Elton John,  George Gershwin,  Louis Armstrong, the Carpenters, Beach Boys, John Denver, KC and the Sunshine Band, Frank Sinatra, Smoky Robinson, Dean Martin, Michael Jackson, and ABBA are in his repertoire, and he loves to sing along with each, as loudly as possible. Mention karaoke or a concert and he is all in!

I had no idea...how many memories he is capable of recalling in perfect detail: the name of his elementary school, his bowling scores,  Special Olympics achievements, who gave him what for Christmas, and special moments with Dad. One day he recounted a trip to hear the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra in the late 1970s, recalling details about the conductor (Erich Kunzel), the music played (Rhapsody in Blue and some Duke Ellington jazz), and the surprise appearance of Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops at that concert. Intrigued, I looked up all the names, and was shocked at the accuracy of his memory recall. 

I had no idea...about the challenges he faces on a daily basis, both physical and mental, and how frustrated he gets because he cannot understand why he has these difficulties. As he has aged, he is experiencing what all of us will experience one day--problems with hearing, vision, and coordination, all of which create a lot of angst. Hell, I don't even understand it because, like David, I too feel my body has betrayed me somehow. Routine and structure are his best friends; any change, no matter how slight, throws him for a loop. He once spent over an hour trying to get his alarm clock to reflect the exact same time as his wristwatch (it was two minutes fast), cutting his hand in the process, ignoring the blood dripping on the dresser and floor, until I took the damn thing away from him, so you can imagine how crazy he can get because his body won't cooperate with normal functions.

I had no idea...how much I would learn from this "intellectually developmentally delayed" brother of mine, the joy and laughter he would bring to our lives, yes, amidst tears and frustration. The three of us--Alex, David, and I--enjoyed life together, a life of moments ordinary but made special because we shared them. I learned more about myself and my faults through my relationship with my brother than I learned from any other person; some of the things I saw in myself were not so pretty...but to David, I was always his "amazing, beautiful, best sister ever." Seeing him with new eyes--actually the eyes of my much younger self, when he was simply my big brother--I realized how special David is, that he too was created in God's image.

I had no idea...how much I will miss him when he is gone.