Theos Thursday: Today is Not the Last Word

“Today is not the Last Word: finding hope in adversity”

February 18, 2020

In our early fifties, my husband and I moved out of congested Denver, Colorado to the countryside of North Carolina. We bought a small farmhouse and remodeled it into the charming cottage pictured above.  I planned, planted, and nurtured flower gardens, fruits and vegetables. My husband and I had immediate access to state parks and the Blue Ridge mountains. Washington DC and other historic areas were an easy day’s drive away. 

I joined a group of fellow-teachers in a book club and soon had a solid group of friends. Through our church, we were engaged with immigrants in the community.

I never planned to leave.  

Seventeen years later, in 2016 we faced double crises.  My husband was diagnosed with late stage kidney cancer. Simultaneously I suffered from an undiagnosed malady that prevented me from standing, gardening, or driving.

We couldn’t care for our property, and barely for ourselves. With an uncertain future, we decided we should put the house up for sale and see how God worked. Within three months, Bill had surgery, the house was sold and packed, and we headed back to Colorado. 

It all happened too fast. 

Although our health stabilized, we faced financial strain. We were shocked that the cost-of-living differences between rural North Carolina and urban Denver forced us into a retirement community. I’d given up a home I’d loved for a small, sunless apartment.  I couldn’t garden, I couldn’t see stars. I grieved the loss of my happy life and blamed God. “Is this the best You can do?”  

In earlier crises God had shown me special passages from he Bible which comforted me, and gave me peace. During this period I prayed and studied and neither felt His presence, nor His grace. Reading the Bible seemed a futile activity. Paul’s lofty promises seemed to mock me; I couldn’t rejoice in trials. Would I ever hear God speak to me again?  I turned instead to contemporary Christian writers.

I’d been telling myself  I would never be happy again, strong again, my life would never be purposeful, I would never escape from the emotional cave which trapped me. John Piper, in Future Grace identified those as some of Satan’s lies.

If those were lies, what was the truth?

I changed how I read the Bible. I shifted my focus from seeking relief to discovering God’s character. I listed the attributes He used to describe Himself, and categorized His actions. Although I failed to see what He might be doing in my life, I resolved to trust that He was truthful, saw my misery, and was compassionate.  

Of course, I found comfort as well. Isaiah 61 encouraged me that God would anoint His servant to bring good news to me, to bind up my broken heart, to comfort my mourning, and to replace it with gladness. (Isaiah 61:1-3 NASB) 

Our circumstances improved.  We found a church of fervent young believers who welcomed us and ministered to us. The second year Bill’s health screen indicated the cancer had not spread.  God provided a group of musicians that joined me regularly to play traditional music.  I helped start a book club. And we happily cared for our “surprise” sixth grandchild. 

Still, my emotions frequently descended into misery.

From Psalm 13 I learned that our troubled thoughts and sorrow may persist. I would have to fight for joy by choosing to “trust in your faithful love; rejoice in your deliverance…sing to the Lord because he has treated me generously.” (Psalms 13:5-6 CSB) I made a list of instances of His mercy. I added relevant scriptures. I prayed over the promises and evidence, and I preached to myself. 

The despondency is fleeting now, but three and half years after the move, I still pine for North Carolina. 

Two recent incidents helped me purpose to eliminate grumbling. 

A missionary’s blog described how difficult it had been for her to transition from rural Kentucky to a megacity in Asia. She explained the truths God showed her to accept her place of service. I adopted her prayer list in order to let go of the home and lifestyle to which I felt I was entitled. Months later I went to a missions conference for our denomination. In a small group, I met her. I was stunned that out of thousands of missionaries serving overseas, and four hundred people at the conference, God brought us together.

A Sunday sermon convicted me that comparing my new situation to my former life led to grumbling. And complaints led to bitterness. I went down to the alter and asked our pastor to pray for me, and how tenderly God spoke to me through him. 

I’m still not convinced that we didn’t make a mistake moving so quickly, seeing how well we’ve recovered.  But even if it was a mistake, God knew what was coming.

And He knows what’s still to come. “Despair forgets there are more pages to our story.” https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/to-great-things-that-never-came 

Someday I will understand why Denver is better for us.

What I feel and what I don’t understand now is not the last word. 

You can find other stories of hope on Deena Adams’ blog, deenaadams.com

Relieve my Monotony!

Restlessness is growing in me like water coming to a slow boil. Like a toddler who has been confined to the car seat too long, I’m kicking my heels against the monotony.

I want out!  Out of “safe at home” guidelines. 

I long for a new view, something unfamiliar to explore. 

Surely somebody has something to say that I haven’t heard repeatedly.

Wait, three year old Willow does. Six months ago we crossed our fingers and hoped she would string more than two words together.  Now she’s a blond, earthbound, human version of a mynah bird. She repeats what she hears so well I can tell which family member she heard it from.

“Fine,” she says with a resigned tone when I asked her cooperation. That’s her 13 year old sister talking. Willow just hasn’t learned to roll her eyes yet.

“That’s odd.”  Odd? Does she even know what odd is? No, she doesn’t. But I chuckle when I hear her say it. 

“I.Want. A birthday present. NOW.” The phrasing, crossed arms, and stamp of her tiny foot came straight from 7 year old Bo. The demand is cuter from her than it is from her brother.  He’s also modeled, “It’s my favorite...” book, color, shirt. And “I love...” chips, ice cream, chocolate. 

And Bo’s probably the source for “I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Chill, Dad.” That’s one of the teens.

She doesn’t miss a thing. 

When she spent a weekend here plastic animals and Lego people were dying at an alarming rate.  Apparently she listened in on recent conversations about her great-grandmother’s death.  So I tried to segue from dead critters to the larger concept. I told her that because Frieda had died, we wouldn’t see her anymore and that made us sad. But who knows what a tiny person understands. Not much, apparently. After two nights here her siblings asked if she had a good time at grandma and grandpa’s.

“Grandma Pam’s dead,” she announced.  

She didn’t hear it from me.

 

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FYI Starting tomorrow, the third Thursday of each month will be Theos Thursday and I will share a meditation based on a short Bible Passage. Please join me for those, too. 

What is your Best By Date?

The sugar bag stated that it was BESTBY 08APR2023. That was specific, considering sugar is a dry substance and can’t harbor microorganisms that would make it go bad. 

It made me wonder what my BESTBY date was. And that led to considering the various roles I’ve had in my life, each which had some kind of peak in quality.

I was a roller skating whiz at eight. It’s gone downhill since then, and after a fall at the roller rink a few years ago, my skating date has expired. 

Likewise, my physical peak was long ago. Physical therapy is keeping me functional, but not optimal. 

As a young mom I was impatient. With maturity I became more patient. Now, I’m just enjoying my adult children, and not actively parenting. So the BEST BY has expired. 

At twenty I was the best violinist I would ever be, so that’s a half century ago. I keep plugging away, but doubt I’ll regain agile fingers and quick bowing. 

Mental acuity is deteriorating. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have forgotten the names of the flowers in my garden. Or how we got our first child home from the hospital without a car. 

2010, the year I retired from teaching, was probably the height of my career. I learned more about children and how the brain processes information after college than before. There was always some new skill to learn, or a conference to give me a new perspective. 

As a wife, I’m long past the ardor I had as a young woman, so romance is past it’s BEST BY date. But our marriage is less contentious and more comfortable now. Until one of us gets dementia, I think we'll stay "fresh."

As a person of faith, I was more zealous and active before 50. However, more knowledge about the Bible, and more wisdom about life are of more value. 

Like any foodstuff, my degeneration is inevitable, but I won’t go bad all at once--until the very end. Gratefully, I don't know what that date is. 

A note: a young computer-savvy friend suggested you may not be able to leave a comment if you are using Safari for your search engine. Please try coming to my blog via Google, Bing or Chrome. Thanks. This tech stuff is giving me giant headaches. My BestBy date never happened with computers.

They keep jumping ahead of me.

Prince Charmin

Stay at home orders are taking their toll on us. I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary in weeks, except for light traffic.  My library books are two and half months overdue. Bill's running commentary during the news is just as tedious when he's misunderstanding COVID science as it was when the topic was the presidential race. He misses the days I would go off somewhere and leave him in peace. 

With the outside world so far removed, every little detail of life is something to pick at, exaggerated and out of proportion. 

Mid February we were good for toilet paper. We laughed at the TP hoarders.

About four weeks in we couldn’t find any in our usual stores, and the stockpile was running low. I stopped at Whole Foods. The paper goods shelves were nearly empty, but high on the top shelf were two packages of their organic, undyed, tan toilet paper. I only took one twelve-pack, conscientious citizen that I am.     

Recently I put a roll in my bathroom, and Bill’s. It’ll do, I thought. 

But my grocery shopping hubby came home today with a prize of eight rolls of Charmin which he announced he would NOT share with me. 

It seems he’s turned into Prince Charming with a tender tush and has to have the best. 

Usually he’s not a keen observer of his surroundings. For example he carried in the apartment building’s yellow broom when the one we’ve had for three years is red. But he noticed and objected to my changing his sanitary product. He did not think the environmentally friendly TP was friendly to him.  He said it was too thin, scratchy, and the beige color looked weird floating in the toilet.

I should have known.

This is not the first time he’s taken a firm stand on toilet paper. Our daughter prefers ultra-thin, single-ply, unembossed, good-for-septic-tank brands. It is so stiff and coarse, we take our own rolls to their house for our baby-sitting days. 

And past international travel has caused Bill no small amount of concern before-hand and distress once at our destination. On our last trip, back when TP was not an issue in developed countries, I thought he was going to fill every crevice of his suitcase with handmade mini-rolls.  We didn’t know if Croatia leaned more to hearty, soft TP or harsh, thin Central American standards. As I recall it turned out okay. 

Last trip to Target I noticed the paper aisle seemed well-stocked, but didn't do a brand name check. Our condo isn’t big enough to store more TP when I have eleven rolls of the WF brand. As the sole user of said brand, I admit it is thin and strange looking. And it’ll probably last up to the second wave of COVID and the next paper-product roundup. 

Tough Days and Silver Linings

I suspect you may have had some tough days in the last weeks.  We have our “I miss…” lists, the events we’ve had to forgo for the time being. And I'm sure we all hope that “temporary” has a closer rather than longer end-date. 

Those of us living in high-density areas have to wipe down all of the door handles going to get the mail and back, and disinfect the shared laundry facilities. 

Here is the line we're waiting in to get into Trader Joe's. There are two people in front of us, and the rest behind us. 

Nobody I know can gather with their book clubs, or church congregations (although it is nice listening to a sermon whenever we feel like it, and I don’t have to act friendly on Sunday mornings). And I really, really, miss talking to Willow and getting hugs. 

One the other hand, I don’t worry about getting laid off because I’m retired. The government could quit sending my social security checks, but that would take an act of congress and we know how hard that is to get!

I’ve found my “silver lining” from a relaxed schedule and reduced responsibilities. (And did you know the phrase originated with John Milton, the brilliant, blind, and too hard-to-read English poet who lived nearly 400 years ago?)

1) I have large periods of uninterrupted time for writing. I set a goal to finish the third draft of our cult testimony.  Instead of working on a chapter here and there, I divided the manuscript into chunks and made revising my only goal for the day.  Shazam, it felt like magic. This week I re-worked the order, cut some passages, and smoothed out awkward spots.

I’m also building a website, and will move this blog to a new address by June first. The new address will allow you to easily leave comments, which has been a drawback with this site.  

2)   Since my last blog I began physical therapy for the left arm. It's the outing of the week. I took my violin with me recently and showed the therapist what I could reach, and what I needed to reach. She adapted some stretches to gently move my left hand and arm in the direction they need to go. Now I can press down three fingers on three strings--that's 75% of the way to my goal. 

Since I could only practice with my bowing arm I've see improvement in bow control and tone. Wow, that’s huge, and I never would have focused so intensely on the right arm if the left hadn’t been injured. 

You might not relate to my goal-setting, but I know you can make a list of the silver linings from the COVID lifestyle change. Try to leave a comment, or send me an email, and I’ll make a list of the good things that have come from your quarantine, no matter how soft or severe it’s been. 

I hope to see you face to face sometime in 2020. That includes you in North Carolina, and other scattered locales. 

Neuroplasticity: the left hand didn't know what the right hand was doing

Brain research suggests we all need to keep learning new things to foster “plasticity.” It conjures up images of flesh-colored silly putty being stretched, but neuroplasticity means that when neurons connect in new ways, the brain changes. 

We've all experienced that when we've had physical therapy, or learned a new skill. 



For a few years, I've tried to change my brain so that I can hear a tune and then play it on my violin. I've made some progress but a recent injury has sabotaged my fiddling. I can’t press down the fingers of my left hand onto the strings.  It’s like trying to roll pie crust with one good arm and the opposite elbow. 

I’ve resorted to “practice” bowing (the right arm) on open strings. That only leaves me four notes, one for each of the violin’s strings. It sounds awful, but it’s a good thing to just practice bowing. And my brain is making new connections. 

correct bow placement

My teacher told me to play in front of a mirror. Because I don’t have to concentrate on ten fingers, I see that the  five on my right hand have very little control over the bow.  My brain stumbles badly watching the bow’s path between the bridge and the neck and tries to make it stay on track. But the reversed image in the mirror makes the task much harder.

The bow is supposed to stay parallel to the bridge at all times, but mine skews badly. It reminds me of a train derailing. The engineer (my brain) can’t seem to decide if I need to push the tip away from me or pull it toward me.

It feels exactly the same way when I back up my car down a driveway using just the rearview mirrors. Maybe I’ll be able to do that better too, after this relearning.

The teacher also taught me other exercises. This one, the “spider,” has been difficult. I watch my fingers taking turns to climb up the bow, but I’m having a devil of a time reversing. I can feel my tongue poking out of the side of my mouth as I concentrate. Watch the master (not me) do it. 

I have new empathy for the narrator of the bluegrass song, "Piney Mountains":

“My hands can't fiddle and my heart's been broke

You damned old piney mountain...

Lost my fingers in the Galax mill

Buddy sing a sad old song”

-Bruce Molsky

I don’t allow myself to dwell on the doomsday thought “What if I can never play again?”  I don’t know any musical instruments that I could play with only one hand, not even the spoons. 







So long as the injury doesn’t last too long, I’ll be able to see this time as productive—at least for the right half of my fiddling.

I don't know what new challenge age or injury have caused you, but there may be an upside when you learn the work around--a newly renovated brain. 

Is the book you're reading worthy of a silver apple?

I’ve found a new book worth of my silver apple. 

The bookmark was a thank you gift for volunteering in a local school. It’s metal, substantial, and adds gravitas to the current read.  I thought I’d lost it once, then remembered it was in a book from our condo community library. It had been reshelved with the bookmark still in place, and I was grateful to retrieve it. 

Recently I’ve chosen books recommended from online lists, but find they weren’t my style. After a lifetime of finishing any book I started, just because I “should”, I quit. Now if the style, the genre, or the topic don’t suit me, I snap the cover closed and move on.

Then I heard an author interview on PBS Newshour of the other americans, by laila lalami. (And yes, the title is uncapitalized.) It’s written from the viewpoints of characters both central, and seemingly tangential, to a hit and run auto accident.  Even the deceased has a voice.

Although the main characters are first and second-generation immigrants, the dynamics between family members are familiar. The emotions are universal. Google filled in the gaps between my background knowledge and people and places mentioned in the text. In one instance a singer was mentioned and I listened to her on youtube, which added depth. 

The writing is evocative: 

 “Then a woman pushed her cart past us, and in her wake I caught the

 scent of rosewater. Instantly, I was back in Casablanca with my sisters, 

putting our hair in rollers and trying on different colors of lipstick

...where a picture of Shadia was tucked into the frame, her hair in 

an elaborate bouffant we were trying to replicate.”

I’ve never been to Casablanca, but I could relate to the scent of rosewater, and childhood friends exploring hairstyles and makeup.

After weeks of poor choices, I latched onto this book like I was malnourished. And I had been, the previous five choices that lacked beauty and nuance.  The first night reading the other americans I reluctantly placed the book mark because I wanted to keep reading. And I thought, this is a silver-apple worthy book. And it was. 

If you will, nominate a book you think would be worthy of my bookmark.