Relationships

I read a novel recently titled The Shack by William P. Young. It addresses relationships, and because I was thinking about aging while reading it, I realized anew that living in relationships is a difficult aspect of growing older.

Mack, the protagonist, goes to a shack, a scene where his family experienced unspeakable violence, to meet with God—represented by a large Black woman named Papa. A small Asian woman named Sarayu represents the Holy Spirit—she floats about while emanating colors. And Jesus—finally, someone reasonable—by a 30-something man from the Middle East.

I had less trouble with the characters after Papa explains he/she is manifesting in a form Mack can accept—Mack had been abused by his father. But I understand my friend who quit reading the book because everything seemed, and I quote her, “so silly.” When Papa drops a large bowl of a substance resembling a batter, Jesus wipes her feet and skirt while all members of the godhead laugh easily. I understand Jesus cleaning up—after all, He came as a servant. I understand good-natured laughter. But why would God drop a bowl of batter?

And yet. And yet—the interaction between them somehow illustrates the theology of the Trinity in ways that brought life to me. Although One, they are Three who interact and live in relationship with each other. They desire relationship with each other, with Mack, and with all people.

Conversations between the members of the Godhead and Mack deal with the issues of Mack's life—specifically, why a loving God allows evil. I think the writer does more than a credible job on the subject, but I kept reading because I was interested in the relationships. Although, unlike Mack, I was raised in a loving home, when I read his story I felt his rejection. Stories will do that, they broaden our experience.

Every background has its perils. I was taught to treat other people nicely. Excellent training, I guess. I can’t even suggest a better way to do it. I do know, however, that I regularly seethed inside because I had no freedom of choice when interacting with others. So Mack seethed for one reason and I for another. Like Mack, at times I suppressed my personality. What bothers me most is that I didn’t give my children choice, either.

Perhaps this is why I've struggled with the maxims of the New Testament, but a quick reread of Jesus’ teaching in the Sermon on the Mount is interesting. From a different perspective, it’s possible He wasn’t providing the people with a new, harsher list of rules. He was telling them to forget the rules and enter into relationship. Read it to see what you think. (Matthew 5, 6, & 7)

Like so many older couples, Ken and I especially struggled with our relationship after retirement. The truth is, during the busy years we had allowed our relationship to slide. Not that we disliked each other or didn’t function together. But somewhere along the line we had stopped sharing, had grown so far apart that we no longer took pleasure in each other’s company. Then we retired and had to become acquainted again.

To borrow a line from Dickens, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Although relationships are of infinite value and they make life worth living, they're also demanding and at times irritating.

Ken and I intuitively approach life differently, but today he’s my closest friend other than Jesus. I’ve reflected a bit on how we navigated from there to here and can’t come up with an explanation—outside of that other friend I mentioned—Jesus. Connecting with Him somehow includes connecting with my husband—because God loves relationships. Paul said, You were his enemies, . . .Yet now he has reconciled you to himself through the death of Christ in his physical body. (Col. 1:22 NLT)

These days Ken and I have to work our way through things, deal with issues, see our personal failings, forgive for wounds inflicted, release the other to whatever, and love. It would be impossible outside of God’s grace. However, with him you [we] were raised to new life because you [we] trusted in the mighty power of god, who raised Christ from the dead. (Col. 2:12 NLT)

Don’t think I don’t resist, because submission includes releasing our will to each other. Submission, we’ve discovered, is mutual in relationship. Paul begins his teaching on husband-wife relationships with, submit to one another out of reverence for Christ. (Eph. 5:21 NLT)

So how about God? Does He submit in relationships? You have to remember that I’m using Young’s book as a launching point, and only as a launching point. These ideas aren’t stated by him, but I believe God does submit. He submits to our will when He releases us to make our own mistakes while loving us anyway. He doesn’t ask us to do something He doesn’t do Himself.

Life is shaped by relationships—with our children, our birth family, our friends, our neighbors, etc. I’ve failed to a greater or lesser degree in all of them because I tried to live by rules rather than in relationship. Marriage, the most intimate human relationship, is a microcosm of the broader picture. I believe Ken’s and my return to relationship can only be viewed as an intricate, delicate journey wrought by an infinite God.

When God releases us, He also provides experiences to change us and lead us into repentance, forgiveness, submission, love. That's the miracle.

A Classroom on the Deck

We’ve had intense classroom learning in the afternoons on the railing of our condo deck. Adult swallows are teaching their young the art of swooping through the air to catch bugs. The first step is helping the young find motivation. Ken took this picture of five young lined up, watching Mom and Dad while waiting for their dinner.

Notice how plump they are. They’ve been well fed while Mom and Dad have been taking care of them. The adults are sleek. They’ve been working hard.

Ken patiently waited to catch a picture of Mom feeding a live bug to one of her babies. He wasn’t fast enough on several occasions because the exchange took only a moment and required a quick response. Finally, he captured this, not quite full contact and a bit blurry, but I still think it’s an exciting picture.


We’ve also had other classrooms on our minds. Two of our grandchildren are high school seniors this year, one a freshman, one a second grader, and one a first grader. I’m happy they’re all happy to begin another school year.

Of the remaining two grandchildren, one is almost two and the other one month. They, of course, are learning faster than anyone in the family right now. Ken brought that up when we talked about a new school year.

Education is a major interest for us. Ken was a teacher by profession before retiring and I taught as a temporary fill-in for several years.

I’m convinced all creatures want to learn—especially human creatures. A swallow that doesn’t learn to feed itself will live a short, unhappy life. And if children don’t learn, they won’t be happy, either.

In the classroom I primarily taught English 101. One of my colleagues would say at the beginning of the year, “English is the subject they love to hate.” And it was true. I always felt I had to begin by convincing them they would benefit by learning my subject material.

For some that meant learning to identify and then compose a sentence. Many learned they could when they tried, and the skill brought confidence and freedom. For others it was organizing ideas. And for some it meant broadening their perspective through literature.

The gaps in learning were interesting. Some students had astounding logic, could organize ideas incredibly well, but had trouble with sentences. Others wrote perfect sentences but had trouble with literature. Some loved stories, intuitively picked up literary themes, but couldn’t explain why. There were all sorts of configurations of skills and appreciations.

I firmly believe all children love to learn. Learning is interesting—like watching swallows on the deck railing. As a teacher I had good days and lesser days, good class groups and lesser class groups. Some students were convinced they couldn’t learn and wouldn’t try. But no one—not even the toughest dudes who wanted to downplay the subject—ever regretted it when they did learn something new or when they learned to do something new. Isn’t that interesting?

So, kids go to school, adults learn new jobs, neighbors learn to make room for neighbors, families learn to accommodate changes, and young swallows learn to catch bugs for dinner. It’s all part of God’s master plan.

I’m grateful for the swallows. They provide an opportunity for us to observe nature now that we live in the city. I know they’re a rather messy bird, but they have a lovely body shape and they look graceful when flying through the air. They’re fulfilling their purpose. That’s my prayer for our grandchildren.

Unwanted Moisture and Unresolved Conflicts

God doesn’t lose interest in us as we grow older. He keeps working and working to draw us to Him and then to draw us closer to Him.

He was dealing with me recently when I had revelation concerning Sin in my life—and a revelation concerning a serious problem area.

Let me use an illustration to explain. Ken and I live in an agricultural area. Some years the crops are harder to harvest than others. This year farmers haven’t been hampered by rain or flooding, but the moisture content is still high. A neighbor told Ken that many farmers are mowing (swathing) their grain first and letting it dry in rows before they combine. I took a picture of this small field of swathed barley because I thought it especially beautiful.

Through circumstances and His Word God showed me I was similar to this year's grain. I had unwanted moisture—i.e., unresolved conflicts—concerning my mother.

Mom had polio as a young wife before I was born, and I can’t remember her having either physical strength or stamina. I resented her fragility—and I resented feeling responsible for her.

She died in an automobile accident during my first year of college. That’s when I learned how much I loved her.

Rather than mourn my loss—and rather than dealing with the guilt I felt because of my resentments—I rationalized. I told myself my attitude had been normal. I was, after all, just a teenage kid. And to comfort myself when missing her, I rationalized her death as a blessing because her life was tough at the end. In other words, I excused my guilt, and I accepted death as a solution. This seemed helpful at the time, but it interfered with God’s harvest in my life.

God dealt with guilt when I fell apart after seeing an iron lung at the State Fair. Mind you, this was 50 years after the fact, but after I wrote and posted about it, I recognized my sin. When I confessed, He changed both my conscious mind and my inner being. I was somehow set free from unresolved conflicts that day. Truly, God hasn't stopped dealing with me because I'm growing older.

Two weeks later Ken and I attended a conference. On Saturday morning I awoke knowing a terrible truth. I knew there had been emotional ripples throughout my life because I had rationalized a false comfort. For example, because I accepted death as a solution, if my children were sick when they were young I was often overcome by fear that they would die.

And because I accepted death as a solution, I often thought of death as a possibility when faced with difficult circumstances—or when someone did something particularly troublesome. Of course, I knew this was wrong. Jesus said, If you commit murder, you are subject to judgment. But I say, if you are even angry with someone, you are subject to judgment! (Mt. 5:21,22 NLT)

Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop the thoughts. I’d confess, I’d ask God to help me, and sometimes I did the unthinkable—I’d give in to them. All the while, I knew God loved me and that I loved Him. I knew the power of His Blood was bigger than my sin. And I knew I couldn’t win this battle myself.

On the Saturday morning of the conference, with new insight, I understood that Satan had established a stronghold in my mind when I accepted death as a solution. I felt impressed to tell Ken about the revelation. And one day, feeling God was calling me, I secluded myself and read the book of Isaiah. Moments after finishing God reminded me of a familiar New Testament verse: The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. (Jn. 10:10 RSV)

Strange when the familiar comes alive in a different context. Death cannot be God’s solution because Jesus is Life. He came to give Himself and His Life. How had I missed this?

When God illuminates His Word, things happen. I knew that although all will die because we live in a fallen world, and although Christians experience ultimate victory in their death, Mom’s death was a tragic accident—not a solution.

When I confessed that I’d received a lie and relied upon it for false comfort, and when I accepted a new revelation of Jesus as Life, I was altered. I can’t explain how it happened. I only know God did it. The stronghold is gone.

I took another picture of the field today.



The unwanted moisture—along with my unresolved conflict—has dried up and the farmer has harvested his grain. The field looks bare. I admit I feel bare, too. Kinda naked.

I also feel wonderfully clean.

A Change in Direction

I’ve realized over the past couple of weeks why many bloggers write daily. There's much to say. I may lead a quiet life, but I have many subjects.

I could write—would love to write—about our latest grandchild. And about my feelings of not being able to hold a little girl born half-way around the world. She, her brother, and her parents live in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates and we’re not sure when we’ll meet her. Oh, to see her little legs pump or her little arms flail—to hear her cry—to smell her smells. We’re so thrilled she’s in our life—well, that isn’t quite accurate, is it? She's part of our family, but not part of our experience. Sometimes it doesn't seem real. Life can be bittersweet.

I told one of my children, however, that I wouldn’t write about the grandkids—and I’ll abide by that promise most of the time. In the interest of safety and privacy, I don’t plan to post identifiable pictures of them. But let me tell you that our new granddaughter and her brother were a surprise. They’re the progeny of our oldest son. Ken and I didn’t think he would bless us so wonderfully. She makes our seventh grandchild and, I think, our last. That’s a sad thought, but seven is a good number, don’t you think?

I could write about our oldest daughter’s child, our oldest granddaughter—she’ll be a high school senior this year and she’s involved in many things. Through all her activities, however, she’s had a small garden. It started with carrots, peas, etc. One year she planted three tree seeds. They all took off and were eventually transplanted into the yard. Over time the garden evolved so it’s now primarily perennials—including rhubarb, strawberries, and raspberries. Raspberries were producing when we visited them recently, and I’ve wanted to share this picture of her as she harvested her produce—a golden variety. Very sweet.



I could write about our friends from the lake who are coming in to attend a baseball game with us tonight. He has a medical appointment early in the morning and this works out for them and for us. Here’s a picture I took of Ken (on the right) and Ron when we attended The Gathering. It was the best picture of the night, worthy of sharing.

Have you noticed the personal nature of these subjects? When I started blogging, I envisioned this blog, Sunny Pathway, would be about health issues—specifically health issues related to growing older. I planned to interview nurses, social workers, perhaps even one of my doctors—and to research topics of interest for others who, like me, are dealing with unfamiliar issues. I'm especially interested in spiritual resources—and their impact on aging.

It isn’t going to happen. During my days of reporting, interviews were exciting because I never knew exactly where they’d go, but I didn’t face the challenges then that I face now. I simply don’t have the energy to pursue interviews—or to pursue research in a huge field.

What to do. I had an inkling when I began blogging that I didn’t have a handle on what I was doing or where this trip would take me. I’ve wondered about it, prayed about it, and feel I have a direction, at least for now. In Sunny Pathway I’ll continue to write about aging, but I’ll focus on my personal experience. This actually makes good journalism, too. I learned when I was active in the field that generalities don’t communicate well. Statistics aren’t interesting. Methods and techniques are boring unless set within a framework.

My other blog, Red, Red, Berries, was supposed to be personal. It’s turned into something cerebral. I think it will become more focused. I need an outlet, a place to work out my thoughts on specific spiritual topics. If anyone is interested, you’re welcome to join.

And I’m thinking—planning—to start a third blog. It will be short, short daily devotionals.

In the middle of all this excitement, I’ve faced a significant medical challenge this week—for a short period of time I’m on steroids again. It’s depressing, scary, and I plan to write about that next week or the week following—after the dosage has been reduced. My relationship with steroids probably makes better copy—that means it’s more interesting, more insightful, and more helpful—than a medical report. So I think I’m on the right track.

Stay posted.

New Shoes and a Conference

After a summer of staying more-or-less at home, we’ve made some significant jaunts on three successive weekends.This weekend we went to the Twin Cities for a two-fold purpose: to attend portions of the Holy Spirit Conference in Arden Hills and to purchase shoes for my problematic feet.

Feet were the priority.That doesn’t sound spiritual, but it’s where I live and Ken is accommodating. He’s seen the difference when I have the correct shoe.

Several years ago I started working with a pedorthist in St. Cloud. MN, who recommended a specific shoe for my particular foot—along with inserts and foot braces. Before that time I hobbled around. His devices plus the meds for rheumatoid arthritis made it possible for my feet to heel. I now walk normally most days, and I’m grateful beyond words.

Unfortunately, styles change and the shoe he recommended is no longer manufactured. I’ve been okay because I purchased satisfactory sandals in a Fargo store--but the store has gone out of business and sandals aren’t suitable for North Dakota winters.

We accomplished our goal—I purchased a pair of shoes for everyday and at-home wear on Thursday afternoon.

And I purchased a pair for casual dress on Friday morning. You’d be amazed at how happy I can get over finding a pair of shoes.

Shopping over, we decided to visit Como Park and Zoo in St. Paul on Friday afternoon because we have a history, not an on-going history but an ancient history, with the place. It was a quiet spot we visited when our children were small. Ken could leave me alone—truly alone—in the conservatory while he took the children to look at the animals. I don’t know if we thought it would remain unchanged or not, but we weren’t ready for people bumping into people. Just the same, after our picnic we wanted to look around.

I took pictures of flowers, but Ken took pictures of animals. The orangutans in the tree didn't even open their eyes, let alone move a limb. The best scenario for me was two grade-school girls jumping up and down, scratching under their arms, trying to make monkey noises in an attempt to get a response.

Meanwhile, we attended meetings Thursday eve, Friday eve, and Saturday morning. Because my mind was occupied elsewhere, Thursday evening’s meeting is a blur.

Mahesh Chavda spoke at the other two meetings. He's ethnically an East Indian who grew up in Kenya, and he provided much to ponder. He didn't bring a teaching as much as a call to respond to God. A phrase he repeated several times, always with a twinkle in his eye because it embodies a truth we learned by rote in confirmation, said in effect, “The Holy Spirit thinks He’s God.” But recognizing the Holy Spirit as God and subsequently yielding to Him are a different matter. I felt God revealed something specific that I would be compelled to confess to Ken later—not a sin of commission but a mindset that needs altering. When God the Holy Spirit arrives and does His thing, He delves deep. Even in the life of a woman intent on finding adequate shoes.

We’d planned to stay for a healing service on Saturday afternoon; I am, after all, someone in need of healing. But we didn’t feel like it.

Later, I wondered if we'd missed something by leaving. Then I remembered Proverbs 3:5: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths. (KJV) Hanging around would have been doing what seemed right, but not necessarily responding to God. We were tired. God had helped me find shoes and He fed our spirits. He also revealed a deep recess of my heart that only He could understand and change. We were satisfied, it was more than enough.

Worshipping With Old But Young Friends

Last Saturday was delightful. My husband Ken and I visited a youth group. Furthermore, we were part of them only five years ago. Really.

Firestarters Music, based in Ottertail, Minnesota, started before we met them when a group of high schoolers felt God calling them—and when their parents supported them by becoming their leaders. They include a Christian band that became the center of activities. Band members were all still in high school when Ken and I joined them—young enough to be our grandchildren. Most of the leaders were young enough to be our children. Yet they welcomed us because they thought we had kindred spirits.

Our impetus for visiting on Saturday was to take part in their special meetings called The Gathering, even if only briefly. The event is timed to coincide with Ottertail Days, and they’ve done something similar for several years. But they keep expanding it. In addition to special speakers—we heard Michael Terrell who also played with the band—they invite other local bands.

I was so disappointed in my picture of The Firestarters, but it's the best this beginning photographer has to offer.

The group has changed in several ways during the five years since we moved—a different base player, an additional rhythm person, additional vocalists, and additional instruments (including a keyboard). New members include siblings and wives. Most graduated from high school about the time we left.

Their music isn’t my style—some soft rock with edgy stuff thrown into the mix—but I’m musical enough to know they’ve matured as artists. They are, in fact, good. I heard a man identify them as a hidden treasure. Their focus is worship.

They now have dancers who wear masks!

In one sense I appreciated the masks because individual identities weren’t a distraction. Nevertheless, because they’ve changed since we last saw them, I wanted to identify them. Shame on me. Again, I’m not a good enough photographer to capture spectacular moments—and there were some. But aren't they lovely? They truly conveyed a sense of worship.

Several are involved in the visual arts. These gals were in their early college years five years ago.

Some activities don't lend themselves to pictures. One gal is a journalist and several write poetry. All believe they’re called to live for Jesus and to minister to Him and His people through their art.

Joining young people and entering into their enthusiasm is exciting. They help keep the mind supple, active.

Once More to the Fair

We attended a fair last week—three days in a row—and it was great fun with a surprising undercurrent at the end. Unfortunately, I didn't think about blogs and didn’t take a picture. For that reason I thought of writing about something else but, in true blogging fashion, decided to focus again on personal life

My husband Ken’s and my involvement with fairs was limited when we were children because our parents were concerned about exposure to polio. In my family we knew fear. Our children look at me blankly when I mention this, but polio was perhaps a bit like West Nile Virus today—only pervasive. Everyone knew someone affected by polio. My mother was one of those who had been afflicted.

After the Salk and Sabin vaccines, everything changed. My husband Ken and I attended the Minnesota State Fair when we lived in the Twin City area, and we’ve attended fairs off and on ever since. This year we joined our oldest daughter and her family at the North Dakota State Fair.

On Thursday night we attended the grandstand show featuring Casting Crowns, a Christian band based in Atlanta. In spite of the decibel levels, they had a gentle spirit. To add to the excitement, our son-in-law, who went early to save seats, did not find something near the ground. To join him we had to climb—I didn’t count the steps. To my family’s and my amazement, adrenalin kicked in and I did it. Fun.

On Friday morning Ken and I slept in while our family was busy. Our granddaughter is a gymnast whose gymnastics club rents a fair building. Because of that connection, they were busily involved with fair activity. But in the evening we all trucked off, this time to see exhibits.

Although I didn’t grow up on a farm, I grew up in a farm community. And although I didn’t go to the fair myself, I had friends who not only went but who exhibited their 4-H projects. Entering 4-H buildings brings back memories of boasting rights over blue ribbons and other achievements.

Animal exhibits are interesting for additional reasons. As a free-lance writer I once covered the dairy and livestock beat for a regional farm paper. I was disappointed the beef cattle judging was over—the barn empty. But I loved walking through the dairy barns. North Dakota cows don’t take a back seat to anyone. The Holsteins were huge and sturdy in spite of the inbreeding that threatens domestic dairy herds, and their milking capacity seemed even larger than when I coved them. Then there was the gentle Brown Swiss. And a new (to me, anyway) breed—Milking Shorthorns.

Goats aren't major players in North Dakota, but they're fun. Some sheep were huge. Our granddaughter knows a family that raises sheep and says they’re raised for meat as well as wool, so size makes sense. And even rabbits of all sizes with different shaped ears and different faces were interesting.

Of course, we slept in again on Saturday, but decided to go again when the family worked from 4:00 to 8:00 that afternoon and evening. This time we ambled: visited a commercial building, rested, visited another commercial building, rested. We entered the Ward County Historical exhibit, not part of the fair but adjacent to it and open to fair visitors. We looked into the usual—a church, log cabin, store, barbershop, blacksmith shop. Then we entered a nondescript building housing artifacts not yet set up in their historic surroundings. There we saw an old printing press, old cars—and

an Iron Lung.

And that’s when I came unglued.

Polio affects muscles, often paralyzing them. Paralysis of arm or leg muscles caused crippling. Paralysis of chest muscles affected breathing and often resulted in death.

Iron Lungs were used to treat polio victims and the names is descriptive. They are body-size tubes made of iron that enclosed all of the body except the head. A rubber casing around the neck made it possible for the iron lung to maintain fluctuating air pressure inside the chamber that inflated and then deflated the lungs—and saved lives.

I’d seen many pictures, but this was the first time I’d seen one in person. It looked so cold, so hard, so impersonal.

Even though Mom had polio before I was born, it’s part of my lifescape. And there were other victims in my life as well—a neighborhood friend I’d played with almost daily during summer—a man who spent life in a wheel chair due to polio. And others I didn’t know well.

My mother contracted polio in 1931, the August after my oldest brother was born. My father transported her by train from Montana to the Minnesota University Hospital, a hospital where Sister Kenny’s treatments were accepted and applied. I know these details only because I asked Dad before he died, but thinking about them seemed to make him reflective, sad. Although Mom’s polio was the most severe type, affecting muscles of both limbs and breathing, and although life proved challenging after polio, she went on to have more babies and to take care of her home. She died when I was a college student.

Something raw and wounded in my psyche was exposed when I saw the iron lung, something I had suppressed because our Norwegian heritage translated into being reserved. In matters of personal pain, say and do nothing. But that no longer works for me—this is one more thing I must somehow give to God so He can provide the healing that’s available only through Him.

When I saw the iron lung I felt Mom did spend time in one, but I don’t know for sure. Yesterday, home again, I called my older brother to ask if he knew. He didn’t. Then I called an older cousin. She said her mother expressed sorrow that my mom struggled because she had been so sick, but that she had never provided details. More interesting, she said our mothers didn’t talk about it.

I have no one else to ask. On the internet, I learned patients were usually in iron lungs for a one to two week period when paralysis was most severe. I found a picture of a hospital ward housing hundreds of polio patients kept alive during their crisis by iron lungs. And I learned there are still about 400 people living inside iron lungs today—patients who were in them long enough for muscles to atrophy.

While at the fair, however, Ken and I dealt with my surprising reaction the way Norwegians often do—we ate. Then a look at more 4-H exhibits and it was time to meet our family.

So, the fair was a time of fun—of entering mainstream society, brushing elbows with all walks of life in a leisurely fashion. And it was a time of sorrow over a past I’ll never understand. I’m grateful for the full experience.