In the
church where I pastor, on the first Sunday in November (All-Saints Sunday), we
traditionally remember people in our families and congregation who have died in
the past year. This year, we will
remember, among others, a family matriarch, a mother whose daughter inherited
her love for crafts, a longtime and long ago choir member with a beautiful
soprano voice.
For me,
however, All-Saints’ Sunday is more than a day to remember. Although not all people are blessed with the
long and rich lifetimes they deserve, this day is also a time to appreciate
that aging is a deeply spiritual process – one from which all of us can learn.
Most elders
I have known aged with a certain grit tempered with graciousness and a wisdom
reflecting values and worldviews that come about just by living a lot of
years. We may not always agree with the
values or the view, but they certainly nudge us into assessing our own
perspectives.
If we are
lucky, we are invited to participate in this spiritual process as we take the
time to savor the “last times” with our elders, reconnecting with them while
sharing life experiences. All the elders
I have known have taught me something – and probably more than I know right
now.
Our elders
remind us that everyone has a story to tell, but not everyone has someone to
tell it to anymore. These stories are
the tendrils that lead us back through cultural and family history to our roots
– and help us better understand who we are.
I found out recently that my great-grandfather was a beekeeper who cared
for his bees without a smoker, gloves, or head veil. Is that who my newfound hobby can be traced
back to – an old world Swedish immigrant?
And my daughter’s independent spirit that has taken her from Southern
Africa to South America? Surely that is her Canadian great-great aunt shining
through, herself an educational pioneer and world traveler.
In
addition, many of our elders embrace a philosophy that says that life is indeed
good – and worth the journey, wherever it may have led. Innumerable elders have told me that their
lives have been truly blessed – and, as their pastor, I have known those lives
have seldom been easy. Along the way,
they have encountered financial hardship, lost a child or a spouse, experienced
limiting disabilities, and endured health crises. I remember Edie, unable to leave her nursing
home bed but affirming that, no matter how rocky her road had been, in the end,
God had blessed her profusely, and she had so much to be thankful for. As she had aged, the cup became not only half
full, but overflowing.
Finally, I
have learned that few words have the power of “I love you.” Whenever I see hands gnarled by arthritis, I
remember Leola, her knobby fingers pulling me close to kiss me goodbye that
final time and whisper “I love you”, she fully understanding what I only could
sense through my own tears at our parting.
Those words have the power to offer forgiveness and to bind us one to
another, be it in this world or the next.
Say “I love you” every day – at least, that is what the elders told me.
So – thanks
to my beekeeping great-grandfather and to my great aunt. Thanks to Rosie the matriarch, Pat the
craftswoman, Sally the soprano. Thanks
to Edie and Leola. Thanks to all the
elders I have known – for the memories, for the wisdom, for the time.
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