your life becomes not easier, more satisfying.
JOE KOGEL
For his eighty-second birthday I gave my father a rather expensive maple pool cue. The irony of the gift was not lost on any of us.
Back in the 1930s, Ying’s Pool Hall was the favorite hangout for teenagers in the riverside hamlet of Elora, Ontario, Canada. There my dad learned to smoke, drink, swear, chew, and hit a spittoon. Cold winter nights of my childhood were warmed by his stories of those days. Of winning a few bucks betting on billiards. Of cheating the blind owner out of small change.
One dark and memorable Halloween, Dad and a few cronies moved the pool hall outhouse back a few feet—much to the surprise of some dear inebriated soul and drawing the attention of the local constable. When he told me this story, my admiration grew as wide as my smile. Through the years I’ve attempted a little mischief myself, but I’m sorry to report that I never truly mastered it as Dad did.
Twenty-one years before I was born, God put an arm around my father and refused to let go. “I sipped my last beer and took a final drag from a cigarette,” he liked to say. “I threw the pack into the fireplace and slammed the door on the pool hall, never to return.”
One summer night at a hot-dog roast, Dad first set eyes on a shy brunette by the name of Bernice. She would become my mother, but as far as I know it was not something they discussed that evening. Instead, they sat and watched the clouds gather, knowing that Adolf Hitler was ransacking Europe, that Dad would soon join the troops and set out to chase him home.
Dad never did find Adolf, but he chased down my mother, and after the Allied victory parade, the two climbed aboard a train bound for western Canada to study for the ministry.
After poring over books of theology for several winters, he was ordained by the Evangelical Free Church. Following several brief forays with small congregations, he returned to the Bible school where he had studied and joined its staff. The regulations were strict there. Your hair could not touch your ears (unless you were a girl), and sleeves must end below the elbows (unless you were a boy). There were clear guidelines for abstaining from Sunday afternoon football, playing pool, listening to rock music, smoking, drinking, chewing, and the purchasing of spittoons.
I loved my childhood. Mischief was never far away. You didn’t need to steal a car or graffiti a building to get the attention of grownups. Winking at your girlfriend would do the trick.
Though Dad didn’t always agree with the rules, he was careful to keep one of them. When we visited friends with pool tables, Dad stood off to one side, enjoying the smiles on our faces as we played, but never picking a cue up himself. For him it characterized his old life, and he wanted no part of it. “You play pool, you play the fool,” he sometimes said.
When he and Mom moved into the Golden Hills Lodge, peers begged him to join in their pool games, which went on most evenings until someone fell asleep—sometimes on the table.
Dad told them he hadn’t picked up a cue in about sixty years. They couldn’t believe it. They stopped asking, perhaps reasoning that anyone this rusty wouldn’t be much fun to beat anyway.
One night while I sat eating from a candy dish he kept well stocked for the grandkids, Dad confided in me that he still experienced an uneasy feeling about the game. I asked him if they were placing wagers or cheating each other. He didn’t think so. I told him we could baptize the pool table, get it saved. He laughed.
And so it was that I presented him with his birthday gift and watched his face light up like he had just received a bike for his sixth birthday. “It’s left-handed, like you,” I said. That just added to his excitement.
Next thing I knew he was lining up shots and mowing down surprised opponents. And he was smoking again. And swearing. And drinking beer like a fish. I’m kidding. But the old guy was good.
At the age of eighty-two he would bend over that table, sight in the eightball, and take it down hard. Dad couldn’t remember his name sometimes, but he could play pool. My sons and I tried to beat him. We seldom succeeded. The years had been kind to his aim, and he smiled as he played. It was one thing he could do well, one card he could still play.
Dad smiled about other things too. For the most part, he enjoyed his new surroundings not far from our house. Some of the residents were friends he hadn’t talked to in years. I noticed as the days turned into months that he was afforded a more noticeable gentleness, and I’m convinced that it was grace once again. I guess God’s grace is there whatever the season; it has no expiration date, no statute of limitations.
Soon, however, Dad’s health and memory deteriorated further. A nurse sat me down to explain why we would have to move my parents to the long-term-care wing of a hospital. As she talked, the most amazing thing happened. She began to cry. “I’ll miss him,” she said. “He’s been so kind.”
If there is any blessing in Alzheimer’s, perhaps it is this: Sometimes you’re a little confused by the sorrow of others. Your children drive you to your new home a little farther away, and you point out the window at wheat fields and cows and elephants in the clouds, wondering why your child doesn’t share your enthusiasm during this Sunday afternoon drive on a Wednesday. You’ve got a pool cue in the backseat. It’s a great day to be alive.
Dying is a very dull, dreary affair,
and my advice to you is to have nothing to do with it.
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
During this time I began to receive invitations to speak at conferences for health-care providers at hospitals and nursing homes. I eagerly accepted, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that some were government-subsidized conferences and offered more than an honorarium of mileage and a T-shirt. I counted it an honor and found these unheralded servants ripe for laughter. I also found them exhausted. One lady told me, I’m so tired I fall into bed at night and I don’t have the energy to use the Clapper.” And so I tell them of the message a friend of mine has on his answering machine:
Hello, and welcome to the Mental Health Hotline. If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 immediately. If you are co-dependent, please ask someone else to press 2. If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5, and 6. If you are paranoid, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line so we can trace the call. If you are depressed, it doesn’t matter which number you push. No one will answer.
The health-care professionals laugh quite heartily at this, and then I tell them the sad reality—that this is the kind of answer many people receive when they’re in need. But how I thank God that no one gets that kind of answer from them, that they walk in when others walk out.
They seem to like this, so I keep going. I tell them of the battles I’ve faced steering a family through Huntington’s disease and epilepsy and a few other icebergs. And I tell them some of the things I’ve learned that have kept me relatively sane and well adjusted when life threatens to poke holes in my hull:
Laugh a little each day. Before I was born, my dad worked in a psychiatric ward in Quebec, Canada. I don’t remember much about it, but Mom claims he would come home at night and describe some of the sad events of the day, often interspersing his dialogue with a good belly laugh. She couldn’t believe it at first, but it was his way of finding the pulse of sanity in a dark place.
I find myself doing the same now in caring for my father. One summer day while I was visiting the hospital, a lady who serves as part-time chaplain pulled me aside. Her forehead was scrunched up, and I wondered what awful thing my father had done or said. “You told me he had been faithful to your mother for sixty years,” she said, still scrunching. “Today he was watching TV and holding hands with a complete stranger.” Of course I laughed. So did she. Sure, we cry and we pray, but sometimes laughter is our most effective weapon—perhaps the only one we have. And it sure beats oat bran.
Find a confidant. Miles Franklin said, “Someone to tell it to is one of the fundamental needs of human beings.” You don’t need to give everyone you meet a
n organ recital, but who can put a price tag on the value of sharing his story, thoughts, feelings, and sometimes tears with a trusted other?
Some communities have caregiver support groups. If you can’t find one, start one. If you can’t start one, get a pet. Sometimes my dog is my support group. She’s the only one who will listen without interrupting. It’s like the old Swedish proverb: “Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow.”
Carve hurry from your life. I wish someone had informed me earlier that there is nothing noble about a nervous breakdown and nothing selfish about taking care of your own needs. When I discovered that “no” is a complete sentence, I freed time for pursuing my gifts. When I learned to enjoy things without owning them, I forgot about the Joneses. When I began hanging out with positive people, I topped off my energy tank. When I began taking care of myself, I found I was better equipped to take good care of others. Stillness is rejuvenating. Sometimes the most pressing thing you can possibly do is take a complete rest.
Exercise three times a week. Bodily exercise profits a little. Of course, it didn’t help my mother. She started walking a mile a day when she was sixty. She’s eighty-three now and we don’t know where she is.
Enjoy the right food and take longer to eat it. My philosophy on eating is the same as Miss Piggy’s: Never eat more than you can lift. But middle age informs me that my philosophy is flawed. Pants that fit last Thursday are malfunctioning. So I need to acquaint myself with salmon, tomatoes, broccoli, nuts, and blueberries. And never pass up an opportunity to savor dessert. A recent study conducted by the dark chocolate industry indicates that dark chocolate is good for you.
Run away from home. Find a way to get away. If the budget is low, develop a great imagination. Close your eyes and imagine that your bath is at a spa in the Himalayas—without the monkeys. Never just listen to your favorite music. Pretend you’re at a concert, or giving one. When you can’t take what you’ve been taking any longer, take a vacation.
Take care of the home front. Who we are and what we are able to accomplish come directly from the foundations we build. So work on your relationships inside your tightest circles. Those of us who care for aging parents must not forget our own children.
Worry less. Worry steals everything worthwhile from today and adds nothing worthwhile to tomorrow. Worried people see problems; concerned people find solutions.
Remember you’re more amazing than you think. In a selfish age, those who care for others make God smile. So never underestimate the power of a kind word, a touch, a smile, a tear, or a compliment. You are the answer to someone’s prayer. Be assured that there will be resistance, but the rewards are out of this world.
Go looking for the blessings. Don’t worry, you’ll find them. They’re everywhere.
We are here to add what we can to,
not to get what we can from, life.
SIR WILLIAM OSLER
Ever since he was knee-high to a Doberman, the boy was fearless. Take him to the ocean and he’d jump in looking for sharks. Take him to the mountains and he’d see how high he could climb. One day when he was five, I watched in horror as he jumped off a roof, a garbage bag duct-taped to his back. It didn’t go well for him. So we set the bone, and he tried it again.
We couldn’t be more opposite, my son and I. The higher he climbs, the more he believes God is with him. Not me. I believe God put us on dry land and said, “Lo, I am with you always.”
In his first year of Bible college, Steve called one night to ask me for money. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You have reached this number in error. Please hang up and call your Uncle Dan.”
“I scaled a three-hundred-foot cliff today,” he said, undaunted. “You’d have loved it.”
Right. His father, who contracts vertigo standing on a skateboard.
For years I’ve wondered what God would make of our son. Would He call him to be a crash-test dummy? A professional bungee jumper? Or would he fulfill every North American parent’s dream by settling down in a huge house with a nice wife and provide us some grandchildren to spoil?
The unexpected answer arrived by e-mail one day.
Dear Dad and Mom,
I just want you to know that I met a couple of nice girls and we’re planning on being married. In Utah. Not really. But I did meet Lucy. You’ll like her a lot. It’s surprising how quickly you can find a justice of the peace down here. Lucy owns a tattoo parlor but seldom works. Her father won some money in a lottery, so she’s set for life. I won’t need to work anymore either. I’ve bought a Mercedes convertible and you’ll be happy to know I put a chrome fish on the bumper.
If you haven’t fainted yet, here’s the truth. It may be more shocking. In the country of Uganda, the Lord’s Resistance Army is committing atrocities against children that are too awful for me to put in this letter. Over the years they’ve abducted fifty thousand kids and turned the ones they haven’t murdered into soldiers. I’d like to work with street children in Kampala. I’ll be living with local missionaries. It will mean lots of needles and I’ll need to raise a little money too.
Dad, I once heard you say that Jesus came to comfort us, not to make us comfortable. I guess I’ve been comforted enough; it’s time to offer some to others.
Love from far away,
Your son, Steve
“Where do you think we went wrong?” I asked his mother. “Couldn’t he just have a beach ministry in Hawaii?”
“It’s what we’ve prayed for all these years,” she said with a grin, “that he would live life on purpose.”
“I think we blew it by having all those missionaries over for dinner or taking him to other countries and showing him what the real world looks like.”
And so we found ourselves hugging our firstborn son good-bye as he embarked on a grand adventure half a world away. I hugged him until his ribs squeaked. One of us wiped tears. I won’t tell you who.
It’s funny, the questions people ask when they hear our son is in Uganda. This is the one I’ve heard a few dozen times: “Aren’t you worried about his safety?” I’d be a fool not to admit that I have my moments. Check out a list of the most dangerous spots on earth, and Uganda is near the top. But is safety what we’re here for? Isn’t Complacency the most dangerous place on earth? Isn’t Suburbia sucking the life out of more of our teenagers than any foreign country ever could?
I sat with a missionary the other day who is pouring her life out in Pakistan, patching bodies and souls for Jesus. She said she’s the only missionary in her area whose parents support her being there.
I must be honest. I understand. There are times I’d rather Steve was home making good money—putting it away for my nursing-home bills. Yet I cannot hope for more than this: that my children will hear God’s voice despite a noisy culture, and that they will obey.
A few nights before Steve left, I asked him what he’d miss most about home. “The dog,” he said, smiling.
Then why is it that I found him studying family photos and lounging on the sofa watching an old Disney movie with his brother and sister? Was he killing time? Or saying good-bye to the remnants of childhood?
Whatever happened to the boy I used to build Lego-block villages with? The boy I taught to whistle and ride a bike? The boy who once put Kool-Aid in our shower head?
I’ve shed a few tears for sure. But mostly I’ve been smiling and giving thanks. For God’s grace in giving me a son who’s an updated and improved version of his father. For e-mail and cheap overseas phone rates.
And I’m thankful there are no sharks in Uganda.
When it comes to staying young,
a mind-lift beats a face-lift any day.
MARTY BUCELLA
I still find each day too short for all the thoughts
I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books
I want to read, and all the friends I want to see.
JOHN BURROUGHS
I’ve been hanging out in nursing homes a little earli
er than planned, and I’ve discovered that some of the inmates have managed to age gracefully, like gold-medal figure skaters. They are gliding through the golden years, smiling sweetly, bringing joy to others.
Then there are those who are determined to seek vengeance by using their wheelchairs as bumper cars and their canes as harpoons. When the grandkids visit, they spend the time whining about how the grandkids never visit. For them the glass is not just half empty; it’s cracked and chipped, and the lemonade is sour. To say they are lacking fashion sense is like saying the Pacific is wet. The men wear black knee socks and wing-tipped white shoes. They only use two buttons on their shirt. The ladies wear dresses they bought from the tent and awning company and have their hair dyed neon blue.
My grandfather Callaway was a combination of the graceful and the geezer. He loved a good laugh, but he also loved to talk about his ailments once the entire family had gathered around the dinner table and the food had been doled out. Then suddenly, it was organ-recital time: “So I remember when the doctors had to root through me and take out my spleen. Stayed awake for the whole thing. Watched ‘em dig it outta there all wrinkled and green. I asked ‘em to pickle it for me. Put it in a jar. I kept it for years on the counter. Looked like a big hairy cucumber. Hey, where’s everybody going? Mind if I eat your carrots?”
Grandpa gained a lot of weight in those days, and we saved money on groceries.
I loved and admired my grandfather immensely. He gave me money whenever I visited him, and though God had delivered him from alcoholism, he was the only man I’ve ever met who bought cough syrup in bulk, drinking it straight from the bottle.
I once enjoyed an evening with a seventy-five-year-old by the name of Donald Cole. Mr. Cole travels the country speaking at conferences and hosts a radio show during which he dispenses spiritual advice to callers, grownups and five-year-olds alike. During our conversation, Mr. Cole mentioned to me that he runs several miles a day, which caught me off guard—like having a guy in a Smart Car pull up to a stoplight beside you, glance your way, and rev his engine.
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