Category: Living my Life

“Blessed are the peacemakers …” none other than Jesus himself said this. It is one of the Beatitudes in Matthew 5. Thomas a Kempis said, in Imitation of Christ, “First keep the peace within yourself, then you can also bring peace to others.” “It is easier to make war than peace,” is attributed to Georges Clemenceau, French statesman during WWI. King Solomon, in the book of Proverbs, has much to say about the value of a peaceful existence – and he was a man with many wives. Peace is a fruit of the spirit listed in Galatians 5:22. So, have I convinced you that peace is a good thing? Thus, blessed are the ones who strive to make peace where there is none.

I am a peacemaker. My sign is Libra, the blindfolded woman with the scales. I hate conflict and confrontation, yet more than once I have found myself in the middle of a row, acting as mediator.

This is not a safe place to be. Several years ago, I had two friends who argued. I lost the friendship of both because I wouldn’t take sides. Nations who try to remain neutral are criticized and hated by both sides in the conflict as the idea “if you’re not with me you are against me” prevails.

So what is the role of the peacemaker? In the Beatitudes, each group mentioned is promised a reward for being who they are. And it doesn’t say “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall find peace.” Nor will we be be comforted or inherit the earth. It says we “shall be called the Children of God.” I take that to mean that after we have lost all our friends through our efforts at peacemaking, God will still love us and call us his children. Amen.

It is not lost on me that I am writing this on the day we honor mothers, the all-time award-winning keepers of the peace – at least while we have the authority to send each war monger to a different corner of the house.

God bless mothers – and peacemakers – everywhere.

One day, twenty something years ago, the doctor I was working for called me into her office to tell me my job had been deleted. Not only was I blindsided by this news but I was a bit astounded. I was office manager, working over my 40 hours most weeks. How could that position be deleted? She gave me a month’s salary and a letter of recommendation stating the conditions of my termination. I was asked to finish the day. That meant I had to suck it up, postpone crying and try to tie up loose ends.

I knew I had not done anything wrong , yet as the word circled the office, the other girls working there avoided making eye contact with me. (And because I still feel a little paranoid, I have to add that a week later, the doctor’s sister was office manager). Friends at church who knew I had lost my job never addressed the issue and talked about everything else in the world when we were together. I thought: They all think it’s my fault. I should be wearing a scarlet F –  for FIRED.

A few years later I found out a lot more about downsizing. The non-profit agency I worked for was in dire straits. The announcement was made that positions would be cut. Of three in the office, one would go. I figured it was me again – the one making the highest salary would save the agency the most money. But not this time. This time it was last-in-first-out. I did not lose my job.

I exhaled a huge sigh of relief … and breathed in a heart full of guilt. I was very happy about retaining my job but I felt guilty for being happy when someone else was out of work. Just looking at her made me feel worse, so for a full day I tried to avoid her. There didn’t seem to be anything to say without mentioning the elephant in the living room so I stayed away. Then, thankfully, I remembered my own experience and how it felt to be shunned. We finally talked before she had to leave.

Now, as they say, it’s deja vu all over again. In my circle of extended family and friends, five have lost their jobs, for various reasons dealing with “budget cuts,” “downsizing,” “outsourcing,” or “the economy.”  All but four have contracts to fulfill. They must go to work every day, do their job with integrity, deal with the averted eyes, the co-workers who stop talking when they enter the breakroom.

When I get the chance, I’ll tell each of them I know how it feels. Really.

When I was a child, there was a song titled “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries.” Then, more recently, Forrest Gump familiarized the statement “Life is like a box of chocolates.” Now, after some thought, I’ve decided to contribute “Life is like a Game of Tetris.”

Do you remember Tetris? It’s a highly addictive video game popular about ten years ago. The game consists of different shaped tiles falling from the top of the screen to the bottom. The object of the game is to arrange the tiles into straight lines, either by turning the tile or moving it to the right or left. Filling in a line results in earned points and creating more space to play, rack up more points but most importantly, stay alive. When tiles pile up high enough to touch the top of the screen and there is no space to move the tiles around – the game is over.

So while playing this game I came to see that the Game of Life and the Game of Tetris are very similar. In the beginning of the game, the tiles move very slowly. I have plenty of time to decide just where each tile will fit best. But sometimes, because my perspective is skewed, I misjudge and fail to hit the intended mark. Suddenly things are not as I planned. Then I must adjust my design to accommodate the error. I might even make other bad choices because instead of watching the coming tiles I am still thinking of my first mistake.

Often, I can’t seem to get a break.  Tiles appear that in no way fit the pattern I have going. I need a stick and a block falls. Then, I must decide what to do with the odd shaped thing. As the game progresses, the tiles fall faster. I have to make very quick decisions, despite the fact that my thumbs are tired and my eyes blurred. Then suddenly, the game is over.

If I follow this analogy a little farther, I have to conclude that Tetris (and Life) are not about winning. You just do the best you can with the tiles that fall your way and stay in the game as long as you can.

Earlier this month, just before the Ides of March, there were two significant occurrences that I neglected to write about: the onset of Daylight Savings Time and my youngest son’s 21st birthday.

When these two events happened on the same weekend, for some reason I was reminded of another clock-moving-forward Sunday a few years ago.

Easter Sunday and the beginning of Daylight Savings Time both fell on April 4, 1999. This was also the day before what would have been our 20th wedding anniversary.

My husband Ed and I married in 1979, when we were in our forties. From the beginning, we knew we would never have a 50th wedding anniversary with the traditional big celebration. So we aimed for the 20th, when we planned to “party like it was 1999.” We warned our large blended family that it would be a big event, so they should mark their calendars and get ready for it. But, as life has a way of turning out differently than what we plan, Ed died in October 1996. I lost my companion and Phillip lost his Dad, three years short of party time.

So on the Easter Day I’m talking about, ten-year-old Phillip and I arrived at church at 8:00 that morning (having lost an hour of sleep). I sang withthe choir in the early service, taught a class, then sang again at 11:00. After lunch with friends, an afternoon of telephone calls from adult children and supper at McDonalds, I wanted nothing more than for Phillip to go to bed so I could sit and ponder my life and loss. Of course, whether it’s Spring Forward or Fall Backward, DST always messes up a kid’s bedtime. Eating a ton of candy eggs doesn’t help any. So, bedtime didn’t happen as soon as I wanted, and when he came creeping back into the living room after I thought sure he was asleep, I was irritated.

“What is it?” I asked, not too kindly.

Big tears welled up in his eyes as he said, “I made you an anniversary present.” He held out an old Happy Birthday gift bag, stuffed with the Sunday comics rather than tissue paper.  I motioned for him to sit next to me in “Daddy’s chair.” When I could, I apologized for being crabby. From the bag I took out the tiny toy bear, a souvenir of a vacation several years before. I twisted the key and the bear clapped the cymbals frantically at first, then gradually slower. Our foreheads together, we watched until the bear finished playing.

That was eleven years ago. The toy sits in a special place in my room. A symbol of a little boy’s tenderness, generosity, and love.

“Old age isn’t so bad if you consider the alternative.” My most recent quote book (If Ignorance is Bliss, Why Aren’t There More Happy People?  a -Christmas gift from my brother in law) credits Maurice Chevalier with this saying, though it has been repeated so many times it hardly matters. Another quote, “If I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d have taken better care of myself,” which reportedly was said by Yogi Berra, George Burns or Andy Rooney,  are actually the words of Eubie Blake. Blake was a ragtime pianist and composer who died in 1983 at the age of 100.

Other quotes about age: “It is sobering to consider that when Mozart was my age he had already been dead for a year.” Tom Lehrer (American satirist, born 1928)

“The years between fifty and seventy are the hardest. You are always being asked to do things, and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down.” T.S. Eliot  (This is so, so true, as the newly retired will tell you.)

“I don’t feel old. I don’t feel anything till noon. That’s when it’s time for my nap.”  Bob Hope (1903 – 2003)

“I do not ask to be young again; all I want is to go on getting older.” Konrad Adenauer (First Chancellor of West Germany after WWII. Lived to be 91)

This is not meant to be one of those cutesy articles on aging. If you want one of those, check your email, one will be along soon enough.  Many of us who have a few years behind us are faced with questions about how we fit in. Often, ironically enough, the place we feel most out of place is the church where we should feel most at home. The Spring issue of Mature Years addresses the feelings many senior have about noisy worship services and a music genre foreign to their tastes. 

In the article “Where Do I Go Now?” the writer, Pachecho Pyle cites several statistics: “Today the United States has more citizens alive over 65 than under 18 . . . ” Also, “Seniors average two to three times more available hours for volunteer church related activities than any other age group.”  “A Senior-adult church member will give seven times the money that a baby boomer will give.”  “Most senior adults in the church have been Christians for years and have a wealth of wisdom they can share, if given the chance.”  And how does Ms. Pyle suggest we make the change from unhappy misfits to productive believers? “First, we [Seniors] must be open to change . . .  Second, we must recognize how valuable we are.”

Interesting words. However, they appear in a magazine marketed to and primarily read by senior adults.  How do we let the world know how valuable we are?