“Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” – Isaiah 46:4
My live-in in-laws occasionally comment on being past their prime. At nearly 90 and 84 years of age, respectively, Raymond and Shirley lament having outlived their usefulness, especially as it relates to ministry. They can no longer do the things they once did. Of course, we remind them that although the way God is using them may have changed, He’s still using them. They continue to make a difference in the lives of the people around them.
Their concern is common; some seniors have it even worse. Walking down the halls of a nursing home, I glance inside rooms full of people in the homestretch of life. Some have no family or friends. Others spend their days staring at a television screen or a wall. I struggle to find meaning in these infirmed seniors’ bleak existence. Why is God keeping them around?
Brother Lawrence, a medieval monk, offers a more enlightened perspective. In The Practice of the Presence of God, he sees all of humanity as trees in winter. Though having little to offer, stripped of leaves and color and growth, each soul is loved by God unconditionally anyway.
How are we to treat aged family members who are no longer useful in the traditional meaning of the word? How should nursing home workers approach yet another wrinkled resident staring off into space? The note from my Bible’s margin reads: We are to love seniors unconditionally; the way God loves them—like trees in winter.
In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott writes, “Dying people can teach us this most directly. Often the attributes that define them drop away—the hair, the shape, the skills, the cleverness. And then it turns out that the packaging is not who that person has really been all along. Without the package, another sort of beauty shines through.”
I have learned more from my in-laws in their physical decline than I ever learned from them at the top of their game. I’ve gained more from hearing Raymond speak a few kind words to a struggling former prisoner than from any of his longer, more robust sermons. I’ve been blessed by watching Shirley’s cane-assisted hobble to the back porch, easing herself into a sunlit chair, and pouring over God’s Word like a treasure map.
Like trees in winter, my in-laws have lost some vitality—they’ve shed some leaves. But I love them unconditionally anyway. I also watch them carefully because they are teaching me how to live.
While walking down the hall from a Radiology appointment last week, my mother-in-law, Shirley, aka Mamaw, fell and broke her hip. Two days later, she was having hip surgery. A few days after that, she was moved to Morningview Village for a couple of weeks of rehab and a diet of beef chunks marinated in gravy.
This afternoon, my assigned task was to take my 89-year-old father-in-law, Raymond, aka Papa, to visit his wife. Simple enough. This would allow my wife, Janet, aka Lil Jan, to get a much-needed break from her duties of caregiving and holding nurses accountable.
We arrived at Morningview, signed in, and said hello to the colorful birds in an enclosure in the lobby. I then led Papa down the hallway, to the left, and into his wife’s room—#214. Unfortunately, she wasn’t there.
“She must be at Physical Therapy,” Papa said.
“No, they took her for dialysis. She’ll be gone for 4 hours.”
I glanced behind the curtain and said hello to Mamaw’s new roommate, Ethel. Or maybe it was Martha. Nice lady.
“Hi, I’m Steve, her son-in-law, and this is her husband, Raymond.”
“Nice to meet you all.”
Papa sat down in the guest chair, and I created another sitting spot by removing some of Mamaw’s belongings from the wheelchair and placing them above the TV.
Papa leaned over and whispered to me, “Dialysis?”
“Never mind her,” I whispered back. “She isn’t all there. I’m no doctor, but you don’t do dialysis for a broken hip.”
We retrieved our reading material and settled in for what we thought would be 15 minutes until Mamaw returned.
After 45 minutes, a concerned Papa said, “It sure is taking a long time. I hope she’s okay.”
I got up and decided to look for her. I asked a nurse, who told me she could be doing PT in the gym on this floor or perhaps in the gym downstairs. After not finding her upstairs, I took the elevator downstairs and looked in the gym there. Nothing. Puzzled, I glanced up and noticed her in a wheelchair entering room #114… her room… a room approximately 14 feet directly below Papa’s location.
I retrieved Papa Raymond from upstairs and got him settled in the correct room next to his wife. Holding her hand, he then asked her the question that had been on both our minds.
Papa Raymond, my 88-year-old father-in-law, will have his second hip replacement surgery of 2021 tomorrow afternoon, on Veterans Day. Later this year, he’ll have eye surgery. You see what he’s up to, right? His plan looks obvious to me. Over the course of the next few years, he’s going to methodically replace all his body parts. He’s going to begin his ninth decade of life with the body of a 20-year-old. His 90th birthday cake will read, “Happy Birthday, Benjamin Button Climer!”
Preparation for tomorrow’s surgery begins at midnight tonight when Papa begins to fast. Wanting his next-to-last meal prior to surgery to be a good one, I made him my specialty: grilled hot dog with cheese and onions, along with a side of mac & cheese. As my cooking skills go, this is high-end. Whenever Big Steve lights the grill or pulls out a saucepan, something special is going down.
Toward the end of lunch, Papa did something he never does… ask for seconds. This is a man who eats like a dieting canary and weighs 138 pounds soaking wet. He never asks for seconds. For that matter, he rarely finishes firsts. So, when he asked to finish off the mac & cheese, we were all stunned.
“Tomorrow’s a big day, a lot going on,” he smiled and said. “Better get my nourishment today.”
Papa is a wise man. This isn’t his first rodeo, nor his first hip replacement. He knows what’s involved. It will be a challenging day, featuring drugs, needles, IVs, hospital food and, if he’s lucky, cute nurses. It all begins with about 15 hours of fasting. For a guy who likes his morning strawberry strudel with coffee, that’s tough. It’s a challenge. It’s a big day, especially for an 88-year-old.
How does he prepare? He loads up on nourishment today. He knows an extra scoop of mac & cheese today will strengthen him for whatever challenges tomorrow brings. This proactive consumption of calories might also make tomorrow’s inevitable 11 a.m. hunger pains a little more manageable.
On this beautiful fall day in Maryville, Papa’s words are now looping in my brain: “A lot going on tomorrow… better get my nourishment today.”
And then I look out on the back porch and see Papa. Like almost every other day of his life, there’s an open Bible in his lap.
I had very little exposure to death as a child. There was the rare funeral for a grandparent or great-grandparent. I heard the occasional announcement from the pulpit that some elderly church member or shut-in had passed. I said goodbye to a couple of family dogs and the occasional, underfed goldfish. But I didn’t lose friends, read obituaries, or keep up with celebrity deaths. Death was rare in my childhood world, and that was alright by me.
All that has changed. An unpleasant aspect of growing older, I’m finding, is an awareness of death. I’ve now said goodbye to my mom, four grandparents, and a great-grandparent. I’ve learned of the deaths of a dozen classmates, about 5% of my high school graduating class, some who tragically took their own lives. The deaths of some of my favorite musicians and actors continue to pile up. I’ve eulogized a few friends from pulpits and sat through a few dozen funeral services. My wife and I even cowrote a book, The Eulogy, partly based on our experience caring for my dying mom.
More recently, we learned of the passing of Michelle Ashby, a long-time family friend, after her courageous, decades-long battle with cancer. She was a marigold lover, and I’ll be planting one of those in our garden today in her honor.
Last Monday, Michael Polutta, another family friend, died from a heart attack at age 58, while out mowing the grass. Just like that, this man of God was gone, at least in the physical sense. He wasn’t “some really old guy,” although my younger readers might argue that 58 is “getting up there.” He wasn’t out of shape—Michael was a fitness nut known for his CrossFit interval training. He wasn’t doing anything reckless. Just a 58-year-old guy out mowing the lawn.
Deaths aren’t increasing, of course, only my awareness of them. Like wrinkles, heartburn, and a few extra pounds, exposure to death is a part of growing up and growing old. As humans, we all have a terminal illness. None of us are getting out of this world alive.
I was blessed to be able to live-stream Michael’s memorial service this past weekend. Heartbroken family and friends gathered. Beautiful hymns were sung. We listened as various friends and family members stood behind the podium to tell Michael’s story. He had an impact on the world—an impact on people, in ways big and small. He loved God and the church. He loved and cared for his wife and children. He was a devoted friend to many. He was a talented musician who built more than a dozen custom guitars. He loved Palmetto Bible Camp and served there for many decades. Michael took the many talents God gave him, along with a capacity to love, and did something incredible with that. He turned the 58 years God granted him into a masterpiece!
The following day, Janet and I sat at the breakfast table, relaying some of the highlights of Michael’s service to her parents. I said something along the lines of, “You know, I don’t really like the whole eulogy system. Who came up with that? People line up at a memorial service to beautifully honor and pay tribute to the deceased, but he or she is already gone. He can’t hear them. I would love for Michael (or Michelle, or anyone who has passed away) to be able to hear the words spoken at their memorials. I want them to appreciate the impact they had on so many people. Why do we wait until they are dead to lay all that out? That’s a messed-up system. I mean, it’s good for their loved ones to hear all those things, but it would be even cooler for the person who died to feel that love and know that impact before they leave this world. There’s got to be a better system.”
Papa Raymond, my 87-year-old father-in-law, sat across from me, listening to my rant while nibbling on his morning strawberry strudel. He was adorned in solid blue, long-sleeved cotton pajamas, with his cane resting against his chair. With the addition of stripes, he would have passed for an elderly prisoner, perhaps incarcerated for the crime of distributing weekly S’mores without a license.
Like Jesus giving a parable, Papa Raymond cleared his throat and dropped this John 12:43 truth bomb on me:
“It’s not about the praise of men. Our goal is to please God.”
Mic drop.
As Papa digested his last bite of strudel, I digested his words.
“The praise of men.”
Isn’t that what we often focus on? Isn’t that what my eulogy system rant was about?
In 1 John 2:16-17, the apostle John writes, “For all that is in the world-the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life-is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.”
The praise of men. The pride of life. To some extent, it affects all of us.
Look at my new big house (or car, or boat, or…)
Have I mentioned my book sales figures lately?
I wonder how many “likes” this social media post or blog will get?
With just the right bikini, in just the right pose, I bet I can go over a million Instagram followers!
Have I not posted a picture of my bulging muscles at the gym recently? Let me fix that.
Pretty sure my casserole was the crowd favorite at the potluck
We’re in Maui! If 200 photos of our adventure aren’t enough, we’ll post more!
Look at our baby/child/teenager/adult and what they accomplished! They’re an honor student! They just got a full ride to college. To help you remember that, I’m getting a bumper sticker!
I’m not knocking all of that. I like to see your vacation photos. I’m happy that your teenager was named Homecoming Queen and glad you shared that. Your green bean casserole was amazing, and you should be proud of it. Sometimes your accomplishments, especially your acts of service, inspire me to be a better person.
What I’m knocking is a tendency by some, or at least by me, to focus more on the praise of men than pleasing God.
I focus more on accomplishing things than living faithfully. As I sip my first cup of coffee in the morning, I rarely ask myself, “What is something amazing I could do for God today?” More often, the focus is on pleasing myself, impressing the boss, satisfying the spouse, or getting the day’s chores accomplished and errands run. God being pleased is too often an afterthought, if thought of at all.
I have no doubt what was most important to Michael and Michelle was not the praise of men, but pleasing God. That’s the kind of people they were. The only words they wanted to hear, and undoubtedly did hear, were, “Well done, good and faithful servant.. Enter into the joy of your lord.”
Today, my father-in-law, Raymond Climer, turned 87. I love this man from the bottom of my heart, as does everyone who knows him. Here are 87 reasons why…
His unique way with words. After he and I recently lost three consecutive games of Hand & Foot to the ladies, he tried to console me by declaring, “Sometimes bad luck runs in squirts.”
His willingness to go with me for a Krystal burger, regardless of the time of day, whether he’s hungry, or any other factors.
The way he sits on the back porch and watches the birds at the feeder, then later recounts to us exactly what went down.
His daily pattern of spending time reading and studying God’s Word. No exceptions. No excuses. He just does it.
How, whenever he’s asked to lead singing, we’re going to hear his favorite song, “He Will Pilot Me.”
His wardrobe which contains only what I would call “dress clothes.” There are no shorts, jeans, or t-shirts, which is what my wardrobe mostly consists of. As a result, his legs have never seen the sun.
The fact that, in the 36 years I’ve known him, and 8 months I’ve lived with him, I’ve never heard him saying an unkind word about anyone. Not one word. If you ever wonder if Papa is talking negatively about you behind your back, I can assure you he’s not.
The way he looks after and protects Shirley, his wife, aka Mamaw. Like an air traffic controller monitoring planes, Papa constantly monitors Shirley’s whereabouts and well-being.
The way he lowers the seat and naps in the Walmart parking lot while the ladies make a “quick” Walmart run.
His off-the-chart gardening skills. The church garden and our backyard garden are evidence that he knows how to plant, cultivate, and harvest a wide range of vegetables.
Green Thumb
How he compares the quality of any restaurant with La Fogata Mexican restaurant in Union, South Carolina. “That’s good salsa,” he’ll say. “But not like La Fogata’s.”
The way he and Mamaw go into their sitting room at night, put on their headphones, and watch shows that almost always feature a horse.
His love for the Atlanta Braves. Plop him in front of a television set with a Braves game on an he’s in his happy place.
The faint, but high-pitched squeal his hearing aids make, especially noticeable in the car. When we ride through our neighborhood, dogs start barking.
The 10-15 minutes he and Mamaw will spend studying and analyzing the menu at a familiar restaurant, like Cracker Barrel, even though they always end up ordering the same thing and splitting it.
His unmatched ability to make the most delicious S’Mores you’ll ever eat, featuring graham crackers, peanut butter, walnuts, marshmallows, and chocolate. If you improperly space any of said ingredients while helping him, he’ll gently remind you of the correct way.
His half-smile when he beats me in a game of basement pool. He always comments on being unable to see across the table on long shots, right before sinking a long shot to win the game.
Showing the girls how it’s done
His willingness to weed the yard for me while I mow. It cuts yardwork time in half.
Weed Wacker
The trash-talking between him and his best friend, Clarence, over who caught the most and biggest fish. He’ll look at one of Clarence’s fish and comment, “You might be able to use that one as bait.”
His ability to put a family, church, or personal issue or concern in a larger context that reminds me that everything is going to be okay.
His love for the Duke Blue Devils. If you want to locate Papa in heaven, he’ll be the guy in the Duke jersey and Atlanta Braves hat.
The precious look on his face when Carolyn, a teenager from our church, showed up outside his window with a birthday sign and bag of goodies.
A special bond between Mr. Raymond and Carolyn
The way he responds to Mamaw when she asks for his opinion on curtain height, television volume, soup temperature, or most other matters. “That’ll be just fine.”
His certainty that Mamaw always gets the good luck and good cards in any board or card game. “I tell you, that Shirl…”
His deep love for small red garden tomatoes.
The way he laughed at me when, the day after planting jalapeno pepper plants, I complained that there were no peppers on the vine.
His unwillingness to get rid of old fishing reels that are no longer serviceable. There’s an expectation that someday, somehow, we’re going to need an old fishing reel with brittle line.
His daily trip to the mailbox, around 2 p.m., to retrieve mail which will most likely contain a personal letter to him from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.
His fascination with Zoom. How do all those people get inside the boxes on the screen?
The look he gave the man who told him it would be $650 to repair his car door handle and tail light. “I think I can fix this myself.”
The look on his face when Mamaw adjusted the speed on his treadmill upward about 80% without warning him.
His 40 years of faithfully preaching the gospel at congregations in Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia.
His ability to please his family (myself excluded) by making a fresh, warm batch of chocolate gravy.
The time I got up the courage to call him to get his permission to propose to Janet, after dating her for four years… “Hello, Mr. Climer?” “Yes, this is him.” “This is Steve.” “Steve who?”
The way he walks around the house at night in his pajamas, with his pajama shirt tucked into his pajama pants, and his pants tucked into his socks…like an old, white Urkel.
The way he sometimes gently challenges the accuracy of something Mamaw says with, “Well, I don’t know about that.”
His uncanny ability to catch crappie by flicking a jig up against a pier under the bridge at Lake Greenwood in South Carolina.
His 10 years of tireless missionary work in India, baptizing more than a thousand people along the way.
How his family thinks he can fix anything, and he usually can…often by applying duct tape and Gorilla Glue.
The way he calls all soda pop “drink.”
The way he uses “carry” instead of “take.” … “Should I carry her some cucumbers?” “I’ll carry you to the store.”
Similarly, he doesn’t get things—he fetches them. Similarly, “over there” is “yonder way.”
His faithfulness in teaching and reaching several hundred people around the world through online Bible correspondence courses.
The way he teared up this morning while recounting his love for Mamaw and the profound impact she had on his life by introducing him to Jesus.
The look on his face when Erika and her family and Valerie and her family showed up recently and served us an amazing lunch. They not only made his day, but lifted all of our spirits.
The time he stored $1000 in cash in his shoes while shopping for a couch, because “a robber wouldn’t think to look in my shoes.”
His certainty that if you press a certain place on one of your thumbs for 45 seconds, you’ll go to sleep within 7 minutes. Where is the location? He doesn’t know.
His 2 years of service to our country in the United States Army.
His tendency to believe that online remedies are true. (He passed this trait onto his youngest daughter.) (The two are convinced that wrapping his body in tin foil will cure his arthritis.) (On the night he does this, I plan to don my full-body Simba halloween outfit and recreate a scene from The Wizard of Oz.)
That he doesn’t avoid social situations/gatherings simply because he doesn’t hear well. He participates in the conversation to the extent that he’s able, and doesn’t worry that he can’t always follow along with what’s being said…and occasionally says things completely out of context.
The way he sometimes changes lanes and only then looks to see if anyone is in that lane.
His consistency in throwing a ball right down the middle and earning a split in Wii bowling.
His fascination with my ability to loudly play YouTube bird calls that match the type of bird that is currently on the feeder.
His complete contentment with a flip phone that is primarily used for one thing: flipping.
The look on his face that time, while dating his daughter, when I opened a bottle of sparkling grape juice on New Year’s Eve and the cork hit the ceiling and left a slight grape juice stain on it.
The occasional toot that can be heard by everyone in the room but himself.
The voracity with which he and Mamaw review, analyze, and take advantage of Hardees and Burger King coupons.
His memorization and recall of applicable Scripture, even at 87.
Although his meals consist of what I would consider tiny portions, he will eat every tomato slice offered to him, regardless of how many.
His deep love and concern for his three daughters and their well-being. Same goes for the rest of the family, but there’s something special about the relationship between this man and his daughters.
With 2 of his 3 girls on Father’s Day
Due to pain levels or general restlessness, how he’ll spend time on a typical night in bed, then on the recliner sofa, and then flat on his back, with his feet propped up on the recliner sofa.
His knack for finding the best in people, and pointing it out to others.
That time we were playing Codenames and I was trying to get him to choose “Agent” and “London” with the clue “James Bond.” His response: “Who’s James Bond?”
More generally, his complete lack of interest in popular culture—music, celebrities, and most current events. He loves God, his family, the Bible, the church, his friends (most especially Clarence), the Braves, the Blue Devils, and gardening. He doesn’t follow or get too worked up about much else. I love that about him.
His typical response to anyone complaining about aging or an ailment: “It doesn’t get any better.”
His deep appreciation for strawberry strudel. The time Carolyn, a church teenager, brought him several boxes of strudel may have been his favorite moment of 2020.
The way he gently couches advice, even on things he knows and feels strongly about, with “You may want to consider…” No one is less bossy.
His love for people, regardless of age, gender, race, or background. He promotes equality not through divisive social media posts or slogans, or by toppling statues, but rather through a long-time relationship with Clarence, his best friend and fishing buddy, who also happens to be African-American.
Papa and Miss Edith enjoying a Krystal burger on her porch
The way he looks people in the eye and gives them his undivided attention when he listens to them.
The time he tried to kill a snake near Clarence’s boat by swinging an oar at it. The snake was unfazed and Clarence suffered only minor injuries.
The time Janet made him and Mamaw a photo book of our RV journey out West, containing both real and photo-shopped photos of them. He’s looked through that book countless times, laughing out loud, and shares it with almost every visitor.
His knack for not looking at the camera whenever a photo is taken of him/us.
Look this way
His faithfulness in visiting and sharing God’s love with residents of nursing homes.
His ability, at 87, to stuff bags of cereal for 3 consecutive hours at Maryville’s Second Harvest Food Bank…or harvest garden vegetables for an hour in 90 degree weather.
Cereal Killer
The time I picked him up and lowered him in my hammock for a book photo shoot. (Someday, I need to retrieve him.)
His concern for his reputation when I made him and Mamaw pose for a picture in front of the Clinch River Tattoo and Coffee shop.
The time he fell in a Hardees parking lot during a pounding rainstorm, then popped up, got in the car and looked at me with a big smile.
His theories on why half of the corn crop at the church garden got knocked over. As best I can tell, it was some combination of wind shear, ornery deer, rabid raccoons, and hungry widows.
His wood-working skills, which he has used to make people bookshelves, quilt racks, and assorted other things.
That, while disciplining his girls during their childhood, he would always start out planning to give them a few soft licks, but would get tickled and be unable to continue.
The time he dressed up as a woman, Ramona, for a Bible Camp skit.
The time I was replacing their bathroom sink plumbing and he was helping me. I took off the sink trap, full of dirty water, handed it to him and asked him to pour it out in the tub. Instead, he poured it out in the sink, dousing my head with dirty water.
The smile on his face when Brad and Jenny Diamond sang a special version of the Birthday Song to him this morning, along with a beautiful rendition of “Father God.”
His tendency to hum around the house throughout the day. We’ve been unable to determine which song he’s humming.
His knack for using almost any interaction with a stranger to encourage them, get to know them, and invite them to church.
How everyone who knows him considers him a “gentle giant.” Those who know him best know this is true, except when he’s losing at cards or any game.
More than anything, his unwavering love for God and desire to please God by the life that he lives. What an example! What an inspiration!
A friend recently asked me how three months of living in an apartment with my in-laws was working out.
“Just fine,” I replied. “We’re all good.”
Later that day, I realized how woefully inadequate my response had been.
“Just fine” is dismissive. “Just fine” is an invitation to end the conversation and move on to something else. “Just fine” doesn’t begin to tell the story.
So, let me tell the story. Not the whole story, of course. It’s still being written. But there’s been enough time in this communal living arrangement to be able to share three lessons I’ve learned:
1. Live Simply.
Have you ever seen an episode of Hoarders? At the end of the show, they conclude with before and after pictures of the family in turmoil. On many levels, my in-laws are the “after” picture. They live uncluttered lives. Their possessions are minimal. Their lives are “cleaned up,” focused, and simple. Beautifully simple. Eight decades of living have given Mamaw and Papa a firm grasp on what brings joy and meaning, and they’ll remind you it’s not stuff. You don’t have to worry about that which you’ve not accumulated.
Quite simply, Papa loves the Duke Blue Devils and the Atlanta Braves. When Duke misses free throws, Papa chirps at the tv screen—“old man chirps” as I like to call them. It’s the cutest thing. He expects a lot out of Coach K’s team, and his enthusiasm is contagious. In fact, he’s got me chirping at the tv and I’m not even a Duke fan!
Papa’s daily routine includes a trip to the mailbox and to empty the garbage. That’s “his job” and I’ve learned not to take it from him. His other job is to keep an eye on his wife. He’s protective of her like a good husband should be.
Mamaw appreciates a good Hallmark movie, especially when she’s able to hear it. She manages the pharmaceutical drawer, a fascinating maze of bottles and prescriptions. She keeps an eye on their next medical appointments and the next meal. I love listening to her and Janet in the kitchen, discussing the art of cornbread or the life expectancy of the leftover lima beans we’ve been hanging on to.
Aside from Duke basketball and being able to hear the television, neither of them gets too worked up over things beyond their control. No political rants on social media. In fact, no social media at all. No getting worked up over things which will pass, as they have before. No staring at their phones or keeping up with texts. But if you need someone to talk to, call and they’ll listen.
My in-laws live peacefully and simply.
Role Models
2. Walk with God.
My in-laws love God and love His church. I’m certain of that. I don’t measure faith merely by church attendance, as some do. That’s part of it, but I’m also curious about how people’s faith leads them to be concerned about and care for others. My in-laws are concerned about the church. They pray for people on the prayer list. They want to know the status of Brother So and So and when we’ll be able to visit him again. They want to relieve pain and suffering in whatever form they find it.
They’re also concerned about those who don’t know God. They regularly correspond with students enrolled in their online Bible correspondence courses. They’re impacting lives not just locally, but thousands of miles away.
In three months, I can’t recall a day in which I haven’t seen an open Bible in their lap. They are in God’s Word daily and their lives reflect that. It’s hard to overstate what daily meditation on God’s Word does to one’s soul.
Being in Christ, Mamaw and Papa have a peace that surpasses all understanding. Papa gets upset about missed free throws and poor draws in a game of Chicken Foot dominoes. And, of course, about lost souls. But not much else. He’ll be concerned, but you won’t see him freak out over a global virus. You don’t have to panic when you know your story ends well.
My in-laws walk with God.
Life’s Simple Things
3. Appreciate S’mores.
About once a week, usually at 9 p.m., Papa emerges from their sitting room and shuffles into the living room. He’s in his gray and green flannel pajamas, with the bottoms tucked into his socks. His shirt is tucked into his pants, which are pulled up to just below his chest. He’s cloaked in a bathrobe that looks like something from the Playboy mansion but probably isn’t. If our apartment is drafty, he’d never know it.
Papa looks up at me and Janet and smiles. We return the smile because we know what he’s about to ask.
“Would you like some S’mores?”
The answer is always an emphatic “Yes!” There is no other possible response to the opportunity to participate in the delectable, layered campfire treat.
For the next 15 minutes, Papa methodically retrieves the pan, graham crackers, peanut butter, marshmallows, walnuts, and chocolate candy bars. With great precision, he carefully lines up the crackers and applies the other ingredients. By the time he’s through, every decorated cracker looks the same.
After a few minutes of baking, Papa shuffles across the living room with our still simmering S’mores. Each one is on a paper towel. Mine is accompanied by a small glass of milk, because he knows I’ll want one.
More than just a delicious weekly snack, the S’mores are symbolic of a Senior Saint bringing joy to the lives of the people he loves. He and his wife have been doing that for a long, long time. When the day comes that we have to make our own S’mores, it will be a sad day indeed. So, appreciate the S’mores in your life, and even more those who provide them. They won’t always be around, you know.
Papa and I recently went to Walmart to get our fishing licenses. He is an avid fisherman and has his eye on some local fishing holes. Thus, fishing license day is a big deal. The clerk asked if he wanted to pay the senior rate of $5 for the year or $50 for a lifetime pass. Wanting him to get the best deal, I did the math.
“Papa, do you think you’ll still be fishing in 10 years, at 96 years of age?”
“Probably not,” he answered. “Let’s go with the annual pass.”
I hope he’s wrong. I hope we get into a school of crappie under the bridge on his 96th birthday.
Setting: December 27th, 2019, 10:00 a.m., apartment complex fitness center, Maryville, TN
[In an effort to keep Raymond & Shirley active and physically fit, Steve and Janet are giving them a fitness center orientation. While Steve, Janet, and Shirley run and walk on the treadmills, Raymond flexes his 86-year-old biceps with the help of some dumbbells. He’s in a long-sleeve, button down shirt and slacks—easily the best dressed person working out today in Blount County. After Steve finishes, he invites Raymond over to the treadmill to walk him through the various functions. Raymond nervously steps onto the running belt.]
Steve: You can “set a goal” with this button, and then set your “time” or “distance” here, and then adjust your “speed” here.
Raymond: Okay.
Steve: If anything goes wrong, you can hit the “Stop” button or pull the string on this shutoff magnet and everything will stop.
Raymond: Good to know.
Steve: Just to get you started, I’m going to put you at 1.5 miles per hour, kind of a casual walking pace.
Raymond: Sounds good.
[Steve adjusts the speed to 1.5 mph and Raymond begins walking, his little legs in perfect rhythm. All is well. Moments later, Shirley ends her workout and walks over to Raymond’s machine. She has a concerned look on her face, not unlike when she first met Steve.]
Shirley: 1.5? That’s not very fast.
Raymond: Just trying it out.
Shirley: I did 2.6 miles per hour over there. You’re not going very fast.
Raymond: I’m fine. Really.
Shirley: You’re barely moving. Let me adjust you upward a bit, at least to a 2.
[I admire a woman who wants to bring out the best in her man.]
Raymond: I don’t know about that.
[With Steve looking on and Raymond grimacing, Shirley reaches for the speed button. Rather than tap it incrementally, she presses firmly and holds it down. The machine responds. In fact, in approximately 1.5 seconds, Raymond is launched down the spinning belt to a speed of 6.5 miles per hour! With everyone looking on in shock and horror (most especially, Raymond), Steve glances down in time to see Raymond’s legs churning like the Roadrunner’s, just as Wile E. Coyote is about to munch down on him.]
Raymond (in the closest he will ever come to an expletive): Shirl!
Janet: Momma!
Steve: Poppa!
[With a disaster unfolding before our eyes, and Raymond catapulting down the belt, Steve reaches for the emergency shutoff magnet with his right hand, while his left hand reaches for the backside of Raymond’s trousers. Steve jerks the magnet. Suddenly everything stops as Raymond regains his balance. The room is still and awkwardly quiet.]
Setting: November 27, 2019; apartment complex breezeway, Maryville, Tennessee
Narrator: Today’s the day. An idea that’s been contemplated for the past 18 months will finally come to fruition. Steve and Janet are about to welcome Janet’s parents, Raymond and Shirley, into their home. For good. Well, sort of. This Thanksgiving weekend visit comes two weeks prior to their official arrival and move in. They’re here now just to check out their new digs and begin the settling process. New doctor. New bank. New church family. Most importantly, they want a new, power, dual-reclining, catnapper loveseat with center console. When you’ve lived 8+ decades, your furniture opinions are as firm as a ball of play-dough left out of its Tupperware overnight.
Steve: Welcome home! Be careful with the steps. There are 19 of them.
Shirley: Janet said there was 15.
Steve: We’re off by 4. That doesn’t surprise me. How was your trip?
Raymond: Rained buckets. But we’re here. Only got lost once.
Janet: You should use that GPS system we got you a few years ago.
Raymond: It’s in the glove compartment.
Steve: They don’t work as well in there.
Shirley: We don’t really use GPS. Clarence printed us a map.
{After a quick apartment tour, the four settle in the living room.}
Janet: After lunch, the plan is to go by Eddie’s office, then get you set up at the bank, then furniture shop.
Steve: You use a local bank? I haven’t stepped foot inside a bank in 25 years. Have you thought about mobile banking? We do everything, even apply for loans, just using our phone.
Shirley: We’re not comfortable with mobile banking. Don’t really trust it. Our phones aren’t smart. We like banking in person with a teller or someone across from us.
Raymond: But we’re ready to make a furniture purchase.
Steve: Oh, yeah?
Raymond: Yeah, we sold the old pickup truck.
Shirley: And our cemetery lots.
Steve: Where are we supposed to put you when you die?
Shirley: We decided to be cremated and have our ashes put together in an urn.
Steve: I figured Raymond would want his ashes spread under the bridge in South Carolina where he and Clarence fish.
Raymond: That’s an option?
Shirley: You don’t want those crappie eating your ashes.
Steve: Revenge of the crappie.
{Three hours later, after visits to the bank, the doctor’s office, and two furniture stores, the four are at Farmer’s Furniture. Shirley is lying horizontal on a power catnapper with a salesman hovering over her.}
Shirley: I think this is the one. I like the catnapper.
Raymond: Are you sure? Is it comfortable, Shirley?
Steve {under his breath}: It is comfortable…and don’t call her Shirley.
Shirley: Yes, this one will do.
Janet: When they can’t sleep at night, which is often, they move to their loveseat.
Salesman: I understand. This is one of our most popular models. Comes with the spring headrest, memory foam, and a 1-year warranty. We can give you the Black Friday price today and have it delivered this afternoon.
Shirley: We’ll take it.
Salesman: If you’ll step over here we’ll do the paperwork.
Raymond: I need to go to the bathroom.
Shirley: You just went.
Raymond: For the money.
Steve: Your money’s in the bathroom?
Raymond: It’s in my shoe.
Steve: Say what?
Raymond: When I sold the old truck, the guy paid me cash. And I didn’t want to put it in my wallet, in case we got robbed. So, I put it in my shoe.
Steve: You put the cash in your shoe?
{Raymond smiles.}
Steve: Banks are overrated.
Shirley: Raymond told me, “In case I die, take my shoes off before they cremate me.”
Janet: So why do you need to go to the bathroom?
Raymond: To get the money. I don’t want to take my shoes off in the store.
Steve: Because department store bathrooms are more hygienic. I get it now.
Raymond: You ever do that? Put cash in your shoe?
Steve: Nah, I’m not really comfortable with mobile banking.
