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.
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.
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.
That would be just fine.
