When You Start to Feel Old

After church, I'm chopping vegetables to add to my pasta sauce, and I remember my garden.  I haven't harvested in weeks because the season's over.  The peppers are surely past their prime, so why bother?  Those peppers are old, withered, and done.  

It's cold outside.  The leaves are changing.  The garden is no more. 

But something nags at me to check the garden just in case.  I run out into the crisp fall air, doubtful. 

End-of-Season Garden Peppers

Then, I get the camera.   


Whoever said a season's over or that something (or someone) is past her prime hasn't seen my peppers.

These Peppers Still Blossom in Old Age

I'm out there, knee deep in glorious peppers, and I'm laughing about all the hope out here in my garden.  I recall the verse in Psalm 92 about folks "planted in the house of the Lord."  The psalmist writes: "They will still bear fruit in old age. They will stay fresh and green."

And these peppers aren't finished.  They still blossom!  They still send out new leaves!  Defiant!  Prolific!  

Living with flair means I know nobody's too old or past her prime.  Things can happen and hope can live no matter what season, no matter what age, and no matter how long it's been.

Stick with Them

Our One-Eyed Cat

A year ago, we brought home a sick cat with one eye.  Remember how he didn't purr, and then, after months of loving him, that deep, rich purr flowed out of him?  We tell the story of "How Jack Got His Purr Back," and we stay inspired to love what seems unlovable.  I mean look at him:  one eye, an injured mouth, and a tail that doesn't hang right.  He's a mess.  He's falling apart. 

But we fell in love with him.

Two days ago, our strange little cat looks at us and makes tiny, almost indiscernible yelping sounds.  Then they seem to get louder.  Then they turn into these little barks.

"What's Jack doing?"  we all ask.

"I think he's trying to meow," my husband says.  And then it happens.  He stands before us in the kitchen, regal and proud, and lets out his first full meow.  

The One-Eyed-Cat that nobody loved and who couldn't even purr is now meowing.  

Beautiful Cat

Last night, he curled up on the couch, and I thought of where he came from and where he is now.  We didn't give up on him. 

It took a year of love, and by golly, that cat found his voice.

Living with flair means I don't give up on people.  I don't give up on myself.  It may take a year to find your voice.  It might take longer.  But here, come sit beside me.

My one-eyed cat's meow came at the right time.  I'm impatient with my children, my students, and even myself.  Sometimes people are a mess.  They fall apart.  But stick with them; their voice is in there somewhere.

So Jack found his meow.  And now, he's tired of me taking pictures of him.  This photo definitely says: OK, stop now.

The Ache You Need

My little one's molar has been hurting her for months.  She's already had a root canal (we definitely needed to invoke the Bad Day Mantra on that day), and still, the tooth pain won't relent.  Yesterday, the dentist prescribed an antibiotic to ward off infection.

"But we can't pull that tooth," he explains in his office.  My daughter listens, wide-eyed.  "That tooth is a space-maker, a place-holder.  If you pull it, every other incoming tooth will crowd toward that space, and her mouth will really be in trouble.  Nothing new will come in right.  I'd like to keep that tooth there for as long as we can."

I nod.  The little one nods.   

"It's about timing," he says.  "I can pull it, but then we'd have to design a spacer for her mouth, and it won't ever be as great as what God made naturally."

I smile.  He's talking Dentist Theology now. He tells me it's often normal for molars to ache while the new teeth underneath emerge.  Just wait.  A good thing is happening. 

The sore molar as a "place holder" to keep everything in line, to make things work as they should, stayed with me the whole day and into the night.  That troubling sore point in my life--whatever it is--might just be the place holder to keep things right until the new thing comes.  Could I begin to see those dark years as space-makers and place-holders that ushered in present joy in the right space, at the right time?  

The ache keeps things aligned.  It makes a space I need.