Recently, I talked with a friend about her exploration of living facilities for when she’s unable to stay alone in her home. She’s a few years older than me, but now that I’m seventy, I’m much more aware of planning ahead for the future. She described the “difficult conversation” with her son and all the little decisions that have to be made to make the big decision. I’m still in disbelief that I’m as old now as when Mama, “Grandma Rosser” and “Gang-Gang” aka Mary Dell Riddle (don’t ask me how she got that name!) came to our home to see their grandchildren.

I guess my age is more obvious to my sons than it’s been to me, as they make comparisons between me and their grandmothers: “Do you still watch the SOAPS, Mom?” something I haven’t done in years but Gang-Gang held onto until the end. “Your house is hot, Mama, like Grandma Rosser’s used to be.”

After one of these conversations where I felt the impact of aging, I thought about Mama. I asked her once what had been her favorite age. This was when she was in her late sixties, long before we saw the beginning of her dementia.

“Every age has good things,” she responded, without hesitation.

Mama had never been a worrier and I’d never heard her make any negative comment about growing older. She was fortunate to be able to live in her own home until she was 89. Those last years there, her dementia which was diagnosed when she was 80, increased and she had to eventually have round-the-clock sitters. In August of 2012, it became clear that we could no longer maintain her safely in her home. We’d all dreaded that day when she’d need to move to a nursing facility

I’d just returned from my Solo Journey to Assateague Island National Seashore which includes Chincoteague Island. While I was there, a song by Matt Redmond, “Never Once” made a big impact on me. The chorus stayed with me: “Never once did we ever walk alone, Never once did you leave us on our own, You are faithful, God, You are faithful.”

On the day my sisters and I were to meet and take Mama to Parkview, I listened to “Never Once” on my drive that was filled with tears. While they were moving Mama into her room, I went to the front desk to sign all the papers. Standing there, I noticed an index card with a handwritten Bible verse that had been taped to the wall. I was familiar with the verse but it seemed strange to read it in a nursing home:

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11 NIV

How can Mama prosper here? I questioned. What kind of hope can you have in a place like this that some people refer to as a “dumping ground”? Over the days that followed, Mama gradually got used to her new home and actually seemed to enjoy living in a group setting. Maybe it felt like living in the dormitory housing at Pope Field when she was a civil servant during WWII. She’d always been very social, talkative and friendly. When I pushed her in her wheelchair down the halls of Parkview, she’d smile and reach out her hand to the other residents, commenting “That’s a lovely blouse you have on,” or complimenting their door decorations. Over time she was less able to communicate but still interacted with her warm smile.

In the almost eight years that Mama lived at Parkview, we saw ways that her life, and our lives, were blessed by the staff and residents we encountered.

When she died at 96 yr.old in April of ’20, she had experienced a “future” at Parkview beyond what we could have imagined,

I know Mama wouldn’t want me to worry about my future, about growing old, about where I will be living and who will render my care. She lived a very full life and had no regrets; she’d want the same for me. Her faith in God sustained her through all her days and helped her to see the good in life — in all its stages.

So for now, I’ll follow Mama’s example and not be afraid of difficult conversations or situations I can’t predict. There’s a plan for my life and it will unfold as it’s supposed to.

My wish for you in whatever phase of life you’re in, is that you’ll see the good in it and look with hope to your future.

Best to you,

Connie