The Counsel of the Years

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

For some reason, my columns seem to be getting a little more philosophical lately. I’m not sure why that is, other than as people get older, they probably consider the spiritual and emotional areas of life more. The awesome paper you’re reading right now has always given me free reign in my subject matter here, and for that I will always be grateful.

So, I sit at the computer every other week and write about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes the subject might be on the humorous side; sometimes it is quite serious. I am not a trained literary or writing expert, for which I am very thankful. I do what I do because I just love expressing my thoughts through writing.

 I am just like you, and I believe that is the key to this column’s success. People often come up to me on the street and thank me for some little thing I wrote that touched their heart or made them laugh. They always say how they identify with my thoughts here, which is a great honor to me. My secret is that we really are much alike, all of us, and have similar experiences in life.

So, this week, here is what I’d like to share with you. A friend once told me that the older we get the closer our emotions get to the surface. Boy, what a statement of truth that is. He said that to me many years ago, and even then, a heartfelt piece of music or emotional story would affect me greatly. These days a few words of God’s truth spoken in a Sunday morning sermon or a hug from one of my grandkids can turn this old curmudgeon into Jim Carrie’s Grinch as he sobbingly states: “And I’m leaking.”

We lost a lifelong friend last week. He was eighty-seven and terribly ill, but such realities didn’t strike me until, as I watched, one moment he was with us… and the next instant he no longer was. The tide of emotion for me at that moment was almost more than I could stand. I have since thought some of those emotions through and believe that my reactions were in the incredulity of what had happened. My life seems so steady, so ongoing that I know I don’t realize how much ‘ongoing’ there has been. Other than for a few aches and pains and lack of ambition, I don’t feel much different from when I was in my forties. (Actually, I lacked ambition back then too, I think.) We have lived in our home for so many years it seems like nothing will ever change… then I look in the mirror and realize just how much they already have. Oh well.

I hesitate to use this quote here, but I have always liked the honesty of it. In the movie Space Cowboys, an aging ex-astronaut, after being asked to do one more mission, casually states, “Everybody seems to be dead lately.” Well, the older I get, the more things do seem that way. My generation is quickly becoming the ‘old folks’ of the world. Those middle age ‘40s I referred to are getting pretty distant in the rear-view mirror these days.

But that’s all okay. In fact, that’s the way things are supposed to be. One of my favorite poems is the long and instructional “Desiderata,” meaning ‘desired things’ by Max Ehrmann ©1927. One of its best admonitions reads as follows: “Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”  It’s not easy, but I’m trying my best to do just that.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

My brother-in-law, Art, is a great man. A retired, successful physician, Art has always been a very caring person who did well by his patients and still studies and seeks out treatments for people he knows are in medical need. His caring nature has helped our family in many ways over the years.

Art and my sister Barb moved to Florida years ago and have enjoyed their life together there.

In recent years Barb has become Art’s main medical concern, even over his own health issues. As I write this my dear sister is in a very real battle with a well-known, debilitating, and sinister disease. Art is doing absolutely everything humanly possible to help her enjoy her life.

Earlier in the summer Lorna and I had the opportunity to briefly visit Art and Barb in Florida. It was a difficult visit in some ways, but an important one for us to make. Through it we witnessed just how hard my sister’s husband is working to make her life everything it can be, for as long as he is able. I believe that his efforts are nothing short of heroic, and I have expressed that to him.

As we were saying our goodbyes that day, Art, Lorna, and I stood beside our cars with tears building and words hard to find. My heroic brother then said something I have yet to forget, and hope I never do. He simply said, “I’m on a journey.”

It was unusual that we had driven down to Florida this time, for this visit with them and the wedding of our grandson, Noah. Florida is not around the corner from Vermont, as you know, and I had many hours to think on our way home. I thought a lot about Art’s words, which I consider to be profound in meaning.

The thought occurred to me, and has never left me, that I am also on such a journey, as are you. A journey is a series of events, of experiences, of people and places, and none of this journey, including its length,  is a certainty. Indeed, we have not been promised even tomorrow. We are given only today to live ‘today,’ and that is enough.

Our trip up to Vermont from Florida that week was not done all at once; obstacles were avoided, thankfully, but there were slowdowns and difficult traveling at times. These things were all taken one at a time, as they came.

Such also is our mutual journey through life. Today is the only part of this journey that we have, for sure, and we can never see what might be around the next corner. For this reason, I believe that we should travel cautiously. I also believe that we should make every effort to help others along the way, and also to enjoy the ride.

Thank you, Brother Art, for your wisdom and all you do.