Through Elderly Eyes

While the young will go down in history known as the "COVID-19 generation," the elderly will go down as the most vulnerable affected by the pandemic. Why? Because it's been, by far, the toughest, deadliest on them.

How would you see the world around you if you were to look through the eyes of an elderly person? 

Behind the face of an elderly is a life well-lived, a life that has contributed much to society, a life that deserves love and affection and respect, a life that has — in many cases — survived the devastation of war as well as the Great Depression, and, unfortunately for some, a life that's known the heartache of having to outlive their child/children. 

Ingrained in parts of society, whether intentionally or unintentionally, is the notion that elderly people are "has-beens." And because of "old age," this shadow of disdain sends out the message that they aren't valued like they should be. Sadly, the situation has gotten much worse throughout COVID. 

"It's an old person's disease." 

"That person was old; they were going to die soon anyway." 

I've heard/read statements like these many times since the onset of the pandemic.  

None of us know what the future holds. To be elderly isn't a death sentence. Meaningful relationships don't diminish with age. On the contrary, in my twenty-five-year career working with the elderly (as they shared stories of days gone by), I'd often seen a sparkle in their eye that implied a past life of freedom and agility.

 

This time of year draws me back to the Sears Christmas Annual Seniors Event, which I was blessed to participate in for many years. It was a heart-warming experience that brought many family and friends together before the holiday rush, an entertaining night out in the lives of the elderly, who might have otherwise felt forgotten if it wasn't made possible by the many dedicated volunteers. 

As busloads were brought in from nursing homes in the surrounding areas, the event would kick off with a bit of shopping for loved ones, stopping along the way to enjoy some yummy holiday treats and a chit-chat, followed by the enjoyment of a local band's rendition of some well-known Christmas carols. 

I'll never forget the magic at the singalongs: From the clapping of hands to the stomping of feet to the footloose and fancy-free dancing, I watched in awe as the elderly stole the show. Perhaps, for some, it was a flashback to their youth, and for others, perhaps it was a time away from their loneliness. Whatever the case might have been, they were living in the moment. Right there in the Sears department store! And it was breathtaking to watch. 

I can't help but wonder now, with Christmas fast approaching and the new Omicron variant on the rise, if the elderly are grappling with how the holidays will look for them, leaving them even more susceptible to the "holiday blues?" 

Thankfully, the benefits of technology such as Facetime and Skype give some ( like my in-laws) a sense of connection with loved ones. 

But the significant impact on their overall mental health caused by the pandemic can't be replaced with Facetime and Skype. Likewise, the day-to-day recreational activities enjoyed with friends can't be replaced with Facetime and Skype. Nor can the face-to-face interactions with friends dropping by to reassure them that they aren't alone in these trying times. No. Instead, the lack of touch and interaction with family and friends (especially family) has left them feeling disengaged and cut off from the world they'd once known. 

 I know we are living in challenging times, but if possible, let's find ways to enrich an elderly person's life by giving them the gift of time amid all the hustle and bustle this year. It costs nothing. It asks for nothing in return. Only that we show up and be present with our presence — in whatever medium available. 

                                             Merry Christmas. Stay Safe.

The Panoramic View of the Human Forest

I've been guilty (and still am at times) of getting caught up in capturing a quick photographic moment rather than looking at the bigger picture in the album of life. Quieting my mind and contemplating the more panoramic view isn't always easy, and I know I'm not alone here. 

 

It's been our second fall season living on the East Coast. Nothing has been more breathtaking or awakened my soul like the scenic view of leaves changing colors. There were many days when nature beckoned me to come outside, to capture the beauty of God's creation — something I'd taken for granted for much of my adult life. 

Fall has become bittersweet for me in the last few years, though. As the transformation of colors gives way to, what can be, the dreariness of winter, the withered leaves falling to the ground bring with it an emptiness that triggers my seasonal depression. While life may appear perfect on the outside, there are days when the internal battle paints a much different picture. 

 I know my situation is far from rare. And I know every situation is unique. But since moving to NB, being out in nature has been one of the best coping mechanisms. Not only that. Being out in nature has helped dampen the pandemic's effects on my overall well-being. It's why I wholeheartedly believe that discovering coping mechanisms is crucial in helping us span the gap to a brighter, more panoramic picture moving forward. 

 A few weeks ago, on a rainy, windy, dreary Sunday afternoon, I was lounging in my living room sipping coffee, transfixed on the densely wooded area in our backyard, amazed at how the natural world interacts. 

Observing the insistent blustery winds sway the different types of trees back and forth, I pulled my warm, cozy blanket up to my chin, closed my eyes, and listened to the hypnotic sound of the rain and wind as my mind drifted back to what our lives were like pre-pandemic. 

The trees are hugging one another tightly out there, without the barrier of social distancing, I thought. Before we were forced into lockdowns, before we were forced to social distance, we were part of the human forest. We were but another tree blowing in the wind, unmasked and unafraid to interact, for the most part, anyway. 

I don't know about you, but I long to be a part of the human forest again. Even though I'm an introvert by nature, I miss the freedom of human connections. 

Unfortunately, the pandemic has proven to span a few too many seasons for most of us, taking its toll on our positivity and patience. Truth be known. We all want our social lives back. Because to be together is inherently human, and besides, feeling less alone is always good for the soul.

I mean, even the biblical writer John preferred to meet face-to-face, without barriers or social distancing. "I have much to write to you, but I do not want to use paper and ink. Instead, I hope to visit you and talk with you face to face, so that our joy may be complete." ( 2 John 1:12). 

I can imagine the face-to-face interactions John spoke of lifted the spirits of all who gathered.

And we, too, as believers, can take solace. Because whether we are shedding leaves of human struggles or embracing life's beauty, Christ, The Tree of Life, observes the more panoramic view. He observes our every tear and joyous moment; he molds us through all life seasons and assures us that the leaves of joy will return. 

My prayer is that the pandemic will soon become a distant picture in the album of life, replaced by lessons learned, creating a more panoramic view of the human forest, where we are unmasked and unafraid to interact — with both stranger and friend alike — lifting one another as God intended, so that our joy may be complete in Him.

       

COVID-19 Related Grief/Thanksgiving

We've been living in a time of extreme uncertainty and loss, with varying degrees of COVID-related restrictions, pausing life as we know it.

More than a year and a half later, many of us are now fully vaccinated. Yet while some sense of balance has returned, a new variant always seems to loom on the horizon, spiking anxiety and fear, causing hope to diminish once again.

There is a common thread that's bound us together throughout COVID: it's called grief. We have all been touched by it in some capacity or another. Whether we realize it or not, we have all experienced collective grief due to losses. 

While losing a loved one is an irreplaceable, incomparable kind of loss, there have been intangible losses in the pandemic that may have also triggered grief, such as the loss of a job, the loss of a business, the loss of human touch, the loss of wedding plans, the loss of freedom, the loss of hope ... any loss that's valuable to you, needs to also be recognized and acknowledge and mourned in its own unique way.  

But perhaps you have felt (or others have made you feel) that your loss or losses seemed minor or insignificant compared to what others have endured, so you retreated your feelings, you soldiered on and downplayed them because you felt that they weren't grief-worthy, that they weren't valid.

When we sold our Ontario home (in July 2020) and moved to New Brunswick, it brought much change, and those who know me know that I don't adapt well to change. So there were days when my anxiety was heightened, days when I'd cry because I missed my family and friends, days when I just felt concerned about the future. And, let's face it, COVID wasn't a time to socialize and meet new people(and it still isn't).

Consequently, I held back from expressing myself because I felt selfish. I thought: What right do I have to complain when the world is reeling in so much pain and sorrow, when people are losing loved ones, Every. Single. Day. 

Yes, what I was feeling was minor compared to what others were experiencing, but my point is: it doesn't mean my feelings were invalid. 

Nor are your feelings invalid. 

The fact remains: It's been a challenging year and a half. We have all (including the children) been changed by this pandemic in some way or another. On any given day, it has gripped us with fear, anxiety, loneliness, depression, sadness... leaving many forever scarred and likely in mourning for years to come. 

Even though not foolproof, being vaccinated has undoubtedly given some of us a new sense of normalcy, but let's not take for granted what COVID has (and still is) taking from us and that grief is real and personal.

"Give thanks in all circumstances." The Apostle Paul's profound words have never been more crucial as we struggle through pandemic fatigue. So my question is, entering into the fourth wave, with our second Thanksgiving in upheaval, can we find it in our hearts to give thanks? Are we able to go around our table at Thanksgiving, even amid our difficult circumstances, even in the deep agonizing grief and anxiety and fear that we may be feeling, and find something to give thanks for? 

I am thankful to be in a family that supports one another through life's struggles. But as I reflect on the last year and a half, my heart floods with thankfulness for the community family of essential workers who have worked tirelessly to provide the best possible support and care for us. 

And also for the vaccine researchers who have worked long, grueling hours to give us another layer of protection. Because of your diligence, after two long years of being apart, Derick and I were able to safely spend time in Newfoundland visiting family this summer. 

Understandably, many feel despair in turbulent times like these, but we must keep hope alive.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

May God bless you and keep you safe. 

The Power of Holding Space for Ourselves and Others

Many of us have done the painstaking work of "holding space," without even being familiar with its term. We have walked beside others in their pain without judgment, without trying to fix or change their situation. Instead, we've allowed them to be seen, heard, and acknowledged exactly as they are. And it's the most powerful gift we could have given them in my books. 

You may be thinking, "Holding space seems like a big undertaking, one that may be difficult for me to do." Yes, it isn't always easy to set aside our own emotions and give someone our undivided attention because most of us are hardwired to fix things. So rather than to just "let someone be in pain," our natural instinct is to swoop in and try and lessen the pain, to provide some kind of relief from it, or offer a solution to their problem.

However, the thing I've learned through my own self-care journey is this: Even with all of our good intentions — even with our kind and compassionate heart, we can't heal someone from emotional pain by rescuing them from it. Inner pain can only be healed when it has a safe space to be expressed and held. 

Why is it so much easier to hold space for others rather than for ourselves, though? Because I believe that to sustain and hold space effectively, we first need to learn how to hold space for ourselves and be vulnerable with our emotions, lest we risk emptying our own empathy tank.

For years, I lost myself in meeting the needs of others. Yet, to be vulnerable was something I was unwilling to do. I feared intimacy, which was intertwined with my fear of vulnerability. To be vulnerable meant allowing people into my world. Nevertheless, at the root of it all, what I feared the most was rejection and abandonment.

Let me take you back to my childhood, if you will. I was just five years old when my nine-year-old brother died. I recall how, night after night, I'd lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying. No one acknowledged my fears back then, nor was I given the space to express them. I say this not to place blame on anyone. But growing up in an era where grief was hush-hush, where children were considered too young to know about death, I did the only thing I knew to do: I froze my emotions, and, in turn, my five-year-old self became trapped in a traumatic time capsule.

I evolved as an adult. I married a wonderful man, raised two beautiful children, had a great career. But I'd this internal struggle, a restlessness, a deep inner void that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So I immersed myself in meeting the needs of others because, for one, it gave me a sense of love and belonging; and two, it made me feel worthy and valued.

I learned in therapy some years ago that, even though I'd evolved as an adult, the five-year-old child (me) remained stuck in my subconscious mind. Consequently, I'd gone through much of my adult life protecting and sheltering her from being hurt again. 

Essentially my emotional healing involved opening a time capsule of emotions to set my inner child free, a slow process of nurturing and holding a safe space for her to acknowledge and process her emotions. This life-changing, cathartic experience has given me a more profound sense of compassion and empathy to hold space not only for myself but for others as well.

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Thank you!

Joyce

The Art of Breadmaking

Experts say our sense of smell is one of the most powerful senses we have and can evoke memories or emotions. Perhaps that explains why I feel an "aha!" moment of nostalgia whenever the aroma of bread baking fills the air. 

Homemade bread wasn’t only a food staple growing up but also the cheapest, practical way to feed our large family of fourteen, and my mother baked it practically every other day. She never used a recipe. She knew from memory the exact ingredients to use. Her skill, timing, and practice (in my book) made her one of the best bread makers of all time.

As a little girl, I'd often watched my mother take a large pan of flour and transform it into a big doughboy. Her hands, I can still see her hands. They never seemed to tire as she kneaded and folded and punched the dough, repeatedly sprinkling it with flour until it became less sticky and made a cracking, whistling sound.

A couple hours later, the dough would be spilling out over the edges of the bread pan, requiring to be kneaded down for a second rising before being placed in pans. I recall how during each kneading process, my mother would give the doughboy a big slap. "That's for good luck! " she'd say with a smirk.

One of my all-time favorite memories was coming home from school to the aroma of freshly-baked bread. As the smell lured me into the kitchen, I'd cut off a thick slice, slather it with molasses, slump onto the couch and savor every bite before sneaking back to get another piece.

Toutons, known as fried dough, were also a big part of my childhood. On bread-making days, my siblings and I would often arrive home from school for lunch to fried toutons. They'd be piled high in the oven, and as Mom placed some on our plates, we'd drizzle them with molasses. They were so finger-licking good!

My mother's homemade bread was also used to make hot bread and milk poultice, a natural remedy for drawing out infections. I witnessed this when my older sister stepped on a rusty nail, causing an infection. My mother made a poultice, wrapped it in a cloth, and once cooled enough, she placed it on my sister's foot (twice a day) until the infection was gone.

As I got older, somewhere around ten, I became eager to learn the art of break-making. "Want to try!" my mother asked one day as she lowered the big pan of flour down onto a chair within my reach. Her eyes gleamed as she placed one of her aprons on me. I’ve never forgotten how patiently she demonstrated the rhythm required to work and knead the dough. Nor have I forgotten the art of bread making.

In fact, I look back with fond memories of upholding the bread-making tradition with my own daughter and how she used to hover over the bread pan when she was just a little girl. Wide-eyed, she’d watch me turn a pan of flour into a big doughboy, and we'd both laugh as I slapped the dough. Your Nanny Lambert said it's for good luck, I'd tell her.

Today the traditional bread-making pleasure is all but forgotten and replaced with a bread maker or fast-rising yeast. It saves time kneading the dough, after all. Life has gotten a lot faster since my growing-up days, so I can certainly understand why people don't have the time to set aside five hours to make bread "the old fashion way."

While I don't make homemade bread much anymore, when I do, I still like to make it from scratch because it's a memory that lives on in me from my mother, a memory I carry close to my heart, a moment in time that I will always treasure.

How about you? Do you have fond memories of your mother's homemade bread? Or perhaps there are other family traditions that you hold near and dear to your heart? 

How Grief Almost Destroyed Our Marriage —Thirty-Four Years Later

Grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly steals from us; it governs our lives in unexpected ways — especially in the death of loved ones. But whether it's a divorce, an illness, a job loss, a betrayal, injustice ... every loss we experience has some form of death attached to it.

August 25, 1987, is a day I will never forget. It's the day my mother suddenly died. It's the day life threw me a massive curveball, shattering my world into a million pieces as shock and numbness and disbelief engulfed my body.

In the aftermath of my mother's passing, it was as if time had stood still. I didn't shed the tears that grief required. I was too consumed with the what-ifs, the should-haves, the going back and forth between anger, blame, and guilt: angry because my mother had left me, guilty for not spending more time with her, and blame for not seeing the warning signs that she was ill.

The tension between Derick and me gradually began to crumble our five-year marriage. I'd put barriers around the world that once made sense, a world that left me shattered and confused. And as grief continued to sap my energy, solitude became my best friend. Yet, I somehow found the strength to get out of bed each day and care for our two children, then ages four years and five months.

It'd been over a year since my mother's death the night one of our BIG fights broke out — the straw that broke the camel's back in our marriage. "Joyce, If you don't seek help, I am leaving you. I can't handle your anger and mood swings anymore. You aren't the same person I married," my husband said through welled-up eyes. 

I was dumbstruck by Derick's words. I shouldn't have been. I mean, we'd stopped communicating. I didn't even consider that he, too, was grieving my mother's loss, compounded with the loss of our relationship. Nor did I realized how much grief was changing me. The only thing I knew was that I was in deep emotional pain, and when Derick couldn't soothe that pain (and believe me, he tried), I'd lash out at him for not caring, for not understanding. 

In short: Derick's words jarred me into seeking help to mourn my mother's loss that fateful night, and in turn, our marriage began to heal. But my understanding of grief and loss back then was only a "skim over" compared to the deep inner work I've done on grief and loss in the last ten years.

Grief is a personal journey. We all grieve differently because we all experience things differently. And while grief isn't linear or tied to a specific timeline, my experiences have taught me that, for our bodies to heal, grief does need to be heard; grief does need to be felt.

Having grown up in an era where crying was a sign of weakness, where culturally we were taught to be strong, to keep our emotions private, I was ill-equipped to allow grief in or even know how to process the pain of losing my mother because I was still trying to be that strong little girl of my youth.

Still today, there appears to be a gloominess associated with grief and loss in our culture, a clumsiness that causes us to turn away from our emotional pain, forcing us to squash it down as if it doesn't exist rather than embracing the discomfort of it. Until it becomes intolerable, that is. Until it begins to wreak havoc on our well-being and blocks our ability to fully embrace life. 

I am not saying that we ever have to be okay with the curveballs this life throws at us. Life is terrible and unfair sometimes. What I am saying is this: The transformation that comes from being present with our pain, from transforming our grief into growth, far outweighs the repercussions of remaining stuck in grief, of closing our heart off to it. 

Rest assured, if we do this, if we allow grief to have its way with us, we will find peace again, we find joy again, we find laughter again, and we will find a way to live away from our "old normal" and live into our "new normal," with our loved ones forever embedded in our heart. 

On April 10th, Derick and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary! It seems inconceivable now that, thirty-four years ago, unresolved grief and emotional pain were the driving forces that almost wrecked our marriage because grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly stole from me and governed my life in unexpected ways. I shudder to think what my life would have looked like had I not chosen to  heal.

Childhood Memories in Rrual Newfoundland

Since moving to New Brunswick last year, its rugged natural beauty has transformed me back into an outdoorsy woman. 

Living near the ocean and seemingly endless hiking trails has offered an escape from the isolation that COVID (at times) represents. And being a part of our grandchildren's bubble has blessed Derick and I immensely. 

I am not sure if it's the similar terrain, the ocean air, or the familiar culture, but whatever it is, it often triggers the floodgates of memory, transporting me back to the Newfoundland of my youth. It's incredible how life looks once our heart is healed because it allows us to gaze through a prism, once clouded by negativity. 

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, with my eight sisters and five brothers, in a secluded village along the rugged coast of Newfoundland, definitely had its share of hardships. But life was much simpler back then. We'd the freedom to explore, take on new adventures, and allow our imaginations to run wild.

I was the second oldest girl of fourteen children. Perhaps that's why I became somewhat of a mother hen to my younger siblings, for a brief moment in time, anyway. 

In the summer months, somewhere around the age of ten or eleven, with lunch bag in hand, I'd take on the responsibility of trekking through the woods en route to what was called "Blue Rock," a secluded swimming hole area. 

Time wasn't of the essence. The only stipulation was we'd return home before supper. I guess some would consider it neglect by today's standards; however, we grew up faster in those days, often out of necessity. Besides, there were other families at the swimming hole, and we all kinda looked out for one another.

My husband definitely took on more responsibility back in his growing-up days as well. At eleven years old, he and his thirteen-year-old brother not only learned how to build their own lobster traps but awoke at four am, headed out on the Atlantic ocean, by themselves, in some pretty rough conditions at times, I might add. And after they had hauled their traps, they would return home in time for school.

Derick looks back with fond memories and appreciates how it helped mold his adult work ethic. But can you imagine allowing your young boys to do such a thing now? 

The wintertime of my childhood was indeed cold and often snow ladened. But we still managed to make the outdoors exciting and fun. After all, there were no electronic devices to distract us in those days.

 A couple of winter escapades stand out to me. One was when Dad replaced Mom's old vinyl flooring in our kitchen/living room with contemporary black and white tiles. 

Now, you had to know my mother. She was adamant about having her floors waxed every Saturday, so you can imagine the wax build-up on that old flooring. 

I am not sure who or what spurred us to pull that old vinyl out of the garbage and use it for crazy carpets, but it sure made for one fast ride down over a steep hill near our house. Not to mention how the lack of cushion (I can still hear our infectious laughter now) left us in a fit of screaming, "Oh my butt, oh my butt hurts so bad!!" Yet, we'd continue to do it for hours! 

Another spontaneous makeshift sleigh adventure was when my brothers disconnected the hood from an old car. We'd all jump on it, and with one big push, we'd fly down over the hill and out onto the frozen harbor. The only problem was we had to drag that heavy car-hood back up the hill again. And while there were many whines and grunts and groans, we did it anyway, for the thrill of the ride, if nothing else.  

On a more serious note, I look at the modern and diverse school system my grandchildren are enrolled in today — with its no-touch and anti-bullying policies — and I can't help but remember the distinct contrast of my school years. 

The community schools in rural Newfoundland were religiously denominational back then. 

For instance, in some protestant towns, like my husbands, there might have been a few small schools, each run by a different church. 

On the other hand, my hometown was entirely Catholic. Therefore, my school experience was embedded in a strict Catholic school system. 

The classroom's disciplinary nature was something some of my older siblings and I were exposed to. Two scenes come vividly to mind: 1) Standing in a corner with book(s) on our hands. 2) Being punished with a leather strap. Both were frightening and humiliating and weren't a positive learning experience for me. 

But all our experiences, both good and bad, mold us into the people we become. We can either allow the negative ones to control us, or we can allow our spirit to heal and become a beacon of light for others. 

It's been a challenging year. Last Easter, we were heading into the thick of the pandemic. And now here we are with another Easter upon us, with some hope in sight, no doubt.

I don't know about you, but as I celebrate Jesus this Easter, the Risen Light, I want it to be a reminder of how His light shone through those dark and difficult days, a light that continues to extend His gift of grace and hope to our world.