The In-Law Chronicles, Episode 9: Trees in Winter
“Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.” – Isaiah 46:4
My live-in in-laws occasionally comment on being past their prime. At nearly 90 and 84 years of age, respectively, Raymond and Shirley lament having outlived their usefulness, especially as it relates to ministry. They can no longer do the things they once did. Of course, we remind them that although the way God is using them may have changed, He’s still using them. They continue to make a difference in the lives of the people around them.
Their concern is common; some seniors have it even worse. Walking down the halls of a nursing home, I glance inside rooms full of people in the homestretch of life. Some have no family or friends. Others spend their days staring at a television screen or a wall. I struggle to find meaning in these infirmed seniors’ bleak existence. Why is God keeping them around?
Brother Lawrence, a medieval monk, offers a more enlightened perspective. In The Practice of the Presence of God, he sees all of humanity as trees in winter. Though having little to offer, stripped of leaves and color and growth, each soul is loved by God unconditionally anyway.
How are we to treat aged family members who are no longer useful in the traditional meaning of the word? How should nursing home workers approach yet another wrinkled resident staring off into space? The note from my Bible’s margin reads: We are to love seniors unconditionally; the way God loves them—like trees in winter.
In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott writes, “Dying people can teach us this most directly. Often the attributes that define them drop away—the hair, the shape, the skills, the cleverness. And then it turns out that the packaging is not who that person has really been all along. Without the package, another sort of beauty shines through.”
I have learned more from my in-laws in their physical decline than I ever learned from them at the top of their game. I’ve gained more from hearing Raymond speak a few kind words to a struggling former prisoner than from any of his longer, more robust sermons. I’ve been blessed by watching Shirley’s cane-assisted hobble to the back porch, easing herself into a sunlit chair, and pouring over God’s Word like a treasure map.
Like trees in winter, my in-laws have lost some vitality—they’ve shed some leaves. But I love them unconditionally anyway. I also watch them carefully because they are teaching me how to live.
