by Jill Fandrich
I remember my mother’s last few years as a blur. I was her sole family caregiver as her health declined with heart disease and dementia, and I also was working and had three kids at home. As her care needs changed over her last 5 years, she moved from her home to an apartment to an adult home to a nursing home, where she eventually died of heart failure. In addition to all these moves were frequent trips to doctors, labs, specialists, treatments, and hospitals. I arranged for assistance from a team of caregivers who helped with meals, transportation, and companionship, especially while I was at work.  
Although I consider myself a reasonably competent person in many ways, health care is not one of my skill sets. When my mom started down the long, slow slide of failing health, I had no idea what to do.

So, I reached out. I called the Office of the Aging, talked to her doctors, and pulled together all the information I could about services in the area. Although helpful, it wasn’t enough. The best advice came from friends. Friends could tell me what to expect, give me names and numbers of trustworthy companions and aides, and give me honest opinions about doctors and facilities based on their own experiences. They could suggest questions to ask and provide a listening ear when I was overwhelmed. They were my safety net. They provided me with the support I needed to love and care for my mom until her final breath.
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Not long after Mom died, I found myself becoming a resource for others. I got calls from friends whose parents were declining, asking about my experience and looking for advice about caregivers, living options, and how to keep all the balls in the air. I shared what I could. I still have many friends today who are trying to navigate the strange and sometimes scary world of “parenting their parents.” Sadly, the landscape is more complex than ever now. The need for information and support is great.

One friend’s mother suffers from severe pain, for which doctors can give no diagnosis. They run from appointment to appointment with specialist after specialist, only to get conflicting (and often condescending) advice. Another friend cared for her parents in their home while their health declined in different ways, one mentally and one physically. When home care became impossible and there were no facilities where they could be together, she moved one into a nursing home and one into an adult home, breaking both her heart and her pocketbook (over $18,000 a month!). Another friend struggles with how to convince her father to give up driving, concerned over his and others’ safety and also his loss of independence and dignity. Another weighs the merits of moving her mother from her hometown to Auburn, which would take her away from her friends and familiar surroundings but bring her closer to family. Still another faces daily guilt over the choices she has to make; if she has dinner with her mother, she misses her son’s soccer game; if she can’t take time off from work (again!), she has to miss her mom’s doctor’s appointment. Common in all these frustrating and heart-wrenching situations are love and compassion for the parents who are dear to us, and sincere desire to do what’s best for all concerned, while also juggling the demands of work, family, and other responsibilities.

Recognizing the value in being part of a caring community, my church is starting a new conversation circle (a sort of support group) this fall for “children” of aging parents. This group will allow children of aging parents the opportunity to get together for confidential conversation, to share experiences and information, to be listening ears for each other, and to support each other through what can be overwhelming and emotional times. The group will meet on the fourth Tuesdays of each month at 7:00 pm, in Westminster Church’s social room at 17 William Street. Meetings are free and open to all. The first meeting will be September 26. The groups will be informal, but conversation will be facilitated. The intent is not to provide expert advice, but rather to help each other love and care for aging parents.  
 

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by Patrick David Heery
For nearly five years, once every month on a Saturday morning in Louisville (where I used to live), I wiped the sleep from my eyes, grabbed my hiking gear, and met up with a small group of people hungry for God’s voice. Crushed by the noise of work and life and by the chatter of our minds, we went to the woods to see if we could find there some sanctuary, built of oak and pond and bird song. Beginning with a devotional—perhaps a Mary Oliver poem or a Psalm—we walked in silence, doing our best to listen. To listen not only to the crunch of leaves beneath our boots or to the low hum of the frogs, but also to some word we required that day, a buried word that might heal or unsettle or even, perhaps, commission.

Every time, I felt a rare buoyancy come over me, like a door being opened and a burden lifted.

Ann Deibert, co-pastor of Central Presbyterian Church in Louisville, began these contemplative group hikes as a spiritual discipline, while she was studying for her doctorate in spiritual care. I was hooked the moment my foot hit the path. It was everything I wanted: God, nature, physical exercise, quiet, and friendship. My wife and I can track our relationship by those hikes—the very first hike was one of our earliest dates. Soon I became a co-leader of the hikes, partnering with the Sierra Club, a grassroots environmental and hiking organization.

That partnership created a truly ecumenical, and even interfaith, experience, bringing together Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, and Protestants of all stripes—as well as those who identify as spiritual but not religious (people who crave a deeper connection but may be skeptical of the institutions built around that connection).

The result admittedly wasn’t always profound. Sometimes it was just really cold or rainy. Often I’d end up thinking about the day’s agenda or how best to avoid the protruding roots on the path. And yet, through it all, friendships were formed, vulnerabilities were shared, and people generally left with a bigger smile than they had arrived with. One woman walked in prayer for her son and his struggle with addiction. Another was grieving the death of his brother. Most of us were just glad for the fresh air and good earth.

I’ll be honest, though: when that alarm first went off in the morning, I’d usually grumble, “I don’t want to go.” I would feel tired from the week, and doing something as radically different and intentional as hiking with others in meditative silence sounded exhausting. Combating the clutter with the noise of Netflix or Facebook always seemed so much easier.

Inevitably, I forced myself to go (just as many force themselves to go to worship on Sunday morning). And each time—as a testament to my inability to learn—I was surprised by just how free, rested, and energized I felt. God’s grace always found me there in the woods, sliding the burdens from my shoulders.

All that I ever needed to do, it turns out, was just go. God took care of the rest. It’s true Sunday morning. And it’s true for these hikes.

This month, you’ll have a chance to go too. Westminster Presbyterian Church will now be offering monthly contemplative hikes for anyone who wants to get outdoors, find a break from the commotion of life, and reconnect with their body and soul. It’s perfect for the churchgoer longing for a deeper spiritual life—and for the person who is wary of church and formal worship but is looking for something more in their lives.

Our first hike will be Saturday, August 19, from 10 am to 12 pm, at Fillmore Glen State Park in Moravia. Anyone is welcome to join us. Spending part of the hike in silence and part in conversation, we’ll find renewal as we become more mindful of our bodies, our thoughts, and the soil beneath our feet. There is no cost (besides the park entrance fee). RSVP is required, and you can reach out to me at 315-253-3331 or [email protected].
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Trust me. We do not pull ourselves out of bed and sacrifice the noise in order to live reduced lives. We choose the silence so that we can live fuller lives. To quote poet Wendell Berry, “Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you must have the quiet.” The same is true for God’s song.