70 Years Ago... And, Now.

_{October 30, 1947, Iowa}

_{In the early morning hours, a thirteen month old bundle snuggles between Mommy and Daddy in a 1940 Plymouth. With a suitcase tossed in the backseat, they start the ten mile trip with a feeling of expectancy. A whimper escapes from the little one, and Mommy pulls him as close as possible--a baby sister still hibernating in her enormous tummy.}

_{After a quick drop off of their toddler at Auntie's apartment—with promises of treats and a toy train--they check in at the hospital.}

_{"Go. Get something to eat," she encourages her husband. "This always takes time." She lies uncomfortably in a hospital bed beside the elevator; there are no rooms available. He hesitates, knowing he is not a part of this process, and then leaves, feeling all of a sudden isolated, lonely, and yet filled with anticipation.}

_{A chubby baby girl with a headful of dark, curly hair arrives before my dad returns. . . . I have no recollection of all of this, of course. My first memory involves sitting with big brother on a linoleum floor, a wooden toy box between us.}

_{Of course, tons of memories were to follow—some sad, some bad, some happy, some so-so, some not worth remembering. I think about memories more than I used to. With age, I’ve become more reflective. With age, I have more time to think, consider, wonder, and perceive things differently. With age comes wisdom, it has been said. At least, the opportunities are available to do so.}

_{As a child growing up with numerous brothers, chickens running amuck in the farmyard, pens of cows and pigs, and surrounded by fields of hay, beans, and corn, I never dreamed of flying above the clouds or venturing across an ocean. Little did I know about life to come. . . .}

_{October 30, 2017, California}

_{A man of professional football build approaches us with a believable story.  He has lost his billfold and needs gas money to get home. He is moderately dressed, clean, has had a recent haircut, nice shoes. We wonder. My husband ultimately digs in his pocket and billfold for cash.}

_{A weathered man, complexion nature-formed, sits beside me, ocean front with yachts and fishing boats galore behind us. His car was towed; the cost of getting it back was prohibitive. He lives with a friend on his houseboat-- JESUS SAVES printed on a large banner on the side.}

_{A young lad--a mere 23, with no home, no car, no job, no family-- does have a seat at the bus stop on Rosecranz Street and someone to talk to (us), but no place to go. We offer advice: get your GED, go to a church, go to a court house, ask for help from social services. We offer a banana and a granola bar.}

_{"No thanks; you keep it," he says.}

_{"It's yours, I say," and place it beside him on the bench. "What's your name?" I ask.}

_{"Sam," he replies. He extends his hand. We wish him luck, and tell him we will pray that something good happens. I think of prostitution, drugs, and all the ugly things that could pull him under.}

_{On a busy city bus, ladies with outdated hats, Bibles in hand, proper facades, discerning smiles watch us. A man with jerky arm, leg, and head movements framed by a confining wheel chair wheels onto the bus and stations himself across from us. He tries a smile; it is crooked.}

_{A girl dressed in good-will clothing and a perpetual smile boards with a sweet lime plant almost her size. A man with short shorts, a striped fall sweater, and a backpack follows along with others; some with hoodies hiding faces and others searching faces as they seek an empty seat.}

_{It's a glimmer of life we don't see while living in small town, rural America.}

_{That night while waiting for the coziness of sleep that does not come easily anymore, I think about turning 70 and what it is supposed to mean for me... Considering childhood memories, struggles with relationships, caring for a family, my job, adjusting to retirement, and aging parents-- exactly what does it mean to celebrate another year of life?  With age comes wisdom? How about, with age comes vulnerability? With age, comes a variety of perceptions. With age, comes new questions and difficult-to-find answers.}

 Erich From wrote, "The whole of life of the individual is nothing but the process of giving birth to himself; indeed we should be fully born when we die."

... hopefully I'm on my way to being "fully born."