22 Lessons from Old People, Scrubbing Toilets, and Folding Towels (but mostly from old people): From a Nurse's Perspective

Because this blog is supposed to be about experiences I've lived through, here's another one for you.

Recently, I resigned from a job for the first time. I filled out a form. I wrote a letter of resignation. I said goodbye.

Since my uncle told me we learn the most in our first year on the job, I decided to reflect. What have I learned these past 15 months with some of my favorite oldest people I know?


1. Remember the nice weird people from your childhood--in great detail. They will become good stories for the teenage girl helping you brush your teeth and dusting your furniture.

2. Say goodbye. Because one day you will come back to see them and they won't be there. While you were gone, they might have slipped, broken a hip, rushed to surgery, and didn't make it. Or they just might have gone home. Say goodbye.

3. Crack a joke while helping them fix their TV--at your own expense.

4. Smile while you administer eye drops.

5. Talk while you give shots.

6. Never underestimate the power of a warm washcloth and a good back rub.

7. When their minds are in a different reality, walk into their rooms with a smile that says you haven't seen them in 10 years and they're your favorite people in the world. One by one, they will be.

8. Listen.

9. There's no such thing as a weak heart. Just a heart so strong it needed to rest a while.

10. If you made it through the night, it's a good day.

11. Cookies and treats are a precious (even though plentiful) commodity.

12. Just standing there while an upset stomach is erupting means more than you think it does.

13. Wear gloves.

14. Plain toast and a hot cup of tea or coffee are really wonderful things.

15. Pizza and mac n cheese are timeless.

16. Memorize a poem now. Wait 90 years. Blow away all the other ladies at the skilled nursing facility you're at when you recite it word for word.

17. If you don't use it, you lose it.

18. Nothing is as reassuring or terrifying as falling. It strikes fear before it happens because of what it can do. However, once it happens, it's the safest place you can be. It's not like you can fall any further.

19. Enjoy spicy food, beans, and fresh vegetables now. They will hate your guts later on.

20. Yogurt and applesauce save lives.

21. Be obnoxiously happy when you wake them up in the morning. They laugh.  

22. You start out life thinking basic colored blocks are the bomb and you leave life thinking they are the bomb. It's just in adolescence and adulthood where we get confused on the important things in life.

I will cherish the elderly people I was privileged to take care of those 15 months. Why move on? Because there are skills that I hope to learn and even more experiences to pursue. I'm looking forward to God's future for me and looking fondly at the past He's allowed me to have.
Until my work on this earth is done, I'll take these stepping stones one at a time, appreciating those elderly residents, and the 22 lessons I learned.

"I see a lack of confidence in her," he said. "You're a little too cautious," he told me.

     I was ten or eleven years old the evening my family and another packed up our mini-vans and ventured to artificially-made snowy slopes of Wisconsin. I had never skied before, but my excited younger friends assured me I could do it. "There's a free beginner's class!" "You can just ski the bunny hill all night long if you want to or you can do the harder ones too!" On the ride there, they filled me in on the details of all things ski-ish. I was excited to. However, despite my friends' assurances that I was totally capable of higher degrees of difficulty, I was determined my capabilities were most likely bunny hill-level.

Besides, I'm not one to venture out and seek thrills. Ask my friends. I didn't receive the nickname "Mom" for nothing. Leaning all the way back on a rocking chair is enough adrenaline for me. I prefer the low-level excitement way of life. This evening on the slopes was no exception.

      Our mini-vans arrived at the ski lodge and the awkward and clumsy newbies made our way to the gathering point for the free beginner's class. My brother and I were paired with a perky, quirky, young instructor and meandered over together to the bunny hill. I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting. Actual bunnies, probably. What a let-down. 

     My brother rapidly excelled; whereas, I wasn't so sure about this skiing thing quite just yet. With encouraging ski-related words of wisdom, coupled with creative advice while on the ski lift of how to prank older brothers from my instructor, we quickly advanced to the next level of slope. Then to the next level. Then the instructor said, "You're ready." 

     We made our way to the Black Diamond, the shining jewel of difficulty of the slopes. As our ski lift went up, up, up, the slope's angle went down, down, down. My eyes widened. My heart raced. My head spun. 

My instructor calmly reminded me of some pointers that would aid my descent of the slope (affectionately referenced as Mount Everest from here on). He had been teaching me and preparing me to do this. He knew what I could do. 

I didn't. 

      What ensued at Mt Everest's launching point is of something that I am less than proud. Let's just say the first 20 feet of the hill probably took 20 minutes. I fell. I stalled. I shook. I wore myself out. Those 20 minutes felt like 20 hours. Much to my relief, my instructor finally suggested an alternative method where he would guide me down. I thought he would never ask. 

     My lesson ended at the bottom of the hill where my parents, sibling, friends, and my friends' parents met us. They clapped  in encouragement. I felt a little silly. My instructor had to help me down. However, those feelings were overshadowed quickly by my relief of being off pseudo-Mt. Everest. 

     My memory of what immediately happened next is a blur. I probably went to hug my mom. Someone must have asked my instructor how I did, because as I made my way back to my instructor, I distinctly remember him say, "She definitely has the skill for it. I just see a lack of confidence in her."

A little bit later, he was gone. My friends and I made our way to the intermediate-level slopes and had the time of our lives. 

Years passed. 

     I got in the mini-van with the bearded guy, who had a ponytail like Anakin Skywalker and a clipboard. I think his name was Mike. 

We drove around the small, but bustling city of Grand Rapids for maybe 10 minutes. It felt like hours. I did everything I could to be perfect. After all, I had been practicing months and months for these 10 minutes. 

(Side note: I hit a cone when parallel parking. Oops.)

     I was nervous out of my mind before, during, and after the exam. "Don't let it show," my grandma told me earlier. "Just keep driving." So I did. 

     The examiner had seen enough of my mini-van driving skills and we went back to the parking lot from which we came. After I parked, he sat there for maybe a minute writing mysterious things on his clipboard (which in our short relationship, I had come to dislike). It felt like an eternity. Finally, he spoke. 

     "Well, you passed. You definitely know what you're doing. However, you almost failed for being too cautious." He gave me a list of examples on things I did wrong and where I could improve. I wondered if I should bring up the streets on which I was raised. I didn't. I would save my childhood stories of an environment of drug lords, gangs, kidnappings, extortion, and rampant muggings for another time. Maybe for a blog or something. I nodded my head and thanked him for the constructive criticism. Besides, I wasn't about to argue with the man determining if I should have a driver's license or not. 

He was right though. So was my Wisconsin ski instructor. 

Who knew words spoken by two men who I had just met (and I haven't seen since) could pin-point me so perfectly?

Hesitation. Lack of confidence. Caution. Doubt. Self-preservation. Shyness. Timidity. Skepticism. Insecurity. Indecisiveness. Fear. 

Especially, fear. 

     The sad part? I wasn't made to be any of those things. I wasn't made to be fearful. I was fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14-actually the whole chapter is good too). Just like you. 

I was made with and for a purpose. Just like you. 

God hasn't given me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7). 

     Hesitancy and fear are not my friends--which is odd considering how often we hang out. They inhibit seizing chances, dreams, and full lives. They have kept me from sharing myself. There are things meant to be shared. I've had a lot of opportunities to talk about what God has done and is doing in my life--the difference He has made. Those opportunities aren't here anymore. I've missed sharing how He can make a difference for other people too. I'm a messed up, insecure, and fearful person who doesn't always trust God when I should. I mess up. I hurt people. I hurt myself. He loves me just the same. He loves you too. That's worth sharing. That's worth being bold about and brave. 

     I have resolved to trade my hesitation for a first step. My lack of confidence in myself is overwhelmed by the steadfast assurance in what God is capable of doing. I'm throwing away caution and doubt for discernment and peace instead. Self-preservation has become unappetizing and is being upgraded to self-sacrifice--the infinitely more rewarding and more difficult trait. The shyness and timidity are slowly being overshadowed with boldness. I'm breaking down my skepticism and switching it for a heart willing to follow God's--unequivocally and irrevocably. My insecurity is being escorted out and an identity in Christ is being installed. Indecisiveness has been intersected by a deep breath, a prayerfully-placed decision; and a willingness to be picked up and patched up should I step off in the wrong direction. Fear has met its match. It has no place here. My God is near. 

    This process isn't going to be learned overnight--but one night at a time. I'm sure this experience will consist of mistakes, lessons, victories, laughter, tears, and a whole lot of prayer like any good adventure does. Above all, I hope this journey makes me a little more like Christ and a lot less like me. He is worth it all. 

     I'm ready to not live in fear. I'm ready to be done hiding behind "what-ifs" and "maybes". I'm ready to be brave. I say this not because of what I am able to do, but because of what God can choose to do through me in spite of me. 

     I have been given the opportunity to be a part of just that through a 2-week trip my parents are leading from Honduras to Angola, Africa. Their desire is to bring Honduran professionals and others (like me) to a hospital in Lubango, Angola to scout the country as a potential sending point for future missionaries as well as help with a few projects while they're there.

Why this hospital? 

Because Angola has a multiple decade-long history of civil war and is difficult to enter. Because Angola isn't always open to North Americans crossing their borders. Because hospitals have the unique opportunity to meet physical needs while meeting spiritual needs. Because of the benefit this particular hospital brings to the area, the Angolan government is more likely to allow entry into the country to those affiliated with the hospital. Because God is glorified when we talk about Him, especially with those who haven't heard before. Because Angola is a good place to talk about Him. 

So what's it going to take?

A lot of prayer

A lot of encouragement (some of us are new to this bravery thing) 

Words of wisdom (family, mentors, friends, and people who have done this before have been really helpful so far)

Approximately, $4000

A lot of prayer

An in-person visa application trip in March (60 days prior to takeoff) to either Houston or D.C in order to receive an "invitation" to the country. Part of this application involves a purchased plane ticket to Angola--talk about a step of faith! 

A lot of prayer

Departure in mid-May. 

Did I mention a lot of prayer?

I believe this trip will stretch and grow me in ways I don't even know of right now. I approach this trip with a desire to serve and share my Savior, while serving the people of Angola.

I would like to be brave because of a Man who did a very brave thing for me. (1 Peter 2:24)

If you would like more information on how to help me get to Angola, you can click this link:

http://www.youcaring.com/mission-trip-fundraiser/help-lizzie-get-to-lubango-/214738

If you'd like a tax-deductible receipt, go to https://www.caminoglobal.org/give/give-now/, Select 'Specific Project' and enter Project Number 063283. Then email eliyworld@gmail.com with your name and amount, so the amount given can be set a part for my portion of the trip. 

P. S. I now go 30mph in a 30mph zone, instead of 20mph. Thanks, Mike. 

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. (Psalm 139:23-24 NIV)

His Name is John.

He was sitting there in the corner on a metal folding chair, dribbling a basketball. Watching the people before him, his eyes followed the mix of calculated and coordinated actions with those who were less accurate in their movements. Translation: the experienced and non-experienced players. He was alone.

Engineering basketball has the tendency of coming up every spring semester around Itasca Community College. This year it so happened to fall on Thursdays at 7:30 at night. Engineers play. Non-engineers who care enough to be there look on. It's the ICC Engineering basketball way. 

I was there that night. So was John. 

So as the gentleman was dribbling the basketball in the corner, watching engineering basketball games, he was noticed. No one said hello. 

It was cold out that night. He wore a thick, worn coat. His hair took the form of dreadlocks, free around his dark face. His soft brownish-black eyes were keen and analytical of the players before him, but turned down to the floor every time another human walked around him. If you've ever been alone in a room full of people, you'll probably have a clue of how he felt. 

I was safe standing silently in my small circle of friends in our corner of the gym. However, life isn't safe. It isn't comfortable. If you truly feel safe and comfortable, I would go out on a limb and wonder if you're actually living at all. Life demands we step out in faith. So I did. I stepped from safety into eternal impact. I said "Hi." 

There's a verse in the Bible, quoting Jesus, saying, "Whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me (Matthew 25:40)." Jesus was talking to his followers, the Disciples, about how they should treat these people around them. He was talking about the crippled, the homeless, the widowed, the orphaned, the sick, the prostitutes, and the outcasts. "Do to them like you would do to me." I have always found it interesting how Jesus related to, viewed, and treated people. At first I just assumed I was acting out to "do to Jesus". Now I'm not so sure. He looked up with surprise on his face. I would get that look many more times before I left the gym that night. 

I asked simple questions. I asked about basketball, life, and work. As it turns out, he was born and raised in Belize. His son is an engineering student. He watches his son play every Thursday. As soon as he mentioned, "Belize", I'm pretty sure my face lit up. That's where the gushing of stories about being born in Costa Rica, growing up in Honduras, and traveling to Belize by a 2-motor fishing boat probably came out. Maybe even the story about our boat driver covertly bribing Belizian border officials with bananas and banana pop came up. Or perhaps how one of our motors went out in the middle of the Carribean with 5 foot waves. Cue: a look of surprise with every story told. We spoke about Belize, American culture, soccer, ultimate frisbee, and winter (mostly how much we disliked the last one). 

I think when Jesus said, "Whatever you do to the least of these..", he knew something we didn't. Perhaps he knew when we approach the people no one else does, our attitude and outlook of them changes. They're no longer "the least". They're humans with stories and struggles. They're objects of God's love and mercy. They have a past and a future. They've made mistakes and have an outlet for redemption through Jesus Christ. They're the people Jesus said to whom we should go talk. 

I saw John again at another game. Then at my church the following week. 

I can't completely explain my actions that night at the engineering basketball game. Maybe all that really happened was my outlook of John changing from being one of "the least of these". He was John. Born and raised in Belize, he was a fish out of water. He wasn't "the least". He was just like me.