The Power of 3

I’m turning 55 this year. Not bad, if I do say so myself.  Not everyone has the opportunity to grow old.  I have friends and acquaintances who barely made it to 50.  Growing old is certainly not for the fainthearted.  

I don’t feel old.  My mind, even now, is under the impression I am 33 and can wear my favorite jeans.  Never mind those jeans are four sizes smaller than my current behind.  My mind also thinks my body can walk a 13-minute mile and be able to talk normally.  While my mind believes I can successfully complete the Army’s physical fitness requirements for someone in their mid-thirties, my back rejects that theory.  

A few days ago, my family got together for dinner.  Trying to merge schedules and find mutual times between three households is a complicated process, but we did it!  Huzzah! My brother is a great cook and constantly experimenting with food.  He stumbled upon a perfect pancake recipe.  We have always loved having breakfast for dinner.  

This family dinner is like hundreds of other dinners.  Praying before the meal.  Listening to everyone’s summary of the day.  Offer encouragement where we can and condolences when we cannot.  This year is hard because Mom is no longer with us.  I’m not gonna lie, it’s been tough.  Even with our faith, the separation is hard.  Our family time has a deeper meaning now.  

After dinner, we slowly made our way to the front door.  I’m visiting with my sister, trying to say something clever to my middle niece, and looking for my keys - all at the same time.  Remember, my brain refuses to think I’m anything older than my early thirties. 

I make it through the front door and step onto the sidewalk.  The sidewalk ambushes me.  With part of my foot on the sidewalk and the other half in the grass, I begin my journey towards the ground.  

Think about the last time you fell.  Falling feels slow, but it never is.  One of my sister’s more memorable falls was before chapel at university.  She was climbing the front stairs with her hands in her pockets.  Tripping on a stair, she began to fall forward; her hands stuck in her pockets.  Without limbs to help her find balance and recover, she tumbled over, lay on the stairs, her hands still in her pockets.  To this day, I never climb stairs with hands in my pockets.  

So, I’m falling - no hands in pockets - and I’m going to hit the ground.  I’m convinced the earth moved toward me a bit.  There was no chance I was going to stumble out of this situation and still land on my feet.  

As far as falls goes, it was a pretty good one.  I hit the ground and rolled to one side.  My head did hit the sidewalk, but not hard.  I managed to save my purse.  This is important!  I love my purse!  It has a formed exterior, royal blue, and the best part, super expensive. I found it at a consignment store barely used.  Yeah, I’m proud of this purse.  Once I was down, I just laid there.  Why bother jumping up?  Everyone saw me fall.  There was no spin on this situation. 

Here’s the punch line….everyone saw me fall, except Dad.  I’m laying on the sidewalk.  Exclamations are flying around me.  Dad comes through the front door onto the porch.  “Well, Effie!”

That is not my name.  That’s my mom’s name.  Mom fell a lot.  In her later years, she had neuropathy in both feet.  When you can’t feel your feet, things get difficult fast.  Like the time her foot slipped off the break pedal in the drive-thru at a Wendy’s and hit the car in front of her.  She was going 2 mph; no one was injured.

After a minute, I did speak up.  I wasn’t seriously hurt or unconscious.  We laughed when Dad said Mom’s name.  

“Do you need help getting up?”

“No!  I’m not so old I can’t do it myself.”

While I’m gathering my feet under me and using my hands to push me up, my sister chimed in with: Mom always was a good ‘fall-er’.  There are life moments when you realize you have become one, or both, parents.  This was definitely mine.  Mom did fall more often than most.  On the bright side, she never broke a bone.  If I become an expert fall-er, I could certainly do worse.  

The worst was over - or so I thought…

I wasn’t even home when my phone rang.  My sister was calling.  Apparently, my nieces had opinions of their own driving home.  My youngest niece thought I was faking the fall.  Note to self:  don’t ask her to take care of me in my old age.  The oldest niece had this to say: “Why do old people just accept their fate when falling?  They don’t even try not to fall.”  

WOW.  

Unfortunately, my falling down was not the last.

The following Saturday, I took Rory, my sweet dog, to a training class.  At the beginning of class, all of us trot in a circle with our dogs.  I was the leader.  I raised a foot to take off and suddenly I was on the ground.  Yes, I fell down publicly twice in five days.  Yay me.  One of my fellow trainers said the best thing ever:  I didn’t see anything!  That’s a friend!

It doesn’t end there.  There was still one last moment for me to experience.  I showed up to church and the final song before preaching was:  We Fall Down.  

There you have it.  The power of 3!  Two falls and a commentary.