Alice in Wonderland was one of my favorite childhood stories. Falling down a rabbit hole might not be the best way to enter Wonderland, but right now I think I might prefer it to the “wonder” land I find myself falling into. Why? Because sometimes I keep wondering where I am headed.

I am not alone. Many of us who are senior citizens often run into someone we know—but their name . . . what is their name? We talk and talk, hoping for a clue as to who they are. Later we shrug our shoulders and say, “Faces I remember, but names escape me.”

I belong to group of senior saints who meet weekly for Bible study. Before we open with prayer at least one of us bubbles over with a “can’t wait to tell you” story, like: “I saw my granddaughter and her boyfriend outside the beauty parlor. I got out to talk to them, then went inside to get my hair done. My granddaughter came in with my car keys. ‘You left your car running, Gran’ma,’ she said.”

Another friend adds, “I couldn’t find my glasses the other day. They finally turned up—in the freezer.”

I happen to lead the Bible study. Usually I pick up one of my friends, but this particular day she called. “I have an appointment so I can’t go.”

Taking advantage of her absence, I ran a few errands. I then leisurely drove to our meeting place. As I entered the house, worried comments assailed me. “Where have you been? We called your home and your grandson said you had left. We were going to call the hospital or go looking for you. We were sure you had an accident.”

How odd. “Why?” I asked. “I’m not that late.”

“Only an hour,” one of the ladies said. “It’s 11:30.”

I slapped my hand to my forehead. I had slipped back to the day before. That meeting began at 11:30. Our Bible study begins at 10:30. “Well,” I said to cover my embarrassment, “then we’d better get started.” (Even among my so-called friends, I have not lived it down).

More recently I dropped Helen off at her home, two houses west of mine. “I’m going to get my mail in a jiffy,” I told her and got out of the car. I walked across the street to the mailbox. Another neighbor who lives two houses east of me trotted up with his golden retriever. I petted the dog and talked to his owner as we walked back.

I turned in at my house and he continued to his. My front door was still locked. I rang the doorbell. My grandson appeared, a puzzled look on his face. “Grandma. Why didn’t you come through the garage? Where’s your car?”

A blush rushed over my face. I nonchalantly entered the house and laid the mail on the table. “I was just going after it,” I said, and turned to go back the way I had come.

The car, engine still running, stood waiting for me. Luckily, my friend hadn’t noticed it still in her drive. I only had my grandson and my daughter to answer to. (And answer to them I have—over and over.)

I laugh and shake my head. But it can be scary—is it just old age toting an unwanted gift: forgetfulness? Or is this the beginning of something like dementia or that frightful condition called Alzheimer’s?

What can I do? “Keep your mind active, Mom,” my son says.

So I work the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Several Sudokus challenge me every week. I love cryptograms and smugly show the solutions to those who find them difficult.

The library is my friend and three or four books ride home with me each week. Books by authors like Calvin Miller, Anne Perry, Belva Plaine, Liz Curtis Higgs, to name a few. Most important, researching and writing a Bible study fills many hours each week.

Happily, although my five friends and I may forget who, when, or where, somehow the Bible verses we learned through the years remain a part of us.

So I don’t fret too much. This is a strange land I’ve fallen into, a land of wondering why I’m so forgetful at times. But I know who my Savior is. Therefore, I claim the promise found in Psalm 92:14: “[I] . . . will still bear fruit in old age,” and as long as I can laugh at myself, “[I] will stay fresh and green.” |L

OUTLOOK is a forum for responsible Christian writers. The views expressed do not necessarily reflect those of Standard Publishing or The Lookout.

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