Marble tile and fabric covered elevator walls—
The faint scent of fresh lilies wafting close to the sofas around the blazing fireplace—
Every room and hall adorned with ornate crown molding—
Chandeliers sparkle in the late afternoon sun, reflected from cascading potted plants—
But my attention is drawn to Carol and Traci’s conversation.
Carol—older than me. Traci, younger. Godly wisdom from an older woman to a younger.
How to fit in the Bible study—
What to let go that doesn’t really matter—
I love watching the passing of wisdom—woman wisdom—falling from one generation to another. I listen for myself—for the reminders I know but don’t do.
For most of my life, I’ve had an older friend—someone a little ways ahead of me on this path of life. They’ve encouraged me where I was, and no doubt often saved my feet from stumbling.
At the Anne Graham Lotz conference, which is why we were at The Broadmoor to begin with, a little lady 80 years old sat at our table during lunch—a widow for 12 years. She chatted with all around her, her sparkling eyes drinking in whomever they rested on. “What you see is what you get!” she snapped regarding herself with infectious warmth. She’d come by herself and was sharing a room with three total strangers. Would I do that when I’m 80? I wouldn’t do that now. I marvel and learn from her example.I miss having an older friend. I need to check in with Carol more often—
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