Sadly, there seem to be no numbers available to quantify the power of the 4th annual  Women's March in Washington D.C. this past January. But according to the always-accurate Washington Post, roughly 700,000 women took part in the 2019 event.  That’s 700,000 women who spent hours making arrangements, crafting clever signs, dressing for the weather, traveling to their rallying points, marching till their feet hurt, saying their fond farewells and making their ways home.

Would it be fair to say that, on average, each woman invested 20 hours of time in the effort?
 
Let’s say it would be, and do the math:  700,000 women x 20 hours each =  14,000,000 woman-hours – the equivalent of 7,000 women working full time for a year.
 
Far be it from me to judge their motives. I’m sure most of the marchers thought they were doing something good for women today and for generations to come – protecting “choice,” advancing the cause of equal pay for equal work and possibly comparable worth, making paid parental leave a right for partners, and supporting any number of other “women’s issues” that they believe can impact our quality of life.
 
There’s just one problem: This tremendous show of unity will have exactly zero impact on our legislators, who were elected to office by voters who may not share the marchers’ views.

In the end, it was pretty much a complete waste of time, energy and money. 
 
May I make a suggestion? If you were among the 700,000 marchers, why not consider investing your resources in activities that will actually help those in need?
 
Volunteer at a food bank or soup kitchen to feed the hungry. Raise money for the Rescue Mission to house the homeless. Become a Big Sister to a girl who needs extra love and guidance. Teach someone to read. Or my favorite, share your love with the neglected elderly. I'm sure some of these activities are possible even now, as we wade through the dregs of our latest existential threat; but it'll be over soon, and it's never too early to start planning how you, too, can make a real difference in this world--or, even better, in the life of one needy person. 
 
Just think how much good could be accomplished if 14,000,000 women-hours were to be invested in works such as these! 

If you love an old person, and especially if you’re his or her primary lifeline to the outside world, please make it a point to monitor the medications he or she is taking. And be on the lookout for any changes that might be significant, from weight gain to personality change; you may need to do some research and then go to bat for your beloved.
 
The research part is easy. Just plug each of the drugs into a search engine like Google, add a symptom or two that you’ve noticed, and check out the results. If you’re able to process more technical information, try a medical search engine like www.pubmed.gov or https://scholar.google.com/.
 
Don’t believe everything you find, especially on the non-technical side of the web. But if you come across significant evidence that a drug may be harming your loved one, and if it comes from apparently reliable sources, start building your case: Compile the evidence along with a full list of the medications he or she is currently taking, print it out and highlight the key points for presentation to the doctor in charge.
 
If this physician is less than approachable, or is always pressed for time in today’s drive-through healthcare environment, consider first taking your case to a local pharmacist. (Make an appointment if necessary; pharmacists seem to be even busier than doctors these days and will no doubt appreciate your sensitivity to his or her stress level.) Outline your concerns and what you’ve found out so far. Take careful notes and add them to your evidence document – and then approach the responsible physician with this professional take on the situation.
 
Never assume that having a slew of healthcare providers tending to your loved one is adequate protection against dangerous drug side effects or interactions.
 
Here's an example: My mother had a seizure disorder for which her five-star neurologist often tried new medications. She’d been on just such a “latest and greatest” drug for about a week when she suddenly became extremely dopey. Her nurses and primary-care doctor just shrugged it off. Fortunately, I was freaked out enough to call her neurologist; he demanded that she be sent to the ER immediately, for cold-turkey removal from the drug without the mandatory weaning, because he considered her situation to be life-threatening.
 
That’s just one example; I could cite many more from what I’ve seen over the past 25 years.
 
So if you are a loved one’s court of last resort, remain on high alert for medication issues. Be willing to do the necessary homework. And get ready to sound the alarm far and wide whenever necessary.   

One of the sweetest things about being a nursing-home volunteer is seeing how the residents come to love one another, or at least look out for each other's well-being--often behind the backs of those in charge. We youngsters could probably all learn a lesson from them! Here's a scene illustrating that point from The Song of Sadie Sparrow.

Sadie Sparrow
Sunday, March 25
 
Sadie and Gladys brunched together on Sunday, enjoying a feast of fresh strawberries and blackberries, French toast with maple syrup, bacon that was every bit as crisp as any Sadie had ever had, as much orange juice as they wanted, and coffee that tasted like something you’d get at a fancy cafe.
           
Gladys shocked Sadie by calling the meal “good” and then shocked her again by pointing out that Marcia at Table Nine was on “the thick stuff.”
           
“Do you mean thickened liquids?” Sadie was ashamed that she’d let that subject slip to the back burner in recent days, her new spiritual life and time with Jamie being foremost on her mind.
          
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Gladys sniffed, “although I don’t know why you always have to make everything so complicated. Pretending to be something you’re not.”
           
“‘Thick stuff’ is just fine with me,” Sadie said, humbled by the rebuke. “So how did you find out?”
           
One of Gladys’s nicer traits was her willingness to leave a hurt behind. “Before you got here, I heard her complaining about it to the servers. But they wouldn’t help her. I think it’s a crime.”
           
“A crime?”
           
“Without a doubt.” Gladys lowered her voice and glanced back over her shoulders to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “It kills people, you know. If you don’t get enough to drink, you get fuzzy headed and then you die. I’ve seen it happen again and again.”
           
Gladys had lived at The Hickories for several years, and Sadie didn’t doubt that she knew a lot more than she let on.
           
“Have any of your—have you known anyone who’s been on it?”
           
Gladys eyed Sadie up before answering. “My friends, you mean? Were you assuming I haven’t had any friends here?”
           
“No, of course not, I just meant—”
           
“I’ll have you know that I’ve had plenty of friends here. It’s just that they’ve all died or gone home.”
           
“Of course you have.” Sadie felt her face flush; she’d been caught red-handed. She quickly changed gears. “So have any of them been on the thick stuff?”
           
“Yes, and they’ve all died within weeks, except for one. Her name was Ida—she lived next door to me. She survived for two years on the stuff, finally had a coronary.”
           
“Well, then, if Ida made it that long, maybe it’s not so bad after all,” said Sadie, hoping for a silver lining.
           
Gladys looked around for eavesdroppers again. “It’s not so bad if someone is sneaking you water and soda every day,” she whispered. “I kept her supplied.”
           
“Why Gladys,” Sadie whispered back, impressed. “You really do have a heart, don’t you?”
           
Gladys glared at her. “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”

--The Song of Sadie Sparrow, pages  227-228

Of all the people suffering during this horrific nationwide lockdown, the institutionalized elderly are no doubt hurting most of all. Those in long-term-care facilities are largely isolated from everyone but their gowned-and-masked caregivers. Friends may be allowed to visit through open windows; family members, for a brief time outside as long as they are wearing masks and are maintaining proper social distancing. It's hard to imagine the loneliness, heartache and hopelessness these dear old folks must be feeling these days, especially when there's no end in sight. 

But as I reflected on their trials during my morning walk today, I remembered that Scripture contains the solution to every problem we humans may encounter in our fallen world. And what popped into my mind next was the memory of a message I heard several years ago during the Christian Music Hour at Care-Age of Brookfield--a message prepared and delivered by our five-star preacher Chris Carrillo, who had been providing the residents of Care-age with knowledge, wisdom, and eternal hope for many years, until COVID-19 shut us down last March. 

In this short sermon, Chris explained how one heavy-hearted woman overcame her bitter disappointment and sorrow, with eternally significant results. It’s the story of Hannah, as told in the Old Testament book of 1 Samuel. Here is Chris's message, ready to inspire anyone who is suffering through any sort of intense and prolonged trial.  

The following prayer was supposedly written by an aging 17th century nun, although I find that attribution a little hard to believe. Still, these are wonderful thoughts to ride into old age, where it can be harder than ever to make and keep good friends.
 
Lord, thou knowest better than I know myself that I am old and growing older.
 
Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.
 
Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs.
 
Make me thoughtful but not moody, helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends at the end.
 
Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point.
 
Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by.
 
I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of other's aches and pains, but help me to endure them with patience.
 
I dare not ask for improved memory, but rather I ask for a growing humility and a lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others.
 
Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.
 
Keep me reasonably sweet. A sour old person is one of the crowning works of the Devil.
 
Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.
 
I ask these things in Jesus’ name. Amen! ​

For all but the perennially unhappy among us, aging offers each of us some truly sparkling silver linings. The specifics no doubt depend upon your unique circumstances. But allow me to share some of my personal favorites—perhaps you’ll be inspired to start or expand your own list. 

So here goes. The older I get:

• The less my lack of coordination matters. In grade school, I was always last pick for baseball teams, even when my supremely athletic best friends were the designated captains; couldn’t hit the ball, you see, in spite of all the hours my beloved daddy spent trying to teach me. I finally left the shame permanently behind at age 50,  realizing that I would never again be asked to wield a bat.
• The more I enjoy rereading favorite old books. When it comes to pleasure-filled reading, there are advantages to being forgetful. For instance, I can now read an Agatha Christie mystery for the second or third time and be every bit as surprised by whodunit as I was the first time through.
• The less I worry about my appearance. Whereas looking “cute” or “attractive” or “thin” was once a top priority in my life, these days looking “clean” is good enough. 
• The fewer unpleasant or difficult things populate my To Do list. For example, a few years ago, I awoke to the fact that I’ll never again have to make a speech, squeeze into a swimsuit, or interview a gaggle of radiologists about the clinical implications of some great new cardiac CT software.
• The less worried I am about concealing my politically incorrect opinions. For us senior citizens, there's no longer any need to get into a good school or land a plum job, so why hold back? (Of course, if we continue marching down the road to tyranny, I may one day be arrested for thought crimes; but “life in prison” isn’t quite the threat it would have been a few decades ago.)

 
And for the born-again Christian, the advantages of advancing age are positively overwhelming.  
 
For one thing, there’s no longer much sting associated with evangelistic rejection. In fact, every year it becomes easier to share my faith with an unbeliever. Perhaps he thinks I’m nuts for believing in a literal Genesis and Jonah, or incredibly narrow-minded for insisting that there’s only one route to heaven. And maybe she’s self-righteously offended that I have forced my “religion” on a person as good as she is. That’s okay with me; just so they somehow retain these seeds of truth until the Lord succeeds in breaking their stubborn hearts to make way for the gospel.
 
Even more important, old age means never having to say you’re worried—not even about the most highly touted disease du jour. For born-again believers in Jesus Christ, the sky is never falling; a heavenly forever awaits each of us at journey’s end.  
 
And that's the most precious silver lining of all.