This past week I attended a conference on Elder Abuse Prevention. It was a great experience and I learned a lot.

In addition to its educational aspects, the conference offered an opportunity to make connections with other Elder Advocates. I attended a "Networking" reception held on Tuesday evening that featured yummy hors d'oeuvres and a very respectable assortment of California wines. Life was good.

Wednesday promised more of the same: useful information and delicious food. In the morning — after a pleasant continental breakfast — I went to seminars on Nursing Home Staffing Mandates, and Updates on Recent Legislation. At lunchtime I joined a couple of friends who had saved a seat for me at the front of the ballroom. For the first few minutes we chatted amiably over our salads, getting to know the other folks who shared our table. As the waiters delivered the entree of baked salmon with rice and white asparagus, the luncheon speaker was introduced.

Dr. Gibbs is an expert on elder mental health issues, and well-known for her work as an expert witness in cases of elder abuse. She began her presentation with a picture of her best friend, Rupert — a rather motley-looking terrier mix. And of course Deborah the animal lover was immediately hooked.

I turned my chair to face the huge projection screen, enthralled by Rupert's scraggily whiskers which were visible in such detail. The color clarity and sharp focus were impressive.

We were given a brief review of the history and goals of Dr. Gibbs' agency, and the most recent data on the extent of elder abuse — which crosses all cultural and socioeconomic boundaries. It was disturbing but, as the good doctor said, these were just statistics. Facts and figures have little meaning; what matters is the individuals who make up these numbers. With that introduction, she began describing some of the cases she had worked on. In graphic detail.

Photo after photo — 12 feet high — of grandmas and grandpas with blackened eyes, burned skin, and splintered bones. Unwashed hair, untrimmed nails, bedding that had not been changed in months.... Bodies that had not been bathed in weeks, covered with blood, and spit, and worse. Face after face stared out at us in mute agony.

When it ended, the room was silent. I felt damp and dizzy — even though I'd kept my eyes on the carpet after the first dozen or so photos. Reflexively we applauded as Dr. Gibbs left the stage. I have no idea what else was said. The room emptied with the same orderly quiet as a funeral home chapel; there was none of the chatter and thumping typical of 150 people leaving a dining room.

Outside the same quiet prevailed, and a sense of mourning, or sorrow, or shock. We'd been expecting a "lunch speaker" — a presenter who would give us some information and encouragement and perhaps a joke or two. Something light and hopeful. We were utterly unprepared for the things we had seen.

After exchanging a few words with my colleagues — who looked like I felt, I went home with the beginning of a sick headache. None of them stayed for the afternoon sessions, either. In conversations the next day we discovered that many folks had left the conference at that point and basically collapsed; going straight to bed, or falling asleep on the sofa, suffering from headaches and stomach aches, feeling tense, depressed and nervous.

Despite the kind of work we do, and the fact that we know those kinds of things happen, it was hard to see those things in person. We were saddened, and shocked, and sickened.

Maybe that's how Lot's wife felt. As she looked back at the city where she had once lived, perhaps she recalled the faces of the people there. She may have smelled the smoke, and watched the buildings collapse. Could she hear the cries of the dying? Did she see the birds and sheep and wild animals fleeing from the fire as their homes, too, were destroyed? She must have been saddened and shocked and sickened by the terrible loss. Her grief must have seemed overwhelming.

In the midst of all she witnessed, perhaps Lot's wife felt hopeless and stuck — as if there was no sense in trying, no sense in going forward, as if nothing mattered.

Perhaps there have been times when you've felt that way, too.

Maybe you feel that way right now. There is no sin in that.

Nowhere does the text condemn Lot's wife for having looked back. It only reports what happened to her when she did.

Was the message to Lot, "Don't ever look back." or "Don't continue to look back."?

I wonder.

Perhaps it was a warning not to be so bound by what is past that we forget about today. Whatever has gone before is history; it is not a mandate for the future. The past is our teacher, not our jailer. We have been set free. Our God is the Originator of "a new thing": there is always a possibility for change, for renewal and restoration (Isaiah 43:19; Mark 1:17; Mt 9:17; John 13:35, Mk 2:5; Luke 7:48).

Sometimes that is hard to believe. But it is true.

The Holy One has filled each day, each hour, every moment with opportunity — our opportunity to look with a new vision, to open our hearts to the possibility of something new, something wonderful, something hopeful. This very day can be a day of new beginnings — when we dare to believe, to hope, to try, and to do.

The longest journey begins with a single step.

Do you accept the Beloved's deep and abiding love and sincere forgiveness of your sins and shortcomings? Are you willing to trust that you don't have to be perfect in order to make a difference?

"We can do no great things;
we can only do small things with great love."
~ Mother Teresa of Calcutta