Around a table in the recreation room of a retirement facility sit eight people between the ages of 82 and 92. Seven women and one man. Men, it seems, are not long distance runners in the race of life.

The gathering is a sea of suffering. Walkers are parked next to a number of chairs. People begin sentences with "After my third operation . . ." Strokes, heart attacks, diabetes, arthritis, and various other maladies are members of the club. There are more maladies than there are people. It is one o'clock in the afternoon, right after lunch. Nap time has been cancelled. Deadly.

These elderly folks have come together at my invitation to explore the possibility of their spiritual development. They seem interested, but occasionally I catch a glint in their eyes or a shared look that makes me suspect they are humoring me.

The background theory is that old age is a time of loss: physical, psychological, and social. The body declines, the mind is less sharp, and many relationships have been broken by sickness, death, and confinement. However, it may be a time of spiritual growth. It may be possible to develop spiritually even while there is decline in other areas of life. So it says here.

I have always felt a major piece of spiritual development is wisdom. People realize certain spiritual truths that allow them to see through the surfaces of life, and this deeper wisdom frees them from various debilitating obsessions. These spiritual realizations are fleeting. The point is to hold them in awareness long enough for healing to have a chance. To help this happen, I use stories from spiritual traditions. The hope is that people will see and talk about their experience through the wisdom the story provides.

I try a story from the Hindu tradition about the persistence of the human desire to heal suffering. It does not catalyze the group into conversation. I tell a Christian story about God's presence in time of suffering. They smile, but do not talk. Wherever Lady Wisdom may be, she is not with us this afternoon. Napping, perhaps?

The final story is a tale of a woman who has lost her husband. She is inconsolable. The grief has lasted so long she feels she will never love and live again. Finally, she goes to see a holy man. This is spiritual storytelling's oldest ploy: "Maybe the holy man will help." She enters his hut (holy men always live in huts) and tells her tale. The holy man says he would like to help her, but he is cold. Could she go around to the neighboring houses and gather some wood? They could make a fire and warm his old bones. Then they could address her grief. She agrees, but as she is leaving he says to her, "Only take wood from a house that has lost no one."

Three women in the group say in unison, "She didn't get any wood."

I pause and finally say, "That's what the story says."

"But her grief lifted." This line, the actual last line of the story, comes from a frail woman who earlier had asked us to pray for her husband. Recently, they had to be separated because his Alzheimer's had progressed to a point where he was uncontrollable.

Never at a loss for words, I say, "That's what the story says."

Then they talk. They all talk.

I sit back and listen.

I do not listen to one thing or for one thing. I listen to it as a whole. It has many notes, but a single piece of music is being played. It comes to me slowly. When I see it, it is obvious.

Suffering isn't a problem for these people. It just is. It is not an offense to be railed against, an insult to who they are, or something they fear and fight every waking minute. It is just what is there. As someone once said, "It is not my pain. It is the pain."

Their real struggle is not with the unfairness of life or with their pain and loss. They may want suffering and loss to stop, but they do not seriously toy with that fantasy. Their struggle is how to keep loving with diminished resources. They are part of the suffering world, but by accepting it, they are also part of a world that transcends suffering. They are animated, feeling connected to a love larger than affliction.

I know this awareness will fade and lesser levels of consciousness will take over. But now the wisdom is there, and it is my pleasure to witness it.

At the end of Mitch Albom's bestseller Tuesdays with Morrie, the dying Morrie tells Mitch a story he has come upon. There is a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He's enjoying the wind and the fresh air — until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore.

"My God, this is terrible," the wave says. "Look what's going to happen to me!"

Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him, "Why do you look so sad?"

The first wave answers, "You don't understand! We're all going to crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn't it terrible?"

The second wave says, "No, you don't understand. You're not a wave, you're part of the ocean."

Mitch Albom concludes, "Morrie closes his eyes again. 'Part of the ocean,' he says, 'part of the ocean.' I watch him breath, in and out, in and out." This is not the banal knowledge of mortality. It is the spiritual wisdom of connection being realized at a profound level. It is spiritual development in the midst of loss. And sometimes it occurs, however fleetingly. Even after lunch.