“None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.”  Henry David Thoreau

Let me tell you a short story…

My dad’s mom, Gramma Bell, was affectionately titled Edna Bertha Butt by my older cousins, but to me, she was just “Gramma.” She loved Jesus and it was with great joy that she would tell me all about Him as I rolled her hair in pink sponge rollers as a small child sitting on the back of the couch on a Saturday night when she would come over and babysit me and my siblings.  I’m not sure how often or how many of her grandchildren got to go to church with her, but I did and I remember the long pews, the organ pumping out hymns and occasionally someone would belt out a “Hallelujah” from the back of the church.  Those times were the stability I needed as a child in an alcoholic home.  Those moments shaped the woman I’ve become.

When Gramma moved into the upstairs flat of our home in Buffalo, NY, she became my dearest friend; someone who took time to listen to me and give me undivided attention.   She would bake a lemon cake, set it on the stove to cool and wait for me to come upstairs to see her.  We’d each have a cup of orange pekoe tea with milk and sugar, along with cake and I’d just pour out my heart to her.  That went on throughout my teen years and then Gramma Bell moved in with my aunt because Alzheimer’s had set in and she needed full-time care.  Yet the impact she had on my life has been eternal.  I attribute my salvation to the investment of my grandmother.

I remember the day as if it was yesterday when she came home from the hospital after cataract surgery and the bandage came off her eye. We went to the tiny bathroom together and as she looked at herself in the mirror, she put both hands on her face and with a deep sigh, said, “I’m old.”  But to me, she was anything but old.  She was smart, witty and her laugh was contagious, which is probably why my cousins affectionately called her Bertha Butt…just so she’d laugh and then we’d all laugh.  Old was just a word.  It didn’t define who she was to me.

Every night, around midnight, I’d hear J. Vernon McGee, her favorite end times preacher, through the thin walls from her room to mine downstairs.  I imagine her passion for Jesus and her longing for His return etched in my heart the same desire as well as fear that I might not be found worthy to be with Him, so that by the time I turned fifteen, I asked His forgiveness for my own sins and received eternal life on January 21, 1978.

Why this walk down memory lane?  I’m getting older, the wrinkles on my hands resemble hers, her laughter is a reminder to enjoy the days I have and the investment she made in my life is a testament to who I’ve become.

I  admit there is another reason for this particular post.  We are officially considered ‘senior age folks’ at our church and though we don’t go to the S.A.L.T. (Senior Adults Living Triumphantly) group every other Thursday night, because we are in the category of adults over fifty-five and we serve in a couple of areas in our church, I was asked to write an article about the WHY of what we do.  I just finished writing it and though I’m grateful for the impact we have made, I know there’s a lot more work to be done.

If there is one thing I believe that’s needed today in our messed up world, it’s the wisdom that comes from a lifetime of following Jesus.

It doesn’t come without a cost.

It’s most uncomfortable when the world’s message is, “Retire, take vacations, relax.  You’ve earned it.  You deserve to take it easy.  You’ve worked your whole life.  It’s your turn now;” and the temptation is to sit back and just take it easy, but eternity is on the line and the impact we make or don’t make has eternal implications.

The funny thing is that just because my hands are wrinkled, I have age spots and have acquired some wisdom, that doesn’t mean I’ve arrived or that I don’t have so much more to learn.  The more I know, the more I realize how little I really know. The honest truth is that if I don’t look in the mirror daily and examine how I live and love, I’m just a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

For example, just earlier this month, I had to face my attitude regarding how I had been behaving towards my father-in-law.  I have written over and over again about my shortcomings with this man that lives in the room right next to ours, and yet this time I genuinely want to change.  The word ‘inconvenience’ was brought out when I shared my feelings over a situation with a friend and then again, with another friend three days later, who reminded me to admit it was hard, that I can’t do it without God’s power flowing through me and that can’t happen until I repent for my sucky attitude, which I did.

 

 

It’s been almost a month since that realization and all I can say is “Wow, God, look what YOU’VE done in turning my heart TOWARDS him, rather than away.”  I see how much more joy and friendship there is between us.  Now THAT is a miracle. It has been a daily dying to myself and seeing him the way God sees him: an 89 year old man who has no wife, no car, and is dependent on us alone.  I’ve received a gift to be his caregiver.  I can delight in that gift.  That’s all up to me. Or I can complain, allowing my words and attitudes to undo me and destroy the little time we have left.

Prove me wrong, but I believe that as we grow older, unless we surround ourselves with young children or the elderly, we default to becoming grouchy old people who are useless in the Father’s hands.  May He continue to surround me with little ones and old ones alike who will teach me to be sacrificial and kind like just my Father God is to me.

Getting comfortable with being uncomfortable needs to be a T-shirt.  I’d wear it!

Thanks for reading to the end.

It could have been, quite possibly, most uncomfortable.