Tag Archives: aging

My Age is Showing

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I’m writing this from Roger’s City, Michigan. My friend and brother in the Lord, Joe Bangert, is being installed here as pastor of Immanuel Lutheran Church and St. John Lutheran Church and School, and he asked me to preach at the installation service. I was glad to accept the invitation. Although, I confided with Jennifer that being asked to do things like this has a way of putting my age before me. While I’m sure it does happen, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a young pastor doing things like this. Typically, it’s the patriarchal guys who get asked to preach at ordinations and installations. Admittedly, this is my 30th year in church work. That said, I suppose I’m not the spring chicken I once was, even if I do believe I’m “always the same age inside,” as Gertrude Stein so famously said.

A glance in the mirror or getting back to my feet after sitting on the floor for too long both remind me that I’m closer to my end than my beginning. My face has lines, my hair is more than graying, and my body makes sounds that it probably shouldn’t.

The topic of aging came up last night on more than one occasion during discussion. When we were alone, Jen said something that reminded me of an insightful observation Henry David Thoreau once made. By the way, I am by no means Thoreau’s biggest fan. I’m just one of those guys who’ll share anyone’s words so long as the quote is good, and what Thoreau said makes sense to me. He once wrote, “No one is as old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” I agree with those words, although not as Thoreau probably meant them.

Thoreau was a transcendentalist, so in context, his words carry transcendentalism’s baggage—ideas like discovering life’s truest joys and purpose through spiritual connections with nature. I appreciate sunrises, and I’m rather fond of trees. I like these things just as much as the next guy. In fact, I’m watching the sun rise behind a purple-hued maple tree as I type these words. In its emerging light, I count no less than ten spiders meticulously preening their webs in preparation for the day’s catch. There’s a chipmunk skittering here and there in the yard. A rabbit sits near the fence, watching him closely. As they do what they do, the birds sing their early morning songs. The portrait is extraordinary in every way. Still, I know better than to commune with any of this stuff.

First of all, I can be weird on occasion, but I’m not a weirdo. And so, there’s a 100% chance you’ll never see a YouTube video of a bison trampling and then launching me into the air because I somehow believed I could commune with it. You’ll also never see me attempting to pet sharks, which leads me to another thought.

Not only am I overly fond of things like showers and indoor plumbing, but I’m equally fond of not being eaten by creatures larger than myself.

Lastly, and perhaps it’s just one more sign of age’s infiltration, Jennifer and I have been watching a lot of nature shows lately, and I’ve become all too familiar with nature’s instinctual ways, some of which I’ve already witnessed this morning with the spiders. It seems to me that nature can pretty much be summed up in three essential premises: wooing mates, combat, and killing and eating each other. That’s about it. And so, with that, count me out of Thoreau’s transcendental intentions.

Thoroughly removed, his words are still good, especially if you consider “enthusiasm” as a synonym for “joy.” No one is as old as those who have outlived joy.

Life, with all its twists and turns, is profoundly vibrant. Through good and bad, opportunities to learn and grow abound. And because God never fails in His loving kindness and care (Philippians 4:19; Matthew 6:31-32, 7:11), which is perfectly located in Christ, a Christian can rest assured that joy is always lurking in each of life’s moments (Romans 5:1-5). The ability to discover joy during sadness’ inevitable humdrum is possible, too. And that’s the partial point. Young or old, a joyless person is metaphorically near death compared to a joyful one. A joyless 20-year-old man, while he may be capable of greater physicality than an 80-year-old, is far less capable of so many other things that matter so much more.

Something—or better said, someone—comes to mind in this regard.

I went to visit my friend Gerry. He’s a longtime member of this congregation who can no longer get to church on his own. Thankfully, his faithful son and daughter-in-law, Jeff and Lisa, bring him regularly. But when Gerry isn’t feeling up to it, I visit him at home. I saw him a little over a week ago. At one point during our conversation, somehow, we began chatting about television programming’s devolution. Admitting that most shows on TV were trash, he mentioned a fondness for home restoration programs. He enjoys the “reveal” moments. He loves the moment when the home is finally ready, and the owners see it for the first time. Describing these things, Gerry was kid-like in his enthusiasm. As someone who is relatively recliner-bound, he couldn’t restore a home even if he wanted to. But you’d never know it by his enthusiasm. You’d never know it by his joy. Although, that’s not quite the point of sharing this.

Gerry’s joy is clearly not located in what he can or cannot do as he ages. Sure, he misses his athletic days. Gerry was an exceptional baseball player. He probably could’ve gone pro. But the “was” and “could’ve” haven’t landlocked him. His joy isn’t tied to this world’s limitations, ultimately rendering him perpetually downcast. Instead, his life is fixed on Jesus. And interestingly, his joy continues to flourish as it’s fixed on others around him. Their happiness feeds his happiness, and with that, his enthusiasm for life continues to abound.

I didn’t begin this rambling intent on talking about Gerry, but I never really know where these things will go. Just know that even as Gerry is in his mid-eighties, the more time I spend with him, the more I realize he’s one of the youngest people I know. Uplifted, and then looking at myself in the mirror through the same Gospel lens, I am reminded, “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16).

Indeed, I’m getting older. But I fully intend, by God’s grace, to remain a joy-filled toddler in Christ. Looking back on what I just wrote, I know my words are by no means original. Jesus said them first. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Saint Matthew recorded for all of us, “At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?’ And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven’” (Matthew 18:1-5).

Headless Chickens

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I’m getting older. You know what that means? It means I’m losing more and more of my generation and its characters to death.

I received word this week that Carl Weathers died. Weathers was known for his breakout role as Apollo Creed in the Rocky films. He was great in those movies, but as a lover of sci-fi horror, I appreciated him as Dillon in one of my all-time favorites: Predator. When I learned he would be at the Motor City Comic Con last spring, I ensured my kids got to meet and get a photo with him. What a nice guy—genuinely friendly.

Strangely, I heard the news about Weathers after reading an article about how scientists believe they’ve unlocked one particular secret to aging. Every generation and culture has been chasing these secrets since the dawn of Man. And why? Because no one wants to die. Everyone knows it’s permanent. I suppose that’s the humor in cemetery fences. Why have one when those outside don’t want in, and those inside can’t get out?

Essentially, the article reported that cells age when their mitochondria start leaking. As they do, they release proteins that cause inflammation, leading to aging’s effects. Researchers theorize that by stopping the mitochondria from doing this, they’ll be one step closer to reversing the aging process altogether.

Will scientists ever figure out how to do this? To some extent, maybe. But will they ever defeat death? The Bible would say no.

First, death is far more than a natural phenomenon involving leaky mitochondria. Stopping this process won’t fix death. Physical death is merely the last decomposing fruit produced by a much deeper condition. Second, Jesus assured us that the earth has an expiration date. When it arrives, so will Jesus. He’ll return in glory to do precisely what the creeds declare: to judge the living and the dead. Hypothetically, even if scientists figure out how to keep people from aging, when that day arrives, those without faith in Christ and His salvific work will still be found locked in bondage to sin and eternal death, ultimately meeting the Lord as spiritual corpses. Such a person might look alive in this life but, in truth, is already dead. That’s what Saint Paul meant by describing living human beings as dead in their trespasses and sins (Ephesians 2:1). In a sense, the image of a chicken that’s had its head lopped off comes to mind. Running around this life’s yard, the chicken might look alive. But it isn’t. It’s dead. And it’s only a matter of time before its actual condition is settled.

I suppose it’s foolish to ponder death without including Saint Paul’s reference to it as the last enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). We’ll have our share of enemies in life. I know I have plenty. Sometimes, I feel like a line has formed somewhere, and it’s comprised of folks who want to see me come undone entirely. If that line does exist, I know death is the last one standing in it. And when it’s his turn, there will be no outsmarting or outmaneuvering him. Plenty have tried. Plenty still do. And yet, there is that poetic but strangely inspired line that speaks an unflinching truth: “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me” (Emily Dickinson).

It would be nice if science could help ease the aging process. I’d certainly buy a pill promising to reverse the disc degeneration in my back. A day without back pain would be nice. Nevertheless, such relief is not humanity’s greatest need. Look around. The world is a farmyard of headless chickens, so many chasing what cannot meet that terribly final necessity.

That’s not necessarily the case for Christians. We’re different than all the other chickens. We have the Word of the Gospel. The Gospel is restorative. It makes complete that which was incomplete. We have our heads. Saint Paul writes that Christ “is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent” (Colossians 1:18). This is to say, we’re not running around the yard aimlessly toward an unfortunate end. Instead, by faith, we have the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16), and we’re living out the rest of our days in devotion to Him. That devotion has multiple aims, one of which is concern for what’s happening around us (Galatians 5:6; 1 Timothy 1:5).

Neil Armstrong once said that every human has a finite number of heartbeats. He also said he didn’t intend to waste any of them, which means he intended to devote himself to things that really mattered. Indeed, devoted people do incredible things.

On the way to school last Wednesday, Evelyn and I were listening to the news and learned about a man who died. His name was Larry Taylor. Taylor was an Army attack helicopter pilot in Vietnam and the last to receive the Medal of Honor in 2023 for doing something in June of 1968 that too many others wouldn’t. In short, four American soldiers were surrounded by aggressively approaching enemy forces. Taking inescapable fire, they were out of ammunition, having only a dozen hand grenades and their knives. If no one came to save them, they would die. Knowing this, Taylor flew straight into the chaos, lighting up the enemy ranks with as much firepower as possible before setting down in the middle of the mess. Thousands of bullets whizzing and rocket-propelled grenades flying, the trapped men grabbed hold of the helicopter’s skids, and Taylor flew them to safety.

At the medal presentation, a seemingly aloof crowd member asked Taylor, “What on earth would possess you to do what you did?”

“Well,” the 81-year-old hero and faithful member of his Christian church in Tennessee replied, “it needed doin’.”

Taylor was devoted to those men. Even as he faced certain death, his devotion was not self-concerned. Instead, he insisted on using what was likely to be the last of his heartbeats for something that mattered.

You have a limited number of heartbeats. Battles are happening around you that matter. Enemy forces in abortion clinics surround unborn children. More than 61 million of them have been killed. Countless students leave their homes and are besieged by teachers and administrators relentlessly firing radical sexual ideologies that overwhelm them. More and more are overcome each day. Christians are being bombarded in the trenches of America’s public square, having a mile-long line of battalion after battalion intent on eradicating them.

But you know something of death. You know it’s the last enemy. You also know that because of Jesus, it’s a toothless one. Therefore, if not even death can be our worst concern, what would keep us from a devotion to Christ capable of flying in to rescue as many as we can, even if it means risking ourselves?

Of course, that’s a rhetorical question.

My ever-vigilant prayer is that you’ll know the Lord’s remarkable rescue from sin and death. With such knowledge, I pray you’ll sense a Spirit-driven devotion to faithfulness far more robust than anything this world could ever use to terrorize you.

Wasting Away

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You’re receiving this very early, I know. All I can say is that it’s been somewhat of a rough week, and this morning bears very little difference. I’ve been dreadfully sick for most of it.

I haven’t been this sick in a while. Also, when I have been unwell, I don’t remember past illnesses taking this long to overcome. Typically, I can bounce back in a day or two—at the absolute worst, three days. With a proper regimen of hot showers, Tylenol, whisky, and rest, I can usually turn things around relatively quickly, enough so that I don’t miss much. But I lost this whole week, from Monday to Sunday. And a few more days at home are undoubtedly in the cards.

I turned 51 this past Thursday. I spent the day wrestling with the same cerebrum-searing headache, body-riddling aches, and lung-tearing cough that I’d had since Monday evening. I did manage to visit a doctor on Friday morning. No COVID. His diagnosis? More or less what I’ve already told you. I’m sick.

That’ll be twenty dollars.

That said, I am willing to admit I’m not dying, although I’m not yet willing to say I’ll make it to 52. Of course, only the Lord knows for sure.

I suppose as I get older, I should expect my body to be less resilient. That’s part of Saint Paul’s point when he wrote that “our outer self is wasting away” (2 Corinthians 4:16). However, it’s not easy to accept, especially when mankind’s propensity is to see himself other than as he is. In other words, what I see in the mirror doesn’t match my self-perception. In many ways, I still feel like an unstoppable twenty-something, and I live as though “old age” will always be thirty years older than whatever age I might be at any moment. This past week was a reminder of just how untrue that perception is. Truth be told, it reminded me that I’m likely well into the last half of my life. Another truth be told, that feeling caught me off guard. That must have been the surprise Trotsky meant when he said something about how old age is the one thing that happens to a man that he least expects.

What I’m saying might seem negative, but I don’t necessarily mean to take it in that direction. Yes, I’m forever coming undone and realizing it more daily. Still, there remains a distinguishing reverence to getting older. God gives a kindly nod to it when he describes the grey hair of his eldest believers as a “crown of glory” (Proverbs 16:31) and when He acknowledges, “Wisdom is with the aged, and understanding in length of days” (Job 12:12). And Paul didn’t end his description with “wasting away.” He continued that “our inner self is being renewed day by day.” Perhaps inspired by texts like these, we’ve been blessed with lyrics from the likes of Joseph Campbell, who scribbled so eloquently:

As a white candle
In a holy place
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.

I think one of the most sublime thoughts on aging came from King David. His words are relatively simple. Still, they make for an insightful observation that he could only understand in his sunset years. He wrote by divine inspiration, “I have been young, and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken” (Psalm 37:25).

His point is an easy one. Every age promises its challenges. Nevertheless, the Lord remains faithful. Young or old, He is with us. He will never leave nor forsake His people (Hebrews 13:5). This is a saying we can trust whether we’re 3 or 93. But when you really think about it, only the 93-year-old has the genuine perspective to comprehend and confirm it. The aged among us can look back across the expanse of life’s plentiful years to recall the events they were sure would destroy them but didn’t.

You Look Young for Your Age

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I learned something a few days ago. It came to me just after a discussion with my wife regarding her feelings about my beard.

To begin, she’s not a fan of my beard by default, at least not at the length I’ve been keeping it lately. That being said, she doesn’t completely hate it. It’s just that when it gets a little more ZZ Top-ish, she doesn’t appreciate the scragginess when I kiss her, or the fact that she has to be a spotter at dinner, being ready with a glance and gesture to let me know that not all of my spaghetti sauce made it into my mouth.

I do appreciate her help in this regard. By the way, remind me to tell you the story sometime about what happened to me at a gas station in Milford after having eaten a bag of popcorn with the kids in the lunchroom at the school.

Anyway, Jennifer knew me when I didn’t have the beard, and so she knows why I started growing it.

First of all, while my life doesn’t move along at the speed of light, at a minimum, it’s often clocking very near the speed of sound. Speaking practically, growing a beard has made getting ready in the mornings much easier. Not having to shave gives me a few minutes more. Yes, minutes matter to me. Secondly, I’ve always had a young face. And even though I’m a long way from my thirties, even with the beard, people swear I’m barely into them. That’s nice, right? Except for a guy who has a side hustle of reviewing whiskies, without the beard, it used to be that I could barely get the lady behind the counter at the liquor store asking my age to believe the driver’s license I was showing her wasn’t fake.

“That’s you, huh?” she’d ask.

“Yep,” I’d reply, “that’s me.”

“You look young for your age,” she’d continue.

“Yeah, well, I’m married, have four kids, and a mortgage,” I’d offer. “And one of those kids is in college.”

My beard has helped somewhat in this regard.

But without rambling on for too long about this, what lesson did I learn after my discussion with Jennifer? I learned that only one of the two reasons remains for keeping the beard.

Honoring my promise to Jennifer to do some trimming, I went upstairs to begin the task. As I gathered closely to the mirror, I realized I really don’t have a young face anymore. I saw wrinkles I’ve never seen before, and a tiredness that I used to only be able to feel but not necessarily observe. And while I’ve always had a thick head of hair, I noticed far more of it had begun silvering. In fact, most of the beard hair that ended up in the sink was gray. Jen says the gray makes me look distinguished. I don’t know about that. What I do know is that as I zipped this way and that way with the electric trimmers, I could hear the words “You look young for your age” beginning to carry a far different tone. What was once something that sort of bothered me had become in that moment a compliment.

But here’s the twist: A compliment like that is only given by someone who thinks you’re old. In other words, the tables had officially turned. To use youthfulness as a compliment is to admit I’m not youthful.

Maybe I’m digging too deeply here. I guess I do that with these things, sometimes. Nevertheless, Jennifer and I keep each other accountable when it comes to this whole aging thing. She’ll say to me just as I’ll say to her, “Don’t wish the days away.” Usually it’s said in a moment of frustration over the kids, or work, or something challenging. And certainly we say it mindful of the future—that eventually the day will come when there won’t be any more days like these. In that light, we say these words to remember to be immersed in the moment.

It was Seneca who said, “Old age is an incurable disease.” It’s an illness we all possess, and in a sense, doing whatever we can to look or feel as young or old at any given moment is not necessarily the issue, but rather the awareness that an endpoint is always eminently near. Death can and will arrive at the appointed time. I remember hearing the news that my grade school friend Todd had fallen from a tree and died. I remember hearing people say his death was untimely. But in truth, when it comes to Death, age doesn’t really matter. We’re all going to die.

Knowing this, as an extension of the lesson learned while trimming some of my beard away, I thanked the Lord for His grace, acknowledging He has been so very good to me and my family. I thanked Him for being fully immersed in every moment of my life—and the life of my family—especially when we as individuals weren’t as invested. I ended that prayer by holding Him to His promise to continue to be there for us until our very last hour together, knowing my greatest hope is not that we’ll never taste Death, but that Jennifer, Joshua, Madeline, Harrison, and Evelyn will one day be within my reach in the glories of eternal life in heaven.

I suppose one of the best lessons to be learned by all of this is that Christians can look into the mirror, see an aging expression, and yet be confident enough to face the setting sun of this mortal life it is betraying. Easter prompts this courage. It reminds us of a sunlight that never sets, one not being emitted from a sun or moon, but rather from God Himself (Revelation 21:23). It brings to mind the death of Death (2 Timothy 1:10) and the resurrection and restoration of failing bodies (Philippians 3:21). It reminds us that we aren’t inheritors of this life, but of the life to come (Titus 3:7). A glance in the mirror, while it will reveal the mortal illness of age, through the lens of faith, it can also show you the face of someone the Lord looked upon in love, someone the Lord went into the fray of Sin and Death to snatch back from the dreadful permanency of eternal Death awaiting each and every human being at the end of the illness. The next time you look in the mirror, I encourage you to think on this Gospel truth. And maybe even offer a prayer, as I did, thanking the Lord for the days you’ve been given, and for any of the days yet to come.