I’ve known men and women who grew old way too early in life.
Be the cause physical, emotional or attitudinal, they slowed, grayed, dried and
settled at a rate that seemed unnatural and tragic.
I’ve also known those who are enduringly young. Even when they wrinkle and gray,
they retain sparks, energies and curiosities that keep them youthful.
If for some people old age arrives too early, and for
others youth endures so long, then it is logical that different people, at
differing times, find themselves in middle age.
By standard accounts, middle age is that period of 30-something to 40-something when the body still works pretty well, but
signs of wear and neglect become evident.
Newer models are noticeably faster, prettier and less expensive to
operate.
The middle is also the time for asking some of life’s biggest
questions. Am I where I’m supposed to
be? Do I matter? What’s next?
What did I miss? How will it all
end?
Using those definitions, I think I have stumbled backward
into middle age. Even though I am now 61
(and the rarity of 122-year-olds in the world tells me I am well past the
mid-point of my breathing) my body and mind feel weighted at a place that seems
like a turning point.
Let me address the obvious criticism that, if I believe I am
at middle age later than average, then I must think myself one of those
aberrantly youthful people. I confess
that is true. A youthful body and
outlook are things I’ve always felt blessed by.
Those close to me can judge whether I’ve been delusional or insufferable
about it.
The full truth is, arriving at middle age at 61 is nothing
to be arrogant about. The questions I
find myself wrestling with now would be far less fearsome if I had confronted
them at 40. Have I provided enough for
my wife? Will there be enough to live on
when our bodies grow frail? Have I done
what The Lord requires? Have I loved
justice and mercy? Have I really loved God
and my neighbor?
The overarching question that right now fills so many
thoughts is—how much time do I have left to get it right--or at least more
right?
One of the indicators of my middle-age-ness is that I feel
the need to buy a black suit. The longer
one lives, the more funerals one attends.
The more funerals, the more stories one hears of strange lumps, little
pains, subtle losses of memory, precursors all to great illness and
suffering.
The more stories you hear, the more stories you make up
about your own looming mortality. The end is out there.
I could not really conceive it when I was 40 or 50, but it’s palpable
now. There is a dark army moving below
the horizon, gaining strength, making ready.
A few years ago I was filming a video for a Catholic health
system at some of their nursing homes. I
met a woman in a crafts class who was vibrant, happy and enjoying her day. “She leaned in close and said to the priest
who was with me, “I’m not afraid to die.
I’m actually looking forward to it.
I’m looking forward to seeing my husband again.”
Later that same day we met a man who was sitting alone in a
wheelchair, staring into the floor. The
priest, inspired by the woman earlier, asked the man if he was looking forward
to dying. As the man raised his head to
look at the priest, horror lined his face.
“No,” his voice cracked. “No, I
want to live.”
My confession is that I want to live. Whatever my age, I want to do. I want to go.
I want to produce. I want to
strike it rich. I want to do good
things. But even if I am allowed to do all
that or none of it, I want to live with an attitude of joyful anticipation and
not dread.
Something I did not understand as well at 40 is that the
words of Jesus Christ offer genuine wisdom to answer my big questions.
Have I saved enough?
“Don’t be anxious—your Father in heaven
knows what you need.”
Have I loved the right things?
“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved
you. Abide in my love.”
How will it end?
“He who believes in me, though he die, yet
shall he live.”
Will I suffer?
“In the world you will have tribulation, but
take courage, I have overcome the world.”
What’s next for me and those I love?
“My peace I give you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let
them be afraid.”
Then, from across the centuries, he asks a critical question of me. In a voice that is
gentle and compassionate, yet insistent on an answer, he asks, “Do you believe?”
Yes, Lord.
I believe.
Help my unbelief.
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