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“The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.”
–– Isaiah 40:8
Among the things that make humans human is the capacity to be simultaneously both inside and apart from a conversation; to be both player and spectator, participant and observer, at the same time. Recently, during a conversation with friends, I became aware that this uniquely human trait was in play as I observed the dialogue in which I was engaged. It dawned on me that we were participating in a call and response litany, sort of a call to worship. Only, the liturgy was not drawn from scripture or the traditional rites of praise and devotion. Rather, the call and response liturgy consisted of an exchange of details concerning doctor appointments and medical procedures.
It dawned on me that I had fully embraced this new stage of life that up to this point I had only ridiculed. I realized I had crossed over, breached the chrysalis, passed the threshold of life’s senior set. Long gone were the aimless and random observations of youth while hanging out. Behind me were the social occasions dominated by enthralled reports of a child’s latest record-breaking achievement, and later, the child’s angst inspiring rebellion. Now, social dialogue would be focused on the next visit to the cardiologist, the experience of cataract surgery, or the results from the MRI. Rather than comparing the rosters of SEC powerhouses, we are giving reviews on ophthalmologists, urologists, orthopedists, and whatchamacallogists.
There is no reason for me to fret over my advanced circumstance, understanding that though challenges, search histories, conversations, and vocabularies may shift with each new phase of life, the privilege and gift of life itself remains a source of wonder and praise. Goodness remains a possibility. Love can still fill a heart to overflowing. Beauty is still perceptible. Joy abides as an option.
If there is one passage of scripture memorized in churches I have served, it would probably be the Isaiah text quoted above. We have a pillow that was given to me over thirty years ago with Isaiah’s musings on grass and flowers embroidered on it. In another congregation, a member approached me after worship, saying that he had suddenly realized that when I spoke of withering grass and fading flowers, I was talking about him. Yes, withering and fading are concomitant with aging, yet, it can be quite agreeable if our memories can spur gratitude more than regret, if we can discern possibility in the present, and if we can trust in God’s future for us. I may groan more over sore muscles than after bad jokes, but I remain amazed by the glorious gift of this life.
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