I’m getting old

I write this from my office, my back and neck in vice gripping tightness, realizing just how old I feel. Remember those days when you bounded out of bed, a song on your lips? (I’m picturing the princess in Enchanted right now, summoning New York vermin with her overly-high, sugary voice). I can summon my cat, but she runs away when I sing.

Those days of bounding and leaping are over. Now I creak and groan like an old Chevy. The lines around my eyes deepen (I convince myself it’s from all that laughing) while I STILL get acne! WHAT IS THAT ALL ABOUT? Zits AND wrinkles? Come on!

My metabolism, formerly known as Zippy the Wonder Burner, is now affectionately called Ralph the Lounge Lizard. I can eat seven almonds and they’ll morph into extra hips. Whatever!

My feet are longer. At least there’s that. I can win long feet contests if I have to.

And I can still run a few miles, huffing, yes, but getting somewhere nonetheless. In that arena, I have more endurance than any of my nubile children. So there’s that.

And the cool thing: my soul feels wiser. I’m less panicky (though when I’m lost, I still completely freak out). I rest more. I have a deeper longing for prayer, particularly when I have the privilege to pray for someone else.

And as the sun shines through my office window, highlighting my age, I still smile, creasing my eye lines all the more, because, really, the truth is: Jesus is so good. He’s just so good. And I’ll spend a lifetime feasting on that. And a lifetime more.

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