Recently my executive assistant pointed out that the photo I was using for my column was … out of date. Her diplomatic wording sounded more like: “You are waaaay older than you were when the photo was taken. You should change it. Truth in advertising.” It did force me to confront the reality of aging.

Truth be told, I was always prematurely old; not an old soul in the way of wise younger people. And not unusually mature. Goodness knows I did my fair share of stupid, youthful things. But because of a difficult childhood I took on the fears and responsibilities of my parents before they were mine to carry. It set the scene for me to step up to responsibilities that were always somehow beyond me. I flourished in some things and failed spectacularly in others. Or, as my daughter artfully puts it, “You don’t know how to relax.” 

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Regardless of how widely (or otherwise) my foibles are shared, there is truth to the idea that we slowly transform our minds even as nature transforms our bodies. We begin to see a finish line, even if only a chimera in the distance, where once we saw only open highway. We plan for those we love so they are protected when we are gone. We may even begin to focus on bucket lists, scheduling time to do what we always wanted to: see the sites that have eluded us, fulfil a vow we made in our blissful youth. 

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Just as the mind and body transform, our spiritual lives can undergo their own transformation. Friends who were dogged atheists in youth have slowly returned to their parish churches, studying anew the faith that they may have put on hold, or hadn’t quite embraced, conscious, often, that they never truly surrendered it. Others, sadly, have been disillusioned by the troubles in the Church and have reluctantly, sometimes agonizingly, turned away. Many, myself included, are heart-broken by the Church’s failings, but believe faith transcends our human weaknesses so we work all the harder to celebrate all the places where the light comes in. And they are plentiful.

The Bible, of course, is resonant with tales of aging, though the Old Testament in particular presents a confusing narrative on the subject. Characters can range in age from birth to 969 years, and even appear to be different ages in different books. In 2 Kings (8:26), for example, Ahaziah, the sixth king of Judah, is said to be 22 years old, while in 2 Chronicles (22: 2) he is 42. Reams of texts have been written explaining the discrepancy, spanning the explanation spectrum from transcription errors among the scribes, to different calendaring in Biblical times to a distinction between Ahazian’s actual age versus the ruling family’s combined years. It’s only one among many quirky moments, but in a context where Old Testament characters definitely lived a wee bit longer than usual. Indeed, in one of my books of collected essays, I playfully referenced Simeon’s age (some versions have him at over 200 years old), only to have the review explain this was sloppy scholarship and defied biological possibility as well. I was bitter at first, but now with the fog of age I’ve come to forget the critique!

More reassuring, and deeply moving at times, are the many testimonials to the beauty of age and wisdom: some 40 plus verses that remind us that God will walk beside and bring special comfort to the elderly (Ruth 4:15); that celebrate the acquired wisdom of older folks (Job 12:12); or even ask for support and care for the aged: ‘Do not cast me off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength is spent’ (Psalm 71:9). 

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I told a colleague once that there were many passages celebrating gray hairs only to have him say, with mock bitterness, that his were falling out faster than they could turn grey.

In the end, there can be no doubt that a certain comfort and grace comes with the process of aging; a sense that we have spent our time wisely, that we have family and friends who are journeying with us, and a knowledge, too, that we have much more to contribute — that God does not abandon us, ever, and so we walk with purpose. That’s a pretty inspiring note to end on.