When I Notice the First Signs

Despite our valiant efforts, we cannot stop the aging process. But God never says, "Whoa. I did not see that coming."

Although she might have disagreed, fashion sense ranked lower on the list of my mom's strengths and skill sets than my siblings and I would have liked. The good news is that no one could accuse her of trying to dress two decades younger than her age.

But the day she showed up at an event wearing avocado-green slacks with a kelly-green sweater, my sisters and I looked at each other as if we could hear the unspoken words that flew between us: "And ... it begins."

Aging.

But it wasn't the beginning at all.

The aging process started when my grandmother pushed my mom out into the world. One minute old. Two weeks old. Four years old. Forty years old. The process continued for her until she drew her final breath of earth air at age eighty-three. She'd lived twenty-four years past the first of many heart attacks. She'd survived nine years of congestive heart failure, four years in a home hospice program, and nine months of "any minute now" in a hospice-residence facility.

For a long time after Mom died, the phone beside my bed unnerved me. I no longer had reason to lie awake listening for its ring in the night. No one would ever call to tell me that my mom needed me or she'd taken a turn for the worse. She was gone.

For her, the "as my parents age" phase lasted much longer than our family members imagined possible. It began as my mom uttered her first newborn cry — as it does for all of us — then intensified in her sixties, seventies, and eighties as her health grew progressively worse, and finally came to a quiet halt on a Monday afternoon seven years ago when God said, "Dorothy, that's quite enough. Come home."

Some say aging signals death's approach the way the first stray snowflake warns of winter's impending arrival. Others say aging signals a life well-lived. Or that aging is simply a new stage of living — an advanced stage of the human soul's life cycle.

Poetic.

Then why the flood of antiaging serums, pills, supplements, and creams? Why the frenzy to at least slow or mask the aging process if we can't stop it?

Most of us cope far better with the signs that we're aging than we do with the telltale signs that our parents are. In childhood, every new phase is a sign of growth and development, of new adventures and skills, newly realized potential and accomplishment. Progression in an elderly person usually means loss, decline, retired skills — relinquishing rather than attaining.

Our relationship with an aging parent changes, and not always for the better. The aging process slaps us in the face with its rude reminder that time with our beloved parent is fleeting. It has an end point. No matter when that date arrives, it will seem too soon.

Nothing we face — emotionally, physically, spiritually, financially, mentally — surprises God. Not even aging. It's a season He's watched His children traverse since Adam and Eve noticed their first wrinkles, since Eve plucked her first gray hair, noticed her skin was getting crepey and muttered, "'Eat the fruit,' the serpent said. 'What could happen?'"

American culture focuses on the negatives of aging. But many of the elderly — similar to the wild, stunning colors of autumn leaves prior to winter's approach — are taking advantage of the accompanying benefits. They're serving others, inventing new ministries, spending time with their grandchildren, or helping their middle-aged children through the "middles."

They travel — canes and walkers notwithstanding — to places that had been on their wish lists for too long. They're socializing, entertaining others, and choosing the pace at which they live rather than being forced into an unnatural pace by a job or other responsibilities.

The emotionally healthiest among them lace their days with laughter and friendships, mending fences that have served no real purpose. They convert from two-wheeled to three-wheeled motorcycles so they can still participate in their favorite pastimes. They take cooking classes. They learn languages they may never be called upon to use, simply for the joy of expanding their knowledge. In some cases, they're leaving grown children in the dust with their voracious appetites for risk-taking and attempting new things.

Part of the season when we watch our parents age may be hemmed in awe. We discover what really matters to our parents when the "have-tos" are stripped away. We reconnect with them on a new level — adult to adult — and step into a not-altogether-unpleasant role of meeting their needs in ways that weren't possible or necessary before. We enjoy shared goals and serve our communities side by side.

Until ill health or memory issues or the natural effects of advanced aging threaten to disturb that scene.

Solomon wrote poetically and soberly of that season in Ecclesiastes 12:1–7 (AMP):

Remember [thoughtfully] also your Creator in the days of your youth [for you are not your own, but His], before the evil days come or the years draw near when you will say [of physical pleasures], "I have no enjoyment and delight in them"; before the sun and the light, and the moon and the stars are darkened [by impaired vision], and the clouds [of depression] return after the rain [of tears]; in...