I have on my desk an actual letter from Mrs. Anne Farley of Portland, Oregon. It says, “Dear Mr. Callaway, I enjoyed meeting you at camp this summer and I enjoyed listening to you speak, but I could not help noticing when I read your book that you look a lot older in real life than you do in your picture. Also you are quite bald and your hair is turning gray. Why do you think some people age so fast?”
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Mrs. Farley for reminding me that if life is a loaf of bread, I’m on the moldy end. Perhaps I’ll send her a fruitcake this Christmas—labeled “Best before 1973.”
My eldest son deserves one too. On the night of my 35th birthday—in an act I will remember as long as I have functioning brain cells—he asked me, “How old are you again?” When I told him, he cocked his head to one side and said, “Wow! You’re half dead!”
I think I handled the situation with admirable self-control. Calmly tucking the child into bed, I aimed a kiss squarely at his forehead, then went to my study and removed him from the will.
A few years have passed and I must admit that I’m aging even more rapidly than my son predicted. You may know the feeling. One night you go to bed feeling like a teenager and the next day you stand in front of the mirror asking out loud, “Hey, who kidnapped my body? Who replaced it with this wrinkled one?” You pass young people on the street and think they see a lean, trim, 21-year-old. In actual fact, they see a middle-aged man who could be having a mid-life crisis the very next time he glances through a photo album. On such occasions, it is important to remind ourselves that there are good reasons we are maturing so quickly. In my case, there are three good reasons: Two boys and a girl.
Yes, throughout history children have been responsible for aging their parents. Back in biblical times it took longer. Methusaleh lived 969 years. But remember that his children had not heard of dating, begun placing earrings in their noses, or discovered loud music.
When our children were smaller I came home from a tough day at the office to find that our house was moving. Our sons, Stephen and Jeffrey, had replaced my Frank Sinatra tape with something that sounded like some very angry people had gotten together with the expressed purpose of harming one another with jackhammers. Though I’m sure the tape contained actual words, this is what I heard:
OYA BOOM BOOM OYA BOOM BOOM WAHOO BOOM BOOM
(Turn up volume and repeat chorus)
“Hey! That sounds like somebody strangling a bagpiper!” I yelled. “TURN IT DOWN!”
“BURN WHAT DOWN?” hollered Jeffery.
In the kitchen, Ramona was peacefully preparing supper—thanks to industrial strength ear plugs.
“Guys,”I said, after the volume control had been returned to its rightful spot, “When I was a boy, I was told that this kind of music kills plants. Chickens stop laying eggs when they hear this stuff. People start world wars. Let’s find something else to do. Like go outside and see if this tape will burn.”
“We kinda like it,” they said.
Another big reason I am aging rapidly is the fact that my daughter reached puberty at a speed upwards of 900 miles an hour and boys have been showing up on our doorstep asking for her hand in marriage. If I sound paranoid, please forgive me. I’ll feel better once I install land mines in the front yard.
One night my parents came to visit. The same dad and mom who once asked me to turn my “music” down. The boys were playing DCTalk loudly enough to annoy people on Mars (which, interestingly, is where this band originates), and I noticed big grins on my parents&8217; faces. Perhaps, I thought, the real joy of grandparenting is watching your children be tortured with the same instruments they used to torture you. But as the evening wore on I came to a very different conclusion.
You see, Mom and Dad didn’t seem to notice the music as much as they noticed the kids. They listened as Stephen read the lyrics to “I’m into Jesus.” They held grandchildren on their knees, they took an interest in their homework, and asked them about their day. Eight decades of living had taught them that life passes too quickly for us to spend it majoring on the minors. And so I watched them hug teenagers with more earrings than brain cells. I saw them on their knees confidently asking God to accomplish as much for their grandchildren as He has for their kids.
I don’t know about you, but I need to be reminded of these things every now and then. I need to be reminded that the same God who has been faithful to each generation isn’t about to stop with this one. I need to remember that although parenting is sometimes a frightening responsibility, it is also a joyful privilege. In fact, I wouldn’t trade my kids for a good night’s sleep. A full head of hair. Or some healthy plants.
Now, I’d better go. It’s time to revise the will. And order up some fruitcake.
