God is With Us on the Long Walk Home

I had part of my colon removed when I was in my late 20s. The resident who helped the surgeon mentioned several times that he had never seen someone “our age” in for this kind of procedure.

Maybe I should have known then that aging might take a different course with me. I had to get custom orthotics in my mid 30s (to prevent a bad foot from affecting my quality of life, as the doctor said it would). That was also around the time my hair started going gray in earnest—if I left it uncolored now, I would probably look 20 years older.

I was postmenopausal at 41, 10 years earlier than the “average” woman. I got hearing aids last summer—at the ripe old age of 50. And not too long ago, following an unsuccessful attempt to wear bifocal contacts, I put my frequently misplaced reading glasses on a necklace.

Some of these developments are likely genetic—my dad’s hair was turning white in his 20s, and both my parents had significant hearing loss in their later years. Others seem unique to me, at least when compared to other relatives.

I don’t mind talking candidly about these issues. For one thing, I grew up in a large family where any topic was fair game around the dinner table. I also tend to think of my body as a machine—with parts that wear out and have to be repaired or replaced—so when mine’s not working properly, I don’t think of it as my fault or feel overly embarrassed about it.

For the most part, though, I can’t complain about my health. Not to sound like the little old man at the corner diner, but I have good teeth, joints, blood pressure and cholesterol levels.

I’m active and try to eat fairly well. I laugh a lot, but I also feel free to cry when I need to.

Even so, I sometimes joke that I’m on an accelerated schedule to the end of my life. Since I’ve reached various developmental milestones much earlier than most people, maybe that means I’ll die sooner too.

I’m not expecting this to happen, of course. If I learned anything from my dad’s last years and months, it’s that holding tightly to expectations about how our lives are going to wrap up—where we’ll live, what it will be like, etc.—is not helpful for us or our loved ones.

Of course we should take care of ourselves. We should eat right, exercise as best we can, take steps to increase our chances of good health later. And yet, in the end, we don’t control our own mortality.

The length of our days, as well as what the end looks like for each of us, falls under the purview of God’s sovereignty, just like everything else.

I don’t know about you, but I sometimes wonder how this works. Does God choose our last day, or does He just know when it is? Does His sovereignty allow for multiple options for how we might die, or does He ordain the exact details? (Feel free to chime in on this in the comments, by the way.)

Psalm 139:16 says, “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” I’m not a theologian, but I lean toward believing God’s involvement in our individual lives—including the numbering of our days—is active, rather than passive.

Whatever happens on our long walk home—however things play out and why—I do know this: God will be with us and help us.

Isaiah 46:6 makes this clear: “I will be the same until your old age, and I will bear you up when you turn gray. I have made you, and I will carry you; I will bear and save you.”

As someone who has already turned gray (even though it’s not immediately obvious), I find this enormously comforting. How about you?

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with #tellhisstory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.