On Turning Sixty
I never dreamed of being sixty. As a little girl, I longed to be sixteen. At sixteen, I’d have a license and my own car. I spent many days riding my bike down our long gravel drive and along the dirt road where we lived, pretending to drive. Attached with a clothespin, the queen of hearts slapped against the spokes. When I made a turn, I’d click my tongue to mimic the sound of a blinker.
I could hardly wait to turn eighteen. At last I’d reach adulthood. No more school. Free to live my own life, be my own boss. I’d have a job, get my own place. What was I thinking? Certainly not about paying bills, or the fact that most jobs don’t come with summer breaks. I didn’t care so much about twenty-one, but twenty-five? Surely, I’d be married by then… and have a baby. At twenty-five, I’d have everything I ever wanted. My life would be complete. By my mid-twenties, I’d stopping fantasizing about upcoming birthdays. With my major life goals met, the rest would be smooth sailing. Right?
In my teens, my friends and I talked about how old we’d be in the year 2000. Thirty-four! That age seemed impossibly old and far away. I couldn’t conceive of living in a century that began with 20 instead of 19. Besides, according to most reports, civilization would come to a grinding halt when the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2000. All those computer programs coded for a two-digit year, were bound to go haywire. Best not to let my thoughts linger there.
“The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth.”
I celebrated my sixtieth birthday at the beach. It rolled in and out quietly with the tide. A few times, I grew teary-eyed. Sixty arrived much quicker than I’d imagined. Turns out, it wasn’t as far into the future as I’d thought. In my younger days, sixty seemed a lot older than it does now that I’ve arrived. Funny how perspective shifts, how so much more is visible in the review mirror than in the entire breadth of the windshield. I’ll admit that lately, I’ve wished for eighteen again, or twenty-five, or even thirty-four. Oh, to have it all ahead of me again, to relive the years knowing what I know now. I’d get a degree. Write more. Take more chances. Be less afraid. But going back is its own risk. What if one tiny, seemingly insignificant change altered the entire course of my life so that I never met my husband, never had my two boys or my three grandchildren? Suddenly, what might have been loses its appeal. Besides, if sixty is the new forty, I’ve been granted my wish to go back … sort of.
Sixty seconds in a minute. Sixty minutes in an hour. Why do I measure my life by the clock, always yearning to move the hands forward or backward? Why do I cling so tightly to the temporary? Do I have such little trust my Good Father is in each second of each minute of each hour? That He’s using each milestone, each experience, even each failure, to prepare me for something far greater? Something beyond the hands of time? We are eternal beings made in the image of the Eternal God.
The ups and downs of sixty years have built my faith and grounded my feet on a Rock that will never move or change. Life in Christ is a life without end, with millennia of experiences yet to be enjoyed, new horizons to explore, and love without barriers or hindrances. It’s true. I never dreamed of being sixty, but now that I’m here, it’s not so bad. In fact, I’m just getting started.
