Growing Old...At Thirty-five

Growing older - unavoidable.

Growing older graciously - that is the challenge that Jodi addresses in her guest post.

Growing Old . . . at Thirty-Five
 by Jodi Wise

Way back, about twenty years ago, I thought thirty-five was almost ancient. Definitely middle aged, maybe past. My parents were about thirty-five at the time, and my adolescent eyes did not view them as young. And sixty? That was very old, somewhere beyond ancient.  Why, nearly everyone I knew in the age range of sixty and beyond had gray hair. And everyone else knows that gray hair spells "O-L-D" in capital letters.

I was never sure why, but as I grew into adulthood, people often assumed me to be younger than I was. As a married woman and mother, it's a flattering experience to be asked if you're . . . nineteen? Or twenty? And it's even more of an experience to correct the inquirer with "No, I'm thirty . . . and married . . . with seven children" and watch her jaw drop to her knees. It happened more than once and I enjoyed it more than I should have. After all, I wasn't thirty-five yet, so I thought I had reason to look young.

But my young-looking days were numbered. Somewhere near my thirty-first year, I found an unexpected and unwelcome imposter. One of the hairs on my head had turn-coated. Without seeking my permission or approval, it became white. Totally silvery-white. I was aghast. I was now OLD and I wasn't even middle-aged yet!    

I yanked it out. I could not, would not be OLD at the tender age of thirty-one. "Don't you know," my husband asked teasingly when I confessed my ancientness to him, "that when you pull out one gray hair, two more will come to its funeral?" (Understand that I am married to an optimistic man. At least he expected me to grow more hair to replace the one I removed. I would not have received such consolation by looking at the hair left on his head.) No matter how many white hairs returned to mourn the death of the first one, I was prepared to deal with them all the same way - at least as long as I was physically able.

I'm sure you have guessed that I am now . . . thirty-five. That yanked-out hair grew back long ago and brought a few more of its kind with it. I was not cheered. They didn't multiply as fast as they could have, but still much more speedily than I preferred. As I had vowed, I greeted each one with a tug. Yet, just sometimes, I found myself almost wishing that I could view them with the same attitude as a woman I met a few years ago. When the subject of gray hair came up, she had told me with a grin, "I tell my husband 'Don't you dare touch them. I earned every one of those!'."

But to me, gray hair still spelled "OLD", and I wasn't anxious to become old. Both my husband and I had aging grandparents and I saw firsthand what "old" means. It means being short of breath and having Parkinson's and Alzheimer's and aching joints and things like that. No, becoming old did not appeal to me.

Oh, I knew the Bible says "The hoary head is a crown of glory"and I thought I believed it. Not until I found my own "hoary hair" did  I realize I never imagined myself with a hoary head, at least not in my thirties or forties. Hoary heads only happened to other people. People who were. . .well, old.   

Then something happened a few weeks ago that left me reconsidering my perception of my own gray hair.  Our 13-year-old son and I attended a local indoor auction. Seated to my left was a woman with dark brown hair. On her left sat an older man, heavy-set, wrinkled and definitely white-haired. In his seventies, perhaps. At first glance I didn't think much about it. Probably a father-daughter set. Nice of the daughter to take her father to an auction.

Before long, however, the woman turned to ask me a question and I got a better view of her face. Hmm. The wrinkles in that face belied her mop of dark hair. Could the couple possibly be husband and wife instead? When they got up to leave I became convinced. The woman heaved herself from her chair as if in pain and hobbled toward the door, stooped and shaky, followed by the man, shuffling along with his cane.

 Suddenly, I was struck with the absurdity of all her dark hair. Perhaps her dark hair was natural, but I seriously doubted it. How did dark brown hair help her anyway? Did it keep wrinkles from appearing on her face? Did it keep her legs from growing achy and feeble? Did it keep her body from becoming weakened and stooped? No. No. And no.

 I couldn't help but imagine what would happen if she'd suddenly stop dyeing her hair. Would her hair eventually become completely white? Would the people she knew still recognize her?  Is that why she didn't know when to just let her age show?

 Somewhere inside my head something was trying to tell me a few things, but I didn't pursue it. I only vowed that if I'm seventy and white-haired, I wouldn't be ridiculous enough to deny it.

It was a couple mornings later, while combing before church, that I found a few more of those infamous white hairs. They're never hard to find. White hairs have a mind of their own, almost as if they're determined to stand straight up and shout to the world, "Look at us! We are here!"

I yanked out the most visible hair first and reached for the next one. And then I stopped. The memory of that stooped and hobbling - but oh-so-dark-haired! -  woman came to mind. So, I asked myself, when do you plan to stop denying it?

I think I'll stop now. A recent comment from our son should help. (I'm still startled to find myself looking up into his almost 15-year-old face. And I'm still adjusting to the thrill - and pang - that passes through my heart at the astonishingly adult-sounding insights that sometimes come from his lips.)

Our older children had been discussing gray hair in general, their parents' in particular, with the most emphasis on their mother's since a lot of their father's hair has gone on strike. I was listening a bit ruefully and must have made a wry comment about gray hair that caused my son to want to console me. "Oh, but it makes you look respectable," he told me seriously.

Ah, yes, respectable. Who minds getting gray hair if it helps her look respectable? Too bad that woman at the auction didn't have sons to point out the same to her.

Unknowingly, our son has now given me a reason to begin seeing those gray hairs as badges instead. Badges that give mute testimony to the years I've lived, the children I've borne, the work I've done, the prayers I've prayed, the tears I've shed, the lessons I've learned. Badges that make me look . . . no, not old, but that other word. You know, re. . . respe. . . oh, yes, respectable.

I just hadn't planned on starting at (sigh) age thirty-five.

 I have been married to Nelson for 16 years, live with him on our 100-acre (+/-) dairy farm, and am mother to ten children -- five sons ages 15 (twins), 13, 12, and 16 months and five daughters ages 9, 8, 6, 5 and 3. I spend my days submerged in both laundry and dish soap suds, sibling rivalries and astounding amounts of food prep.  A peek inside our home will show you that deep-cleaning has not yet reached the red-alert level on my to-do -- or hobby -- list, though there's always a (faint) hope that it will happen tomorrow. . .  along with organization and weight loss. But above all, I struggle daily to "grow in grace" as my Lord would have me do. 

Note from Gina: When I met Jodi for the first time in person this past fall, I was surprised at how young she appeared. I wouldn't have guessed her as thirty-five and certainly not the mother of ten children. And she is not nearly as gray-haired as me!