Sixty-three
15/06/16 05:19
I suppose that there is nothing particularly distinctive about being 63 years old. When you are in your first decade, each birthday is a milestone worthy of celebration. It is easy to see that there are new abilities and skills that weren’t present in the previous year. Entering into the second decade, a 13th birthday is worthy of special note if for no other reason than it marks the beginning of the teenage years. The summer I turned 13 was my last summer of part-time, pick-up jobs. I mowed lawns, swept a feed warehouse, and took care of pets for vacationing people. Most days I had quite a bit of time to myself to play in the river, read books, relax and daydream about the future. The next year, I began putting in full days of work on my uncle and cousin’s ranch.
At twenty-three I was in my second year as manager of a church camp, a facility that was used only in the summer. I had developed quite a bit of skill at finding and repairing leaks in the water system, making small repairs and keeping the facility running. We completed the site work and poured the footings and foundations for a new dining hall for the camp during the summer and I pulled, loaded and hauled the concrete forms by myself.
At thirty-three I was trying to establish myself in a new job in a new region of the country. It was my first summer at a new church camp. I had plenty of stamina for work and home life and exploring our new surroundings.
By the time I reached forty-three, we had moved again and I was the father of teenagers. A new job meant new challenges and opportunities.
Somehow, however, the distance from forty-three to sixty-three has passed very quickly. We haven’t picked up our household and moved in those years. I haven’t changed jobs in that time.
At sixty-three I look in the mirror and notice that my hair and beard are completely white, and I can’t remember exactly when the change in color occurred. I’m not even sure if it was gradual or sudden, though I don’t think it took me too many years to make the transition. As has been true for all of my life, I’m neither the oldest nor the youngest in my circle of friends, but I did realize, at a recent youth group meeting, that not only was I the oldest person in the room at the moment, but my guitar was older than any of the other people in the room including the volunteer adult youth advisors. Not long ago, someone asked me, “Hey! Where did you get that cool, retro, 1970’s guitar strap?” The answer, of course is that I bought it new in a music store back in the 1970’s.
I don’t think I’ve ever minded my age, though I have often felt that I wasn’t exactly the right age in the eyes of others. For many years I seemed to be too young for the things I wanted to do. Certain jobs were offered to people with more age and experience than I had and didn’t seem to be open to me. Friends would comment, “wait until you’re my age . . .” Then, rather suddenly it seems to me, I found myself to be too old for certain things. There didn’t seem to be a time when I was exactly the right age.
I’m adjusting to being in between.
At this point in my life I’m too old to be a viable candidate for a new job and too young to retire. There is a certain freedom in that kind of in between stage. I don’t have to worry about my resume and keeping up with the various forms of paperwork that are a part of our church’s ministerial placement system. I’ve updated my profile for the last time in my active career. Unless I mess up big time, which I don’t anticipate, I’ll remain in this position, serving this church for a few more years and then step aside and watch younger leadership take my place.
I have noticed a few signs of aging. There are a few aches and pains that I don’t remember from previous decades. I can still pick up a heavy wood and canvas canoe, turn it over and swing it onto my shoulders in a single movement, but when I extend my arms to lift it to the roof rack on the car I notice the strain in a way that I don’t remember feeling it a few years ago. I’m not adverse to accepting a hand the way I was at 53.
A quick search for quotes about being 63 years old this morning didn’t yield much. There are plenty of quotes about turning 60 and 65, but 63 isn’t one of those milestone birthdays. I think that for many of us that once you turn 30, the first half of each new decade is a period of adjusting. There is a realization of aging with the new decade: “Wow! I’m 30 (or 40 or 50 or 60, etc.)” Then it takes a few years to realize that it isn’t bad being this age. By the middle of the decade the adjustment is made and one becomes comfortable with the decade. It begins to fit like a familiar piece of clothing, which is a good analogy for me because I seem to prefer my clothes after they are a few years old. They just seem more comfortable than when they are brand new. Of course I still can’t get a pair of jeans to last very long. It’s just that I don’t need the annual ritual of creating cutoffs when the knees are worn through.
Nonetheless, a birthday is a good time to look back and to look forward. This one is going to be gentle with me it seems. Maybe I should work on a good quote about being 63 that I could leave for future generations. Then again maybe it is a year that simply doesn’t need its own quote.
At twenty-three I was in my second year as manager of a church camp, a facility that was used only in the summer. I had developed quite a bit of skill at finding and repairing leaks in the water system, making small repairs and keeping the facility running. We completed the site work and poured the footings and foundations for a new dining hall for the camp during the summer and I pulled, loaded and hauled the concrete forms by myself.
At thirty-three I was trying to establish myself in a new job in a new region of the country. It was my first summer at a new church camp. I had plenty of stamina for work and home life and exploring our new surroundings.
By the time I reached forty-three, we had moved again and I was the father of teenagers. A new job meant new challenges and opportunities.
Somehow, however, the distance from forty-three to sixty-three has passed very quickly. We haven’t picked up our household and moved in those years. I haven’t changed jobs in that time.
At sixty-three I look in the mirror and notice that my hair and beard are completely white, and I can’t remember exactly when the change in color occurred. I’m not even sure if it was gradual or sudden, though I don’t think it took me too many years to make the transition. As has been true for all of my life, I’m neither the oldest nor the youngest in my circle of friends, but I did realize, at a recent youth group meeting, that not only was I the oldest person in the room at the moment, but my guitar was older than any of the other people in the room including the volunteer adult youth advisors. Not long ago, someone asked me, “Hey! Where did you get that cool, retro, 1970’s guitar strap?” The answer, of course is that I bought it new in a music store back in the 1970’s.
I don’t think I’ve ever minded my age, though I have often felt that I wasn’t exactly the right age in the eyes of others. For many years I seemed to be too young for the things I wanted to do. Certain jobs were offered to people with more age and experience than I had and didn’t seem to be open to me. Friends would comment, “wait until you’re my age . . .” Then, rather suddenly it seems to me, I found myself to be too old for certain things. There didn’t seem to be a time when I was exactly the right age.
I’m adjusting to being in between.
At this point in my life I’m too old to be a viable candidate for a new job and too young to retire. There is a certain freedom in that kind of in between stage. I don’t have to worry about my resume and keeping up with the various forms of paperwork that are a part of our church’s ministerial placement system. I’ve updated my profile for the last time in my active career. Unless I mess up big time, which I don’t anticipate, I’ll remain in this position, serving this church for a few more years and then step aside and watch younger leadership take my place.
I have noticed a few signs of aging. There are a few aches and pains that I don’t remember from previous decades. I can still pick up a heavy wood and canvas canoe, turn it over and swing it onto my shoulders in a single movement, but when I extend my arms to lift it to the roof rack on the car I notice the strain in a way that I don’t remember feeling it a few years ago. I’m not adverse to accepting a hand the way I was at 53.
A quick search for quotes about being 63 years old this morning didn’t yield much. There are plenty of quotes about turning 60 and 65, but 63 isn’t one of those milestone birthdays. I think that for many of us that once you turn 30, the first half of each new decade is a period of adjusting. There is a realization of aging with the new decade: “Wow! I’m 30 (or 40 or 50 or 60, etc.)” Then it takes a few years to realize that it isn’t bad being this age. By the middle of the decade the adjustment is made and one becomes comfortable with the decade. It begins to fit like a familiar piece of clothing, which is a good analogy for me because I seem to prefer my clothes after they are a few years old. They just seem more comfortable than when they are brand new. Of course I still can’t get a pair of jeans to last very long. It’s just that I don’t need the annual ritual of creating cutoffs when the knees are worn through.
Nonetheless, a birthday is a good time to look back and to look forward. This one is going to be gentle with me it seems. Maybe I should work on a good quote about being 63 that I could leave for future generations. Then again maybe it is a year that simply doesn’t need its own quote.