I got to thinking about how nice it would be to jog when I turn seventy-five. Maybe it’s something my wife and I could do together. She could drive me out of town and drop me off—it would give purpose to my running. So I said something dumb to Mr. Cole, which is not something that took me entirely by surprise, because I seem to bounce between not opening my mouth wide when I should and opening it far too wide when I shouldn’t. I said, “Boy, I’d sure like to be running like that when I’m your age.”
He said, “Are you running now?”
I coughed slightly. I said, “I…ahem…came in third in a relay once.”
He said, “If you aren’t running now, you won’t be then.”
In other words, if I sit around eating lard-filled doughnuts in my thirties, when I turn sixty-five, my chances of waddling much farther than the refrigerator aren’t great.
And it hit me that all of us are in training for the days to come. That if we are impatient, unkind, and unforgiving, we won’t wake up at sixty-five to discover that people want to be around us. This made me wonder: What kind of an old guy will I be? And how do I live so my kids will want to visit me in the nursing home? By then, as the old saying goes, I will have silver in my hair, gold in my teeth, lead in my feet, and lots of natural gas, but I won’t be wealthy without friends.
The older people I admire are those who have exercised the right creases on their face. Not the ones of petulance and complaint, but the ones turned upward on either side of their eyes. They live life on purpose. I fear that if some of us wrote down a mission statement it would look something like this:
I will consider myself a success when I’m rich enough to do nothing but travel and eat and collect sea shells; when I can have it the way I want it; when the jerks around here start leaving me alone. I will consider myself a success when my wife wakes up to the fact that I’m marvelous, when I’ve got a big-screen TV and nothing but time on my hands to watch it.
Contrast this with the attitude of my friend Dave Epp. Dave visits the hospital a few times a week, and Mom and Dad are always glad to see him. After mourning the loss of his wife to cancer, Dave decided to use his pain, becoming a hospital chaplain, visiting those who can’t get out, encouraging them with the love of Jesus, joking with them, and praying for them. Dave could wallow in bitterness, but he lives life on purpose, with significance.
The older people I admire still have their sense of humor intact. Anne Lamott calls laughter “carbonated holiness.” Gerald Wheatley is so full of the stuff that you can almost hear him fizz. Last Sunday he greeted me in our church foyer with a new joke from the corny patch. “Did you hear about the guy who walks into a bar and asks, ‘Does anyone here own that Rottweiler outside?’“
I hadn’t heard about the guy, but I knew I was about to.
“A biker stands up, says, ‘Yeah, that’s my dog. What about it?’
“‘I think my Chihuahua killed him.’
“The biker laughs. ‘ What? How could your little runt kill my Rottweiler?’
“‘Got stuck in his throat.’”
When you walk past a room and hear laughter, you want to find out what’s causing it.
Few things give us more hope than a seventy-five-year-old who is reading good books, learning new truths, and discussing things besides the weather. She smiles more than she has reason to, laughs when she probably shouldn’t, and talks to children and babies and pets.
I wrote down a few more things I admire in older people. It came out as a little poem, and I showed it to my mother. She smiled her approval, then gave me the kind of look that says, You’re young. One day you’ll understand that it isn’t all easy. Still, I pinned it to the bulletin board so she could show it to her friends. Here it is:
You are not old.
Until you stop making new friends.
Until you start fighting change.
You are not old.
Until your past is bigger than your future.
Until you think the bad old days were all good.
Until you talk more of ills, spills, bills, and wills.
Than thrills.
Until you begrudge the spotlight
turned on a younger generation.
And stop shining it on them yourself.
You are not old as long as you can pray.
As long as you have the inner strength to ask:
How can I spread hope around?
How can I get the most out of the years I have left?
How can I make others homesick for heaven?
You are young at heart.
Until you decide you aren’t.
I am happy to report that the little poem is still there, still pinned to the bulletin board. So far no one has harpooned it with a cane.
Regret for time wasted can become a power for
good in the time that remains, if we will only stop
the waste and the idle, useless regretting
ARTHUR BRISBANE
My one regret in life is that I am not someone else.
WOODY ALLEN
When our children were barely done toddling, we had an agreement that any of them at any moment could go limp like a noodle when they passed within a foot of me. It was my job, of course, to catch them before they crashed to the floor, or the sidewalk, or into the pool. This was great fun for all of us. Apparently, however, they thought this agreement lasted for life, because although two of them have reached my height and are closing in on my weight, they still play Noodle, which is a big bundle of laughs for everyone but me.
As I write, I regret inventing that game.
I have strained muscles in both calves, and my lower back is throbbing. Thankfully, laughter eases my pain. And I am glad we’ve done our share of it. But man oh man, I think I may have pulled some fat in my left arm.
If we’re honest, most of us have regrets. And chances are, they’re larger than some silly game we invented.
I mentioned to Mom one night that I wished I had handled their aging better. She seemed startled. I confessed that I hadn’t always known what to do. She took my hand and spoke these wonderful words: “How could you?”
Erma Bombeck called guilt “the gift that keeps on giving.” Surely there is no other occupation so guilt-ridden as parenting, with the possible exception of raising your own parents. Some of our parents have worked for decades as travel agents for guilt trips. We long for the days before the invention of the telephone when parents could not dial our number to nag, “It’s Mother’s Day. You’re the only one of the children who hasn’t called yet. Are you okay? Did you fall down a well?”
Recently, I received a hand-scrawled note:
Dear Phil,
You talk about your parents with such warmth. I wish I could. Mine lived a short drive up the Interstate, but I never visited them. I was too busy, too stressed, and too selfish. Now I guess it’s too late.
SP
I wish SP had left her name and address because there is something I’m itching to tell her.
There is not an honest one among us who won’t admit to falling short. I have not walked in your shoes, but I’ve walked in mine, and they pinch a good deal of the time. We are—all of us—flawed creatures who make mistakes. Those who don’t look like it are usually just craftier hypocrites. We live in a broken, fallen place among broken, fallen people. There is not a family that isn’t dysfunctional, not a one of us that doesn’t need forgiveness. Furthermore, there is not a shred of hope apart from the goodness of God, His grace, and the restoration He promises and provides.
Syndicated columnist Sydney J. Harris wisely wrote, “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”17
Oh I know that regret is 96 percent useless. Wallow in it, and life is yours to miss, they say. And they’re right. Regret is painful and paralyzing—like shooting yourself with a tranquilizer dart right before the big game. But we can learn from the regrets of others. I asked a few thousan
d people about regret. Seventy-six percent admitted to having their share. Here is a sampling of their honest responses:
“I regret wasting money playing the lottery.”
“I regret marrying because I was lonely.” “I’d like to have played more golf.”
“I wish I’d been more patient with my children and my parents.”
“I regret not telling others of Jesus when I had the chance.”
“That I didn’t take time for my daughter. I was too busy with housework.”
“I regret that I’m not close to my dad. My parents divorced when I was five. All those years I saw him every other weekend.”
“Building a house that is far too big.”
“Not listening to my father and marrying someone who had no relationship with God.” “Drifting apart from my wife after we lost a son.”
“I regret being so involved in committees at our church that I may have shown my kids I loved the committees more than them. I wonder if that’s partly why they don’t attend church now.”
“That I didn’t learn of Jesus Christ sooner.”
I must be honest and admit that I have a few regrets too. Let me put them this way.
If I Could Raise My Kids again
If I could raise my kids again I wouldn’t be so uptight this time.
I’d let them jump on beds in hotels.
And pick the cat up by the tail.
That way they’d figure out a little sooner
How life works.
If I could raise my kids again I’d be a little goofier this time.
I’d stand on the chair in our kitchen,
And play the harmonica with my nose.
I’d play more jokes on them too.
Ones that involve expired milk.
If I could raise my kids again I’d ask more questions and listen to the answers.
I’d teach them to give by giving, to love by loving.
They’d see me on my knees
Praying more often.
Not just looking for the remote control.
If I could raise my kids again I’d play hooky from work sometimes.
I wouldn’t sign up for the rat race.
I’d enjoy things without owning them.
I’d buy a bigger library.
And a smaller television.
If I could raise my kids again I’d relax a little more.
I’d cut spankings by about 50 percent.
In number. In length. In enthusiasm.
I’d place more importance on good character than good grades.
I’d prepare them for life by letting them argue.
By letting them fail.
As it is, I’m glad I talked to them early about God.
About money.
About sex.
I’m glad I spent way too much money on vacations,
Necked in the living room with their mother,
And took them to church.
But if I could raise my kids again, I think I’d be better at it this time.
I wouldn’t care so much about clean walls or clean feet.
I wouldn’t celebrate nice grass, I’d celebrate grass stains.
I’d tuck my children into bed each night
Without checking my watch.
The doctor tells me that it’s not about to happen.
That I’m halfway to ninety.
That we won’t be having children anytime soon.
So I guess I’ll get to practice these things
On my grandchildren.
My doctor gave me six months to live, but when
I couldn’t pay the bill he gave me six months more.
WALTER MATTHAU
You have to live every day as if it’s your last,
because one of these days, you’re bound to be right.
BREAKER MORANT
There are times after I spend an evening in the nursing home when I get thinking to myself: I don’t want to get old. For one thing, if I stay in peak physical condition, I will be a drain on the medical system. And so I have uncovered three ways to ensure that none of us ripens to an old age. I trust these will be of help to you.
1. Change your diet and exercise habits. I exercised for the last time today. Retired my sneakers. My dumbbells. My pass to the exercise room. The resolve began when an acquaintance of mine dropped dead of a heart attack yesterday. I did not know him well, but when I thought of the last time I saw him alive, how he was waddling toward the Twinkies in the supermarket, it hit me like a runaway grocery cart: die eating.
One of the things I love about the Bible is that it’s full of food. You can hardly read a chapter where someone isn’t eating or drinking or celebrating or chewing on some fruit.
And so tonight we will order out for pizza. And Chinese food. Right after the Meals on Wheels people leave.
Tomorrow I start the new exercise program. Beating around the bush. Jumping to conclusions. Dragging my heels. Pushing my luck. Building mountains out of molehills.
Besides, if God had wanted us to lift weights, He’d have made our arms heavier. And if you’re worried about your looks, there’s no need to. Sure, you may develop flabby thighs, but your stomach will cover them.
2. Have more children. Children are messy, and they won’t let you sleep a wink. Having children is like installing a NASCAR track in your head. It’s noisy. Besides, the average male child costs roughly $3.4 million (that’s in Legos alone) by the time he is eight, and you can double that if you have a darling little girl who steals your heart. Oh sure, they start out cuddly and they giggle, but don’t be fooled. They are here with one thing in mind: getting you off the planet.
Grownups have always been suspicious of children. I realized this when I was very small and could tell that they were trying to get rid of me. They told us smoking was bad for us, knowing that if they said this we’d try it out and maybe get hooked for life—or death. They covered my crib with lead-based paints. There were no childproof lids on the aspirin bottle, no seat belts, air bags, or guardrails. They encouraged us to ride in the back of pickups or build our own go-carts and parachutes. We ate worms and mud pies. We played with BB guns and smashed rocks with a hammer and no goggles. They never offered us bike helmets or bottled water, and they introduced us to things like monkey bars.
I was just a wee little kid when grownups encouraged me to play ice hockey. They strapped blades on my feet, handed me a sharp stick and something called a puck. They pushed me out on the ice, then stood behind plywood sheets and wire mesh to see what happened. When we started having too much fun, they’d yell, “Kill him! Kill him!” I knew what they wanted. They wanted me dead. They knew I was a threat to a long and peaceful life.
So have more children. It’s not too late. If you’re a little older, think of Sarah and Abraham. Or of Satyabhama Mahapatra of India, a sixty-five-year-old retired schoolteacher who recently gave birth to a baby boy to become the world’s oldest mother. Satyabhama and her husband have been married fifty years, but this is their first child.18
3. Travel to exotic places. I recommend a honeymoon in Iraq or cycling from Beirut to Jerusalem. Pack light. Carry explosives.
Okay, I’ve been joking and hoping all the while that you wouldn’t write me a letter before you reach the conclusion. The truth is, I’ve needed to laugh lately.
My father’s mind and body are worsening fast, and when I visit, he asks me to read the psalms to him. As I do, one word keeps surfacing: remember. Depressed and lonely, David finds comfort in remembering:
God’s faithfulness
God’s goodness
God’s mercy
God’s justice
God’s miracles
God’s compassion
God’s blessing
God’s leading
God’s protection
God’s deliverance
And as I read these wonderful truths, I am struck by a terrible irony: I am reading commands about remembering to a man who can’t remember
my name. It’s hard not to reflect on the fact that if this thing is remotely hereditary, I’m in trouble. There’s something about Alzheimer’s that makes me think I have a license to nurse my anger, to fertilize and water it, to trim back the dead stuff, so the plant has lots of light. Yet that was never my father’s way. As proof, he smiles at me as I read, and I hope I’ll do the same for my kids, should my turn ever come.
After visiting my parents one night, I came home to the sound of the phone ringing. A voice said, “Mr. Callaway, I don’t much like your sense of humor. What does laughing have to do with being a Christian? We’re in the last days here, and this is hardly a time for laughter.”
I said, “Is that you, Dad?”
The caller didn’t find that funny.
I wish I’d thought to tell him that if I don’t laugh, the wheels will fall off. That if I can’t laugh, I’m one more sad example of how evil sometimes wins. But I did manage to say, “I have so much to rejoice about. I’ve been forgiven. Eternity is waiting. I get a little excited about that.”
Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’d also add that I hope the caller wakes before he dies. That I want to die young…as old as I can.
You see, I think we stay young by keeping our eyes in the right places. By not wasting time placing discouraging phone calls. Or listening to gossip. By inviting friends over to dinner even if the carpet is stained and the sofa faded. By eating ice cream nine times a week.
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