On Growing Old

Growing old isn’t for sissies. Anyone who says otherwise is either very young, seriously blind, or in deep denial.

I watched my dad age in much the same way the tide goes out ... slowly, almost politely. First he lost his brother, then his sister, and finally, my mom. One by one, the people who had spoken his childhood language disappeared - all his compatriots who had shared his world of wartime and depression ... gone. Eventually, he chose to relinquish even his car keys ... those small, jangling symbols of independence. That was the kind of man he was. Wise and circumspect. Always responsible.

His agency didn’t vanish all at once; it thinned, like his hair or like the waning daylight in November.

For aging has a way of slowly shrinking the world. Rooms get smaller. Options narrow. The body, once a willing accomplice, begins to negotiate terms. Knees lodge formal complaints. Hearing becomes selective, unfortunately not always about what matters. Pride takes hit after hit, especially for those who once carried families, built businesses, made decisions that affected others. Needing help feels like learning a foreign language you never wanted to study.

And yet ... this is not the whole story.

There is a strange, quiet courage that comes with aging well. It's not any kind of bravado. And, certainly, not pretending everything is as before. But courage in the face of ebbing strength. The humility of accepting help without becoming small. The wisdom of learning that worth was never tied to productivity in the first place.

My dad lived with us for almost five years. He taught me something without ever lecturing. As his outer world narrowed, his inner one expanded. He became more patient, more aware of his rigidity. The sharp edges of earlier beliefs softened. The well of his belief in God deepened. There was less proving, more being. Less striving, more gratitude. He chose to laugh at himself. Humor, it turns out, is holy ground. If you can still laugh when your body betrays you and your calendar empties, you are practicing a kind of faith.

And faith matters. Because without it, aging can feel like a long series of losses with no punctuation mark at the end. But with faith, something shifts. Death is no longer a thief waiting in the shadows; it becomes a doorway. Not feared. Just… there. A threshold. This life, as precious and unfinished as it feels, is not the final chapter. It is the vestibule. What feels like diminishment, is somehow, an uncluttering. A time to loosen our grip so our hands are free to receive what comes next. And my dad was ready.

Indeed, growing old isn’t for sissies ... and neither is it meaningless. I see it as sacred work; for I, myself, am now in its grips.. I feel how it strips us down to what is essential. It teaches us that control is always an illusion and authentic love is always the point. It opens eyes, and solidifies faith. So that when life finally lets go of us, it is not a fall into darkness, but a homecoming into light.

I like to imagine my dad getting his full agency back. Driving again. Dancing like he is 19 again. Whole again. And if heaven allows for his same sense of humor, as I suspect it does, probably chuckling at how easily tricked we all are by this very temporary life.

Happy birthday, Dad. I sure do miss you and all your wisdom.