My old face

 It was a small interaction with a small child, and it happened several years ago, but it seems even more relevant today.

One afternoon as Hal was taking our bicycles out of the garage, a woman pushing a stroller stopped and asked for directions to the nearest park. Two other kids ran around the stroller, while the baby eyed Hal suspiciously. The woman was new in town, and the kids obviously needed somewhere to express their energy. Inspired, Hal told her that he and I were just about to go bike riding, and why didn’t we all go together to the park. 

I came out, met our new neighbors, and off we went.  It turns out that the woman had just moved in with her boyfriend, and that the kids were his grandchildren.  I expressed surprise; she hardly looked old enough to be their mother’s age.

I was glad we accompanied them, as one part of the route had us walking a narrow sidewalk down a busy avenue, and the kids were glad to be out doors and on the loose. We made it safely to the park and spent the rest of the afternoon together. Hal and I bonded with the two older kids as we rode bikes together and played on the swings. The baby, however, never stopped scowling at us.

Near the end of the afternoon, four-year-old Anabel, looked at me sweetly, head cocked to one side, and asked, “Why is your face so old?”

I wasn’t prepared for that. I don’t remember how I responded. I probably just laughed. But the question circled in my mind for weeks afterward. Actually, it made me chuckle. But it also forced me to examine my values, especially in light of a strong cultural pressure to look as good and as young as possible.

I’ve been feeling that pressure ever since I was 13 years old, although for a while I wanted to look older than my age. As I grew up, married, and raised my children, my experience for many years was that of my new neighbor. I’ve taken pride in all the times people have said things like, “That’s impossible! You look too young to have kids that old!” Or, “You? A grandmother? You certainly don’t look it.”

As I entered my 60s and qualified for the senior discount at the grocery store, I was delighted when the clerk would ask to see my identity. That hasn’t happened in a long time. Now I’m sort of disappointed when a clerk doesn’t ask to see my driver’s license. For some reason being taken for younger than I am affirms my value as a person.

Looks still matter, even in the autumn years. Do they matter too much to me? On some days, not so much. Some days I can relax and enjoy the people I’m with without fussing about my clothes or my old face. But other days, I worry about whether my wardrobe is adequate to hide my tummy. I won’t wear sleeveless shirts because my arms jiggle. I avoid the mirror. A black cloud of discouragement descends.

Is this silly? Am I really so immature? Probably yes to both. But there’s hope.

I remember when I was younger how at different points in my life God sent an older woman to befriend and mentor me. There were three of them, each coming alongside me in a different decade of my life. Bess, Catherine, and Inez. We shared our secrets, talked about marriage, child-raising, living in another culture, writing, and following Jesus. I loved listening to their stories and they encouraged me to talk about my struggles and joys. I learned through who they were as well as what they had to say.

They all probably had old faces and jiggly arms, but I didn’t notice. I saw each one of them as beautiful because they were. I began to pray that, in the right time, God would make me into a beautiful old lady, too.

That kind of beauty has nothing to do with the lack of facial wrinkles, loose flesh, or clothes that don’t disguise your flaws.

I need to remind myself of this because it’s easy to let the values of this youth culture make me dissatisfied with my looks. Stop, it, Nancy! Sometimes I listen to myself. Sometimes I don’t. But I look around me in this community and see a good number of beautiful old ladies. They encourage me to realign my values and see the Reality behind the realities.

To see the beauty in old faces.

(Note: Did you notice the face in the old tree photo? Actually he's an ent who lives in Hess Creek Canyon and a good friend of mine.)