On growing up

 A few years ago (quite a few years!), my eight-year-old son asked me, “Mommy, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I don’t remember my answer, but I do remember thinking how perceptive his question was.

I recall as a child standing in a forest of legs and looking up in wonder at those tall, strong, all-knowing creatures above me. Or sitting, largely ignored, in a room of conversing adults, recognizing some of the words, but not having the slightest idea what they were talking about. It was as though they were all members of an exclusive club with its own private language and passwords. They all seemed to know who they were and what to do at all times. I, only a child, didn’t have a clue.

But even then, I believed that someday I would be one of Them. Someday I would cross the magic line into adulthood, and then I’d be able to stay up as late as I wanted, drink coffee, know which fork to use, be my own boss, and have my own kids. I’d understand the language and, finally, know what it was they were laughing about.

Time passed, as time has a habit of doing. I finally made it to 40, but I never did sense the crossing of a line into adulthood. I continued to wonder if I was a genuine member of the Club. Oh, yes, I could now stay up very late if I wanted (which I usually didn’t), and enjoy my coffee every morning. I learned the language somewhat, so, in a sense I was IN. But not very far in. I still had unanswered questions, insecurities, even, at times, fears. Different fears to be sure. Grown-up fears. But the feelings were surprisingly similar to the childish ones. I still liked poetry, flying kites, and licking the bowl after baking cookies. 

Again, time passed and I found myself approaching another line. The magic line from adulthood to old age. I realized that old people were still adults, but adults of a different kind. Modified adults. As we passed through our 60s and early 70s, Hal and I would often ask ourselves, “Are we old yet?” Mostly our answer was “Not yet.” Or “Not quite.”

We no longer ask that question, although I have no memory of crossing a magic line.

But here we are. We’ve arrived. I find that I like poetry more than ever, could stay up late if I wanted (which I still don’t), struggle to limit the cups of coffee I drink every morning, don’t care about which fork, and am content with using the words I’ve been given.

I’m happy to announce that there is no official language called Old. There are stereotypical issues older people seem to discuss. I’ve heard it said that when two or more senior citizens get together, they harmonize in giving an organ concert. I guess it’s natural that we talk about age-specific concerns which involve the kinds of physical deterioration we face, the health care we receive, and the end-of-life arrangements we need to make.

But that’s not all. In the past week I’ve participated in long conversations on how best to plant marigolds, reforestation in the Olympic National Forest, a comparison between free verse and traditional rhyming poems, and how God makes our suffering holy. I especially love drawing out the life stories of my neighbors, discovering what remarkable lives they’ve lived and the contributions they’ve made. Stimulating conversation is alive and well in this community.

In many ways I’m still a child. It’s been a while since I’ve flown a kite, but I think I would still enjoy it (as long as I didn’t have to run). I know that I’ve still got a lot to learn, and I thrive in the search. I still have a lot of unanswered questions, but I’ve learned to love the questions and to keep asking in faith that one day I will know.

Jesus tells us that in order to enter the Kingdom of God, we need to become as little children. I love that. The Apostle Peter also tells us to keep growing up in grace and knowledge. I guess it’s a life time prospect. Simultaneously being a child and growing up.

But I still cherish the hope that someday I will at last know that I’m doing.