One of my grandchildren asked me quite a penetrating question last week. “Grandpa, how old are you?”
Before I was married, I had no problem about always telling the truth. I always got in trouble if I didn’t tell the truth, so my practice has always been to tell the truth, no matter how difficult it might be or who it might hurt.
After being married for several years, I was presented with a question I was unprepared for. We were going to a banquet and just before leaving the house, my wife looked at me and said, “Does this dress make me look too fat?”
After I got over being stunned by this question, a wonderful thought hit me. I looked at her and simply said, “I don’t know about that, but your hair looks beautiful.”
“Oh,” she said with a smile dancing all over her face, “thank you.”
How old am I, really? I’m not sure I can answer that.
It all depends upon your definition of old. When I was in my 20s, someone my current age I considered old. Now that I am that age, I understand ‘old’ differently.
How old a person is, has nothing to do with the year of his or her birth. The one thing my father told me about a woman was, “Never ask her age.” It’s a standard I’ve kept.
“So, grandpa,” the curious little one asked, “how old are you?”
When you have a little person whose age is still in the single digits how do they know anything about age? Most of these little people are most eagers to reach their 10th birthday. Single digits only last for nine years, but double digits are the rest of your life!
This little person looked at me with curiosity all over her face, when a marvelous thought danced into my head. “Well, I’m not as old as grandma.” For now, that satisfied her little slice of curiosity.
I don’t know any year I’d like to repeat. I certainly don’t want to be a teenager again. I remember those teenage years and I was so glad to get out of that age group.
My 20s weren’t any better, except it was then I met Martha, the person who now is the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage. They were good years.
Then, when my 30s arrived, little people came into our house. They arrived about 18 to 20 months apart and stopped when there were three. Three was a good number.
The roughest thing about having teenagers is it’s payback for your time as a teenager.
That’s why as a grandpa, I smile as I watch my children trying to parent their teens.
David understood this when he wrote in Psalms:
“Now also when I am old and greyheaded, O God, forsake me not; until I have showed thy strength unto this generation, and thy power to every one that is to come.”
— Psalms 71: 18
I’m not old, I’m just mature for my age.
Dr. Snyder is a former pastor who lives with the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage, wife Martha, in Ocala, Fla. His email is [email protected]
