45

I'm getting older. The gray is coming into my chin hair. Gray hair is different from regular hair. Gray hair seems more wiry than ordinary hair. I have hair growing from my ears. That's weird. Overnight I notice a long hair that has grown from my cheek below my right eye. It wasn't there yesterday. But it magically appeared today. And it's strangely long, weird!

My email is being bombarded by AARP trying to get me to join. They're offering me a free tote bag if I do. I'm getting old.

Grandmas seem old. When I was a kid, and I thought of grandmas, "old" came to mind, sorry Grandma. I just did the math. My grandma was the age I am now when I was a kid. I'm getting old.  

This past Monday was Memorial Day. We got together with the family, and I sat next to Grandma. We compared notes on our different ailments, pains, and sleep schedules. I'm getting old.

I spent several months in a nursing home/rehab hospital following my stroke. I remember trying to accept my new normal. Everyone there was elderly. I questioned myself, "Is this, my new crowd?" One day I wanted to go to the lobby fireplace to get warm. When I arrived, I learned this was the hang-out. All the wheelchairs lined up like cars at a drive-in. I found out that I needed to go early for a good spot. The next day I arrived earlier, not front row early, but back row early. An old lady rolled up and asked if I planned on being there for long - she was scoping my spot. I overheard two old guys talking: "Where do you live? Where do you live? Where do you live? You don't know? That's okay, don't worry about it. I don't remember where I live either." I thought to myself, these are my people now.

One day in the rehab hospital, it was my turn for a shower. I didn’t know, but my bottom was exposed as I was rolled through the hospital to the nearest shower room. I had no idea. I only found out because my CNA was corrected mid-trip. Days later, when I was in the hospital "bistro," where we all ate our meals, an old white-haired lady from several tables away winked at me. The family joke is that she spotted my fanny days before and gave me a "I'll save you a spot by the fireplace" wink. I'm getting old - even the lady attention I'm getting is elderly.  

When I was a kid, around the family, there was a lot of talk about a preacher everyone knew named Ray Mesa. It's funny what captures a kid's imagination. I wondered what a Ray Mesa looked like. I was a brown boy, a Hispanic, and I knew "mesa" meant "table" in Spanish. I always wanted to meet this guy. What did he look like? I wanted to know. Part of me needed to know. Later, we visited Ray Mesa. I'm guessing I was 6 or 7 years old. Ray Mesa was just a regular guy, but I instantly liked him. He gave us a quick tour of his house. He had a linen closet that had a small door. It was a tiny closet space. Ray said that if I ever needed a place to stay, this little Israel-sized space would be available. Ray Mesa made a forever friend that day.  

Years later, I went to college. I arrived on a Friday. That Saturday, I took a walk around the campus. Our campus had apartments for retired ministers, and I caught Ray Mesa taking a walk. He invited me to join him. Ray Mesa was now an older man. He had a raspy voice from all the years of fiery preaching. I thought his voice was the coolest. I went to a ministry prep college and looked at Ray Mesa, hoping this could be my future. I was 18, looking at Ray and thinking he made getting old look cool. Back then, I was too consumed by my style and what I wore. I needed to look great all the time. Ray was dressed extremely casually for his walk that day. He dressed like he was at the age where he didn't need to impress others with fashion. Getting old seemed liberating. I longed for that. As I walked with Ray, I asked questions and gleaned from his wisdom. Ray Mesa invited me to church the following day, a church he pastored that met on campus. That would be the day I'd meet Sarah, my wife. 

I ended up pastoring at a young age. I was 24. I remember when missionary guests would come to the church. They would arrive and look for the pastor (me). But when I greeted them, they always looked beyond me, seeking someone older and taller. I always viewed being a young pastor as a weakness. People didn't see me as wise enough to lead their spiritual lives. I dreamed of a future where I could have a raspy voice from too much preaching and not care what people thought about what I wore. I longed for my Ray Mesa years of ministry. This is another loss for me. I had to stop pastoring sometime after my stroke. Disabled life has made pastoring near impossible. I’ve begged God to bring me back. I want to do ministry again and finally reach the golden years of grumpy old-man pastoring. If I get there, I'll give Ray Mesa a run for his money as the coolest old guy pastor.

This June, I turned 45. That may not sound old, but disabled 45 feels a lot older than it sounds.