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Time wounds all heels.
Rushing to age seventy, I no longer meet the “spring chicken” criteria. Overweight, my body rolls in folds to the dinner table. Taste buds clamor for sweet and salt. Paper towels placed strategically soak up perspiration to keep rashes at bay. Having become somewhat odiferous, I enjoy perfumes more. Living in colorful floaty caftans for ease of movement as well as concealing body image.
My eyelids slowly fold to meet the bags under my eyes, difficult to squint. Surprising little red blood vessels appear on my eyes, as “floaters” plague me when I close them. Mascara and eyeliner do not help. Twisting eyelashes keep me pulling them out. Fingernails break as I stare at them.
Wattles! My neck is wrinkling. The thin skin on my arms and legs is drooping. I seem to be melting.
Plugged into a CPap to keep my marriage stronger than my snores. I listen to my Bible to fall asleep with a mind decluttered from everyday angst - keeping my whirlygig thoughts corralled. I have constant nightmares of my teeth crumbling in my mouth, forgetting where I live and who I love.
Uncomfortable. Disconsolate. Too many “weather veins” with each barometric pressure drop. How do I feel about aging? Aging! How and when has this happened? Succumbing to gravity. Enthroned in a power chair for ambulation. Was I ever a spring chick? Did I ever spring? I have become the replica of my beloved Gram. Except she was 4’10” and weighed about 100 pounds.
Soon to be planted. What I become in the Christ is far superior to what I have accomplished hitherto. I fear God. Therefore I do not fear death. No tears, no sorrows, no agonizing over crow’s feet. No more shuffling to the kitchen in fuzzy slippers and forgetting why I am in there.
This no longer a spring chicken can rest now. The spring in my heart overflows with trust, knowing that I am but a small seed planted, awaiting the Resurrection. I will blossom into the creature God has prepared me to be.
Thank You, Father – forgiving through and for giving Jesus to save me from myself.
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