Sixty is the New Forty

By Jane Thornton 

Sixty is the new forty, right? That’s what I like to tell myself, anyway, as I begin the final approach to fifty. This philosophy would put me in my twenties. That sounds right since I like to keep a young, vital self-image frozen in my subconscious, avoiding mirrors that remind me of its frailty.

My grandmother would have been in her sixties when my clearest memories of her were formed. Those pictures all revolve around my childish fascination with the aging process. Even from my new perspective of being closer to sixty than twenty (ouch!), age dominates the images I recall.

When Grandma came to visit, she brought a special, extra suitcase. Powder blue, faux leather covered the eighteen inch box. Its sole content—medication. Grandma would tuck a wispy strand of white hair back into her bun, then crack open the mysterious treasure chest. Reminiscent of a tackle box, it had little compartments filled with a vast array of pills. I can still see her crooked finger, thin-skinned, with fine creases, poking through each section as she narrated the purpose of each . . . the little blue squares calmed her heart tremors; the pink and white capsules controlled her sinuses. Quite inspiring for our next backyard game of nurse and soldier.

I also remember clambering into the backseat for the ride to church and scooting into the middle to make room for Grandma. Then we would pester her to take out her teeth. She had a full set of dentures. I can’t imagine what we did to her ego with our oohs and ahs when she gave in and let her lips collapse and pucker around her bare gums.
Grandma didn’t age happily. During each visit, my siblings, cousins, and I would listen to the same stories—over and over. We heard again about her younger, favored sister. Stern looks from our parents would rebuke our rolling eyes. We listened—again—as she reminded us that she never liked the color green, but that’s the hue of the gifts she always seemed to be given. Her memories seemed to dwell on discontent. Our youthful impatience failed to understand or commiserate.

Her spiritual background was stern and legalistic. She raised four children to believe in and fear God, but she seemed to have little understanding of His grace. At her funeral, a large part of the sadness came from reflection on her dissatisfaction during life. Then someone shared a blessing, a beam of sunshine: “Now she is like God always intended her to be.”

What a beautiful and glorious image to blot out the old pictures in my head! I see a vibrant, laughing, young Grandma, basking in the love of her Father. I can imagine her greeting my dad in heaven, giving him a hug free of earthly baggage, full of His grace. I thank God for His plan that makes this scene a promise for all of us.

“We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. If we have been united with him like this in his death, we will certainly also be united with him in his resurrection.” Romans 6:4-5 (NIV)

“The sun has one kind of splendor, the moon another and the star another . . . So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.” I Corinthians 15:41-43 (NIV)