Starting
Point Gratitude in one hand, expectation in the other
By PAIGE BYRNE SHORTAL
We celebrated the life and passing
of Sophie, one of our most venerable parishioners. I asked if she was cogent
until the end. Oh, yes. Well, she would sometimes walk into a room and
forget why she was there, but otherwise
We buried Sophie on her 97th birthday, which makes her exactly 50
years older than I am. For several years, I, too, have been walking into rooms
with great determination only to forget why Im there. It is not unusual
for me to leave my office on the main floor of the rectory, run downstairs to
our business office, pause, and then ask if anyone has any idea why I came down
there. At least its exercise.
There are other things I dont like about what is
indisputably middle age. Gravity for one. Every time I turn around, another
part of my body is going south. And a crown broke, one Ive had for 20
years, which the 12-year-old dental hygienist pronounced pretty old for a
crown. And I actually rejected a book at the library because of the size
of the print.
I dont much like it that wisdom figures -- priests, doctors,
college professors, presidents of the United States -- are my age or younger. I
dont like it that I dont understand any of the television shows or
care about the characters. Are they really as funny as Mary Tyler Moore? I
dont like it that my music is played in elevators.
When I was 20, people who were almost 50 were not nearly as cool
as I am. They were old people. They had old hair, old shoes and carried old
handbags.
Yet they were wise people, not struggling through life as I am,
seeking the truth. They had arrived. The other day, looking through some old
correspondence, I came across a letter from a mentor whose advice in that
letter I took very seriously. I carried that letter around for several years.
It was creased, well-read. But, doing the arithmetic, I realize that my mentor
was 36 when he wrote that letter! A kid!
Thats when it dawned on me: Folks listen to me as I listened
to that mentor. A few folks -- not my children, of course, but other
peoples children. And I like that.
And I like other things about middle age. Confession, for
instance, is much less embarrassing now that Im a happily married, mature
woman. The most difficult thing I have to confess is anger with the church, and
its only embarrassing because a representative of the object of my anger
is sitting in the catbird seat. Try confessing that sometime. It gets him going
about how angry he is, and you dont have to say another word!
I like middle age because no one forces me to spend hours with a
group of people who are segregated solely by the year they were born. My
friends range in age from mid-20s to 70-plus, and I enjoy them all.
I like it that I am secure, knowing who I am. I watch younger
folks walking around wondering if they look OK, dress OK, their day ruined by a
pimple or a boss being grumpy with them. Middle-aged people can dress funny,
say a private no big deal to their boss and go home and have a nice
legal glass of wine.
Theres a certain sadness at this time of life. My
babies are growing up. And theres a certain joy. My babies
are growing up!!! Theres a poignancy about each day, knowing that
we dont have forever. But this poignancy, this mild sense of crisis,
makes each day seem all the more precious: each fire in the hearth, each new
spring a letter from an old friend, a good conversation. Its good to live
with gratitude in one hand and pleasant expectation in the other. Thats
middle age: gratitude and pleasant expectation. At least today.
Paige Byrne Shortal is a pastoral associate in a parish in
rural Missouri.
National Catholic Reporter, September 7,
2001
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