A summer of transitions has reminded me of life’s blessings and uncertainties

This summer has been a season of transitions at the Prather house.

Although I swear she’s hardly out of her teens—at least that’s how she looks from my noticeably older vantage point—my wife, Liz, retired last month from teaching to devote herself to writing more books.

As we headed into that big change, I was concerned. I remembered what my Aunt Ked said after Uncle Melvin retired: she suddenly got twice as much husband on half as much money.

Fortunately for us, it’s working out dandy, financially and otherwise.

Because I’d been piggybacking on Liz’s healthcare insurance since we got married in 2011, her retirement meant I had to switch to Medicare, which I’d resisted doing, for reasons I’m now not sure of myself. Let me tell you: I love Medicare. It’s wonderful.

I decided that while I was at it, I might as well sign up to draw Social Security as well, given that I’m fully vested.

So here we sit, Liz and I, two pensioners.

As said, Liz is younger, but I’m old by most any cultural touchstone you might choose — over 65, on Medicare, on Social Security.

Being old feels weird because mainly it doesn’t feel different from being middle-aged. I’d always expected something, I don’t know … dramatic. A grand demarcation.

Instead, I’m pretty much doing what I’ve done forever. I’m still pastoring our church, and still writing my columns. I haven’t wandered out to pasture yet.

Medical issues? I’m overweight. I’ve got diabetes and hypertension. But I’ve had those problems for decades. They’ve come to feel like longtime, if annoying, companions.

I’ve noticed my back and legs are getting stiffer. My hair’s whiter and thinner.

I can’t run a marathon anymore. Then again, I never could run a marathon. I never had the least desire to run one.

My mind’s as sharp as ever, although saying that is damning myself with faint praise.

Day in and day out, I come and go at my leisure. There’s hardly anything I’ll think about and then say, “Oh, I can’t do that, I’m too old.”

I’m blessed for sure. I know any number of people my age with far worse problems.

For now, the scariest part is wondering how long this good fortune will last. At my age, you can be trundling along hale and hearty one day, and the next day find yourself in an ICU. A friend went in for an aggravating throat problem and came out with terminal esophageal cancer. Another buddy went in just to get his C-PAP machine replaced and came out with a heart blockage and an ugly spot on his lung.

When you’re old, you may have 20 wonderful years left, or 20 minutes. You wake up in the morning, cross yourself (even if you’re not Catholic) and pray for the best.

Speaking of spiritual things, in the past year or two I seem to have grown closer to God. I’m saying that as a preacher, who by definition is supposed to be close to God.

But preachers are human; our faith ebbs and flows like anybody else’s. As I’ve aged, my faith seems mainly to strengthen—as if knowing my time here is limited has improved my focus on the hereafter. I can’t say exactly what’s happened. I can’t pinpoint it.

Another odd thing I’ve encountered is that people seem to look at me differently, even though I largely feel the same. Maybe it’s the silver hair, or the rounded shoulders.

I’m not sure they do it consciously, but store clerks and restaurant receptionists act as if I’m invisible. When they finally notice me, if I don’t catch what they say the first time—because I enjoyed too much very loud rock-and-roll when I was their age—they tend to roll their eyes, nudge me aside and hurry on to the next customer.

I try not to respond with, “Son, I’m deaf, not daft.” I hope to avoid being a cranky old codger. Don’t feed the stereotypes, I tell myself.

Aging is a mixed lot, then. But so far it’s mainly good. Quite good.

One day this week, Liz got up early and spent most of the day alternately absorbed in gardening and in a novel she’s writing—pursuing her bliss, in other words. I went to my home office, caught up on paperwork. In the late afternoon, we both decided it was time for a break, so we read together for a couple of hours.

Then we got hungry, so we got up and fixed supper. Then we curled up on opposite ends of the sofa and watched three back-to-back episodes of “Gaslit,” a limited TV series about Martha Mitchell and the Watergate scandal. Finally, we went to bed, utterly contented.

As I lay in the dark, I thought, “If this is old age, I’ll take all of it I can get.”

Paul Prather is pastor of Bethesda Church near Mount Sterling. You can email him at pratpd@yahoo.com.