I just filled out the mind-numbing, repetitive medical paperwork to see the second medical specialist in a week’s time. After I saw the first specialist last week, an array of prescription drugs contained in bottles, boxes, and sprays crowded the bathroom counter.
There’s nothing seriously wrong with me, but I’ve reached the age when the maintenance of even a relatively healthy body becomes more time-consuming. Following up on multiple referrals, I feel like I am being rudely initiated into the last third of life – ushered into that special fraternity of people who joke that their new full-time job is keeping up with doctors’ appointments and organizing all their medications so they know when to take them and in what dosage.
All kidding aside, there is something very spiritual about coming to terms with the fragility of one’s body. Richard Rohr refers to the “journey of descent,” an invitation to deeper wisdom that quite purposefully parallels the accelerating decline of one’s physical strength. If we are privileged to live long enough (as a growing number of people are these days), we are invited to a season of radical letting go. We let go of the need to erect our own towers, prove our own importance, and build our own egos. We let go of our stubborn demands, unexamined biases, and the need to be right all the time. Eventually, we have to let go of friends and loved ones – both those who precede us in death and those whom we must leave behind – and finally, we learn to let go of our own bodies. As sad as all of this “letting go” can be, it also opens us up to receive God in a truly transformative way.
According to Psalm 90:10, “the days of our life are seventy years, or perhaps eighty if we are strong.” That was a remarkable claim to make 3,000 years ago. Even after bracketing out infant mortality, which was quite high, life expectancy in the ancient world was less than 50 years. But there must have been some
As a pastor, I’ve been allowed to accompany many elders who have made this journey. Here is some of what I have observed.
The last third of life is a time of great freedom. For many, this is the time of planning for and entering retirement. But for those who retire well, this does not mean the end of work. It is a time when a person can do the work she wants to do when she wants to do it. It is a season of life when you are no longer proving yourself, angling for a promotion, fighting to keep a job, or struggling to be recognized. You are free to pursue activities, causes, hobbies, and – yes – work that is life-giving. Put another way, you retire from a job, but not from your vocation. We continue to be called. We continue to have purpose. We are always invited to flourish in some way.
Paradoxically, the last third of life is also a time of increasing constraint. You have to pay closer attention to your body and recognize when activities need to be altered or reduced. Mobility can no longer be taken for granted. Neither can all those internal processes that have kept you alive. So while you have more time, you also have less time, for the care of your body requires more and more personal attention. On the other hand, two of the ways we care for our bodies are with exercise and healthy eating – both of which can open up new ways of enjoying life. So freedom and constraints can be symbiotic rather than in conflict.
The last third of life presents us with heart-wrenching choices. This is truer today than it has ever been. People live longer because of rapid advances in medical science. New therapies and surgical procedures make it possible to survive diseases and traumas that up until just two generations ago were insurmountable. But these advances also mean that we must constantly balance the quantity of our years with the quality of our lives. I think most of us would agree, at least intellectually, that if there is no possibility for quality of life, heroic procedures to keep a person physically alive are not advisable. But what is “quality of life”? What gives life value? Is it the ability to contribute or accomplish good? Is it being mentally alert and therefore capable of communicating with others? Is it simply the ability to experience joy, which does not require full mental capacity? Those are questions we all have to answer for ourselves, and do well to discuss with loved ones who may be faced with hard decisions about our healthcare in the future.
The last third of life is not romantic. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard elders say, “Growing old is no fun.” Or, “whoever coined the phrase ‘golden years’ didn’t know what they were talking about.” The pain of inhabiting a body that is in rapid decline should never be minimized. A person in agony is not capable of reflecting prayerfully or contemplating the meaning of life. A body riddled with pain demands so much attention that the spirit is left only to cry out, “Why hasn’t God already taken me? What is the point of living like this?” Indeed, it is possible that the only reason some people are physically alive is because medical science has kept them alive – maybe for too long. On the other hand, none of us has enough perspective to conclude that any life in the body is devoid of purpose. I have received profound wisdom from seniors who were infirm and struggling through every day. It could be that those who care for people in chronic pain are learning important life lessons. It might be that, even in a debilitated state, a person is able to find peace about some lingering unresolved issue. At some point, death becomes the ultimate healing for everyone, but it is important to distinguish between healthy acceptance of our mortality and an unhealthy “death wish.”
The last third of life is different for everybody. That is true physically, mentally, and spiritually. There are no blueprints. There is no single preferred path. But I have observed that people who “age well” do share one important characteristic: self-awareness. While they suffer the pain of many kinds of loss, they also learn to shed layers of false self-images. As the left and right sides of their brains become less distinct from one another, they find a balance that had always eluded them before. In the popular culture, we say that people “mellow” with age. I suppose that’s true as far as it goes, but “mellowing” is only an outward characteristic of the “deepening” that comes for those who are able to let go of every attachment, receive every day as a gift rather than an entitlement, and become as transparent to God as is possible this side of eternity.
Of course, I speak only as a student – and now novice – of this journey, so I share these observations with all humility. But I continue to learn from others as I explore the depths of my own journey, wherever it takes me.
©2018 by J. Mark Lawson
As a person who is well into the last third and who is starting to notice some decline, and, someone who has cared for many people in their advanced age, all that you say is so true. It is encouraging to think that, even as our bodies decline, there is still spiritual growth that goes on. Thank you, Mark.
Posted by: Michael Salamone | 02/11/2018 at 07:36 PM
Your thoughts ring true as they most always do! Thanks, Mark, for your timely message! It gives us perspective and much to think about!
Posted by: Deb Record | 02/07/2018 at 07:16 PM