But this is the one to whom I will look: he who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word. Isaiah 66:2
I certainly don’t understand this getting old thing. It is so very painful for all involved. And absolutely part of the rhythm of life.
And I know another thing. Right now my poppa is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at His word.
Saturday was my parents’ fifty-sixth anniversary. It’s one of those hard-to-celebrate moments because one of the participants isn’t quite sure what is going on. So Scott came up with a plan. He arrived promptly at 6:15 p.m. with happy Scott and Mary and Just Married and hearts painted on the car windows and a few tin cans dangling behind. And we headed up to Windy Point with a card table and a vaguely fancy-fine picnic lunch, candles and a flowering plant from Jack and Mary Anne.
It wasn’t exactly perfect. The vista was dusty. Windy Point was indeed windy. But momma was lovely and gracious, Scott was patient, and poppa was cold and needed to be wrapped in a table cloth and towel and he was still cold.
But his prayers, his frequent prayers, were heartfelt. He was very aware that he didn’t quite understand the Big Picture. There was no sense that he was running the show or that he could do things on his own, although he did want to help out, that’s for sure. And his tiny halting steps reek of humility.
After we piled back into the vehicle, Scott found another spot to gaze out over the lights. I am struck by the silence. All of the small bustlings loses their power when viewed from this perspective. The grip of time is released. There is a profound sense of the Road Not Taken leading to another Road Not Taken and suddenly here we are, fifty-six years later. Who woulda thunk? Our Father Which Art in Heaven. And the hand of the Lord shall be known to His servants.
For one, the humble and contrite man, who begins every prayer with, “We are yours.”