I definitely do not enjoy in the galling process of growing old. It’s frustrating to watch the firmness and energy of adulthood sag and seep away, leaving behind a shriveled husk. (Makes you glad the Lord put clothes on us.)
We are each an intricate collection of about 100 trillion cells inhabited by a singular spark of consciousness. In our prime we are sensory and sensual marvels: vivacious, vibrant, fresh, fragrant even. But the years dull the senses, bleach the colors and sour the smells. Time may be a good healer but it’s a terrible beautician and even worse caretaker who can’t keep up with maintenance:
… the keepers of the house tremble and the strong men stoop … the grinders cease because they are few and those looking through the windows grow dim … the doors to the street are closed and the sound of grinding fades … men rise up at the sound of birds but all their songs grow faint … men are afraid of heights and of dangers in the streets … the almond tree blossoms and the grasshopper drags himself along and desire no longer is stirred.
We can mitigate these disabilities by healthy living, which I’m committed to doing, but we can’t stop the process or change the ending.
… the dust returns to the ground it came from,
and the spirit returns to God who gave it.
Physical aging makes me angry but all is not lost. I believe the body will one day be raised in perfection and reunited with the spirit at the resurrection—the grand event presaged by Christ and promised to all God’s children.
Robes will be optional in heaven.