The Pain and the Promise of Aging

I read a book by Mitch Albom once that had a scene when a character arrives in heaven. I don’t know which book it was, and I’m not going to look it up because I don’t want to encourage anyone to go to Mitch Albom to learn about heaven (go here instead), but nevertheless, this scene has stayed in my head for many years now.

In my memory, the scene goes something like this: a person arrives in heaven and finds himself in a large, green field or among grassy hillsides, something pastoral and lovely, with the sun shining and a fresh breeze and low humidity. Just a perfect day all around. He rises to his feet and finds that he feels surprisingly energetic and full of life. He looks around him at the wide expanse of green and he begins to move. Very quickly, his walk turns into a jog, and within moments he is running full-out, amazed at the strength and energy in his legs as they pump furiously and propel him faster than he’s moved in many decades. He is exhilarated by the sun on his face and the wind in his hair and the freedom to run fast with the joy and abandonment of a child.

When I read this scene more than twenty years ago, I had a hard time identifying with it. I understood that this character probably was rejoicing in having a new body, and was reliving the easy joy of running that he remembered from his own childhood, but I also remember thinking, “Hmm, I wonder what my biggest joy in heaven will be? I can’t image it’ll be running.” After all, the good Lord knew that I didn’t even enjoy running all that much here on earth, so probably that wouldn’t be a priority for me in heaven, either.

But even though I didn’t fully understand it, that scene in an otherwise forgotten book has stuck with me for all these years. And now I see that there’s a lot of truth in it, but that realization has come with time, maturity—and pain.

Last year, I turned sixty, and my body seemed to kind of fall apart. Or at least, it seemed that way to me.

I should preface this by saying that for all of my life, I’ve enjoyed remarkably good health. It hasn’t been perfect, but overall I’ve had very few significant health issues, and I’m thankful for the good genes I inherited through no effort of my own.

But last year, the body that I depended on and used every single day with such a cavalier and carefree attitude turned against me. Or, to put it more accurately, my age caught up with me.

The irony of this, and probably the saddest part to me, is that for the past several years, I’ve been concentrating on improving my health by working out and walking almost daily. As someone who would have always much rather spent her time reading, writing, cooking, playing board games, or doing puzzles, this was a huge change for me. I found that I actually enjoyed exercising, especially walking. I also believed with all my heart that I was finally being a good steward of the body that God had given me.

And then, last summer, my joints announced to me that they were done being healthy and pain-free, and they have been continuing to remind me of their new function as a thorn in my side ever since.

First, I developed osteoarthritis in one hip and the opposite knee. This pain comes and goes, seemingly unrelated to weather or anything I do or don’t do. I’ve had x-rays, I’ve had a bone density scan, and I’m fine, apparently … I’m just sixty.

Then, more recently, sciatica joined the party. This nerve pain begins in my hip and shoots down my leg with such ferocity that I’m forced to sit until it subsides. My usual evening walks are often impossible, as is working out in the way that I’ve been doing. Sometimes the pain goes away in a few days, and sometimes it sticks around for a while (I’m on week three of a current flare-up).

But why, Lord? I just began new, healthy habits in my life not so long ago, habits that honor your good gifts to me, habits that I hope make up for all those years when I took for granted the easy health of youth. Why now, with all this pain?

I’ve had a while now to ask all of these “why” questions, and I think I’m getting to the end of simply whining about it. Do I still ask God to relieve my pain? Absolutely. But now I also make a point of thanking him every day for the small blessings he gives to me related to that pain, like the flexibility of my work-at-home job that allows me to just sit when I need to, the friends and family who offer advice and pray for me, and the comfortable bed that allows me to sleep free of pain.

I also remember the promises that accompany pain and suffering: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3–5). With my current pain situation, on most days I’m falling somewhere between “endurance” and “character,” and I can honestly say that I’m learning to thank God for giving me a new way to rely on him.

Finally, for my Scripture writing this week I’m copying the book of James, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I was only two verses in when I got this reminder, and the promise that goes along with it: “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (James 1:2–4).

I don’t know if the pain will continue in my daily life or not. I don’t know if this is my “new normal” or if I’ll have a respite lasting months or even years. What I do know is that the uncertainty is part of the trial, and isn’t that true of so much in life? Paul’s words about his own thorn are a comfort while waiting: “Three times I pleaded with the Lord about this, that it should leave me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:8–10).

I have a lot to learn about aging, embracing weakness, accepting limitations, living with pain, and enduring suffering. I hope I don’t have to learn these things too quickly, or all at once. I’m glad that the Bible has much to say about suffering and trials of all kinds, and I’m also grateful for the many saints who have gone before and shared their experience and wisdom on this difficult and unwelcome topic.

I wonder now if that “running in heaven” scene from a long-forgotten book has been in my head all these years for a reason. My youngest granddaughter is one year old, and has recently discovered the joy of running. One of her favorite games is to position herself at the end of a sidewalk or a long room, look you in the eye, and say, “Go!” She waits for you to say “Go!” back to her, and then, with a happy grin, she propels herself at full speed on her chubby toddler legs with the joy and abandonment of a child, right into your waiting arms, where there is a big, laughing hug waiting for her.

I can see it. I can see it now, in heaven. Jesus looks me in the eye, smiles, and says “Go!”

And I run.

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Top: photo by Joao Vitor Marcilio on Unsplash.

Below: my granddaughter playing “Go!” with her mommy.

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