I'm writing this in bed, sipping tepid drinks through a straw and trying to keep my head still, following a wisdom tooth extraction (which was, thankfully, really NOT THAT BAD - my error was asking people to share experience and mostly hearing horror stories!) I've just turned 40 and my hair is definitely going grey. I haven't been to a dance class in so long that I can no longer confidently reach to open door handles with my feet. When we go to running club, my children like to show me how much faster than me they can run. I'm working with a lovely bunch of new trainee teachers and have just realised I could be their mother.
(More on running: On running. (sarahhadfi.wixsite.com) and on greying: On stars in descent. (sarahhadfi.wixsite.com))
In other words, I'm feeling a tad aware of my limitations.
Ageing is a gift, of course. It's just maybe I'm sad to say goodbye to some of the things which went with youth. I'm not yet convinced that grey hair is a fair exchange for strength.
I've recently been going through a period of stress, for reasons I can't really go into. It's been interesting to look, in a sort of detached academic way, on the physical impact of stress, the sleeplessness and funny breathing, that I've mostly only observed in others before, and now I'm thinking, "Ohhhhhh - so that's what it's like."
"Everyone's problems feel important to themselves." a wise RAF chaplain told me. He came from being a hospice chaplain, where I'd imagine people's problems are indisputably pretty pressing. My worries might not seem that bad to anyone else, but they are enough to push me towards my limit, which seem like a fairly arbitrary point which differs from person to person. And I might be tempted to look at someone and think, "Why are they making such a big deal about hosting people for dinner? That's really not worth that fuss." But if that is what pushes someone towards the limits of what they feel able to cope with, then who am I to judge?
We've recently got into watching "Gladiators" as a family (nice to find something we all agree on!) and it is obviously all very entertaining and also inspiring to watch tall bronzed gods at the peak of their physical fitness. I, meanwhile, am reminded of my weediness every time I have to ask for help to unscrew a lid, or when I need a stool to reach anything in our top kitchen cupboards.
It's not a bad thing to be humbled, of course. For someone who has a bunch of the outward markers of success (good education, steady employment, settled home, etc) it's probably good for me to have an afternoon in the dentist chair, thinking, "Lord, please help - I'm scared!" I've blogged before about the circumstances that brought me to Cambridge On decisions. (sarahhadfi.wixsite.com) and how I pledged to give all credit for all of that to God. I know I'm limited in my capabilities.
A significant Bible verse in my teenage years was the "jars of clay" one, especially when I was (believe it or not) tempted towards big-headedness ("Look at me with my A* GCSE results!"). In ancient times, a clay jar was hand made by a potter and could be used as temporary storage for a valuable document. It was obviously fragile. Like a clay jar, I am uniquely made, but breakable, mortal, not intended to be around forever. And like a clay jar, it's never really meant to be about the jar - it's about the "treasure" it contains. In the letter to the Corinthians, the treasure is explained as: "the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ."
And maybe time spent facing up to my limitations reminds me what's really important. God's glory beats broken teeth and grey hair.
Meanwhile, my darling husband thought watching "Little Shop of Horrors" would cheer me up...
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