In a few weeks, I’ll be 40. Yep, the big 4-0. And I’ll be honest: it’s a little terrifying. Society treats this birthday like some kind of doomsday. Every day, my body seems determined to remind me that time is marching on.
The other day, I bent to pick up a sippy cup from the back seat and couldn’t move my neck for two days. TWO DAYS. Not exactly the flexibility of my 20-year-old self. And makeup? The stuff I’ve been using since I was 16 isn’t doin g the job anymore—probably because my face now has the audacity to age. Miss Clairol and I work over time on those gray hairs. I get unreasonably excited about “fancy buckets” to feed the chickens.
Some days I worry about what other moms think. Am I embarrassing my kids with my old jeans and undyed hair? Am I still the “pretty young thing” my husband married? And yes, for the younger moms, I’m officially the “older mom,” which somehow comes with its own special layer of judgment.
But then I remember: God doesn’t see me the way I see myself. He sees me as fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14)—gray hairs, wrinkles, sore muscles, and all. And honestly, He probably chuckles with me at the absurdity of me worrying about a sippy cup-induced neck injury.
As Proverbs 16:31 says,
“Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained by living a righteous life.”
If gray hairs are crowns, I’m basically royalty. And Isaiah 46:4 reminds me:
“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you… I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
Translation: God’s got me, even when I’m creaking, groaning, and wondering why my body won’t cooperate.
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