I noticed my first grey hair at age 21. Well, actually, my wife did. We were driving across Missouri and she spotted it. I think Alanis Morrissette was on the tape player at the time (intentionally dating the event via technology). And then she leaned over and plucked the alien hair from my head. After recovering from the initial pain from the pluck I then went to work on my pride. This, after all, hurt. And Alanis Morrissette and her ranting wasn’t helping matters.
Fast forward 13 years. Grey hairs have infiltrated my hair like Al-Queda in Europe. There seems to be little I can do to stop them. Sure, hair dye works for awhile (there is no shame in my game). And then you can go militant and shave your head. But again, they grow back.
All along my comfort has been my beard, or specifically my goatee. It boasts of red and brown. It is tough like someone down in front at a Dropkick Murphy‘s show. It has been intolerant of grey. For thirteen years it has stood as a monument of defiance against the aging process and more recently the increased stress levels of pastoral ministry and church planting. It has been a rock. A citidel of persevence.
Until today that is.
Now I look and see among the fine timbers of red beard several alien greys. They are strong and multiplying. Red Beard as I knew it is dying.
People try to encourage grey headed cats like me with a quote from Proverbs about wisdom, but I know myself, that’s not what I need to hear. Instead, I need to be reminded that I am dying. I am terminal. The time is running short. The grey hairs remind me of this. I need the gospel. I need Christ. There is my lesson and my encouragement all at once.
The application is simple. As a pastor friend of mine recently reminded me, “Number your days (Ps. 90.12) because God has numbered your days (Ps 139.16).”
I can embrace this aging thing as long as I embrace this gospel.
