The Ages We Thought We Understood

There are certain ages in life when we are quite sure we know what we are doing.

This confidence usually arrives just before life proves otherwise.

At seven, we know exactly how the world works. Biscuits are essential. Bedtime is unreasonable. Adults are slow because they ask too many questions before doing obvious things like climbing trees, eating icing straight from the bowl or seeing whether a cardboard box can become a submarine.

At seven, faith is often beautifully simple. God is there. Jesus loves me. Heaven is real. Prayer works. Noah had animals. David had stones. Daniel had lions. Goliath was clearly asking for trouble.

There is something lovely about that stage. Children may not understand doctrine deeply but they often understand trust better than we do. They know how to be held. They know how to ask. They know how to believe that Someone bigger is in the room.

Then comes thirteen.

Thirteen is the age when the body begins a secret building project and neglects to send the owner the plans. The voice changes. The limbs lengthen. The face holds meetings of its own. Suddenly every photograph is evidence for the prosecution.

At thirteen, we begin discovering that life is not only about what we think. Other people have opinions too. Worse still, some of them are about us. We learn embarrassment. We learn comparison. We learn that one badly timed squeak in the voice can live forever in family history.

Faith at thirteen can feel awkward too. We may still believe but we start wondering where we fit. We are no longer little children singing loudly without shame. We are aware of ourselves. Painfully aware. We may want to follow Christ but not look too keen in front of our friends. We want courage but also a convenient chair near the back.

Still, the Lord is patient. He does not despise awkward faith. He does not roll His eyes at the teenager trying to work out courage, identity, friendship, temptation and deodorant all at the same time. He knows the frame. He remembers we are dust. He also remembers we are growing.

Then comes twenty-one.

At twenty-one, we are practically ancient in our own minds. We have opinions about politics, music, work, marriage, money and how our parents got almost everything wrong. We are independent now. We know this because we have our own bills and no idea how to pay them without looking concerned.

Twenty-one is the age of big declarations. "I will never become like my father." "I will never say that to my children." "I will never buy sensible shoes." "I will never fall asleep in a chair."

Life quietly writes these down.

At twenty-one, faith may become something we must choose rather than simply inherit. We begin to learn that Christianity is not just childhood memory, family custom or church attendance. Christ calls us personally. He calls us into obedience when nobody is clapping. He calls us into holiness when nobody is watching. He calls us to carry a cross in a world that mostly recommends carrying a mirror.

This can be unsettling. It can also be freeing. Borrowed faith must eventually become owned faith. The Lord has no grandchildren. He has sons and daughters.

Then comes thirty-five.

Thirty-five is when life has usually stopped asking for permission. Responsibilities arrive wearing heavy boots. Marriage, children, work, mortgage, ministry, ageing parents, bills, school lunches, car repairs and that one drawer in the kitchen that nobody can close anymore.

At thirty-five, we often discover that adulthood is not a destination. It is a rotating list of things that need doing.

This is also when we begin to understand why our parents looked tired in the supermarket. We once judged them for buying the same cereal every week. Now we understand. Variety is lovely but survival has its own shopping list.

Faith at thirty-five often becomes practical. Not less spiritual. More tested. Can I pray when the baby has been awake half the night? Can I forgive when I am tired? Can I trust God when money is tight? Can I serve when nobody notices? Can I keep loving when love feels less like poetry and more like unloading the dishwasher again because apparently I am the only one who can see it?

This is where the ordinary Christian life becomes holy ground. Not glamorous perhaps. Not something people frame and hang on the wall. But deeply real.

Christ meets us in the dishes. In the commute. In the apology. In the whispered prayer before the hard conversation. In the tired father who keeps going. In the mother who gives more than anyone sees. In the worker who refuses dishonesty. In the believer who opens Scripture at night with one eye already asleep.

Then comes fifty.

Fifty is a strange age. Young people think you are old. Old people think you are young. Your knees have formed opinions. Your back has become a weather station. You begin making noises when you stand up and some of them surprise even you.

At fifty, we may start taking stock. We look back and realise that some dreams came true. Some did not. Some were wise. Some were nonsense in nice shoes.

We begin to see that life is shorter than we thought. Not short perhaps. But shorter. The road behind us has length. The road ahead no longer feels endless. This can sober us. It can also sharpen us.

Faith at fifty often becomes less decorative and more necessary. The slogans do not satisfy as much. We need the deep wells. We need Scripture with weight. We need a Saviour who does not merely improve our lifestyle but rescues our soul.

We also begin to understand grace more honestly. We have lived long enough to know we are not as strong as we pretended. We have failed enough to know mercy is not a small subject. We have sinned enough to know the cross is not religious scenery. It is our only hope.

Then comes sixty-five.

Sixty-five is when advertisements begin speaking to you in a tone you do not appreciate. Retirement planning. Comfortable footwear. Health checks. Funeral cover. Cruises featuring people who look suspiciously cheerful while holding mugs on balconies.

At sixty-five, the body becomes frank. It no longer sends polite suggestions. It issues memos. "Do not eat that after 9 pm." "Do not sit like that." "Do not assume the ladder is still your friend."

Yet this stage can hold deep beauty. The frantic proving years may soften. The need to impress may fade. We may care less about looking important and more about being faithful. We may begin to see ordinary blessings with clearer eyes. A good cup of coffee. A hand held across the table. A grandchild's laugh. A quiet morning. A hymn remembered. A prayer answered after years.

Faith at sixty-five can become wonderfully tender. Not weak. Tender. There is a difference. The Christian who has walked with the Lord through disappointments, regrets, illnesses, losses and unexpected mercies does not usually speak with cheap optimism. He speaks with scars. He speaks as one who has found that God did not leave.

This is a precious thing.

Then comes the later stage. The one nobody wants to name too loudly.

The stage where the world gets faster and you get slower. The stage where doctors multiply. The stage where you enter a room and have no idea why you came in. The stage where young people explain technology as if they are missionaries to a remote tribe.

Yet for the Christian, this stage is not merely decline. It is nearing harbour.

That does not make it easy. The Bible never asks us to pretend weakness is pleasant. Ageing can be humbling. Loss can hurt deeply. Regret can visit at night. Fear can whisper. The body can become a stubborn servant. The mind can wander into old rooms.

But Christ remains.

He is not only Lord of the energetic years. He is not only Lord of weddings, careers, children and full calendars. He is Lord of the walking stick. Lord of the hospital chair. Lord of the quiet room. Lord of the failing strength. Lord of the final breath.

The world often treats ageing as embarrassment. Scripture treats it with dignity. Grey hair is not a branding problem. It is a reminder that life has been lived. Wisdom has been learned. Sorrows have been survived. Grace has carried.

The great comfort of the Christian life is not that every stage gets easier. Some do. Some do not. The comfort is that every stage belongs to Him.

The child is held by Him.

The teenager is seen by Him.

The young adult is called by Him.

The parent is strengthened by Him.

The middle-aged struggler is corrected and comforted by Him.

The older believer is carried by Him.

And the dying saint is received by Him.

We spend much of life trying to reach the next stage. When we are children, we want to be grown. When we are grown, we want stability. When we get stability, we want rest. When we get rest, we realise what we really needed all along was not a stage at all.

We needed a Shepherd.

The stages of life are real. Some are joyful. Some are ridiculous. Some are exhausting. Some arrive with cake. Some arrive with blood tests. Some arrive with both.

But Christ is not waiting at the end of the road only. He is with His people on the road.

He is there in the child's prayer.

He is there in the teenager's confusion.

He is there in the young man's pride and the older man's regret.

He is there in the mother's tears, the father's weariness, the widow's quiet room and the old believer's trembling hands.

The years change us. They should. But they do not change Him.

And that is our hope.

Not that we mastered every stage.

Not that we always knew what we were doing.

Not that we became impressive, polished or wise enough to deserve applause.

Our hope is simpler and stronger.

Through every age we misunderstood, wasted, enjoyed, endured or survived, the Lord remained faithful.

And when we finally reach the last stage, we will discover that it was not the end of life at all.

It was the doorway home.