Philip Geluck once observed that “being old is just being young for longer than others.” It is a charmingly subversive thought, one that flips the script on the standard narrative of decline. Instead of seeing age as the accumulation of years, Geluck invites us to see it as the successful persistence of youth.
My wife, Suzy, brought this quote to my attention from her book club selection on a day when the universe seemed determined to send me mixed signals about my own “mileage.”
The “old” side of the coin dropped yesterday following some minor dermatological surgery. As I was leaving, the staff handed me a post-operative instruction sheet with a list of restrictions that felt like an affront to my autonomy. I was told to limit my activity for two weeks, specifically avoiding “vacuuming or loading a dishwasher.”
I looked at the paper, then back at the nurse, thinking, You have got to be kidding me. To be sidelined by a dishwasher—was a stinging reminder of the body’s occasional fragility. In that moment, surrounded by clinical white walls and holding a list of chores I was suddenly “too fragile” to perform, I felt every bit of my age.
Then, the weather turned. Today, the thermometer is reaching for the seventies, and the world outside my window has transformed into a living gallery of vitality.
I watched the couples walking by in the bright sun, and I noticed how their movement tells a story. Some saunter behind tugging dogs; others stride with arms swinging like windmills, determined to hit a step goal. But my favorites are the ones who move in unison—the couples holding hands, or the woman with her arm tucked securely into the crook of his.
There is a specific kind of gravity in a couple in love. It pulls the years away. What, after all, is younger than love? Watching them, the surgical instructions in my pocket felt less like a life sentence and more like a brief intermission. In that observation, I felt young again.
Ultimately, the tug-of-war between being “old” and being “young” isn’t settled by a doctor’s note or a birth certificate; it is settled by choice.
Admittedly, the physical benchmarks have shifted. I won’t be dunking a basketball this afternoon, and I’m no longer firing fastballs with the kind of velocity that makes a radar gun sweat. My “power” has changed shape. But I can still take a stroll with Suzy on my arm, and in the quiet synchronicity of our steps, I am seventeen again. I am in high school, the world is wide, and the evening is full of promise.
I may be banned from the yard work and heavy lifting for the next fortnight, but the radio—yes, a real, tactile radio—still works. When “Grand Funk Railroad” or “The Band” comes through the speakers, the music doesn’t sound “classic”; it sounds like the present tense. It sounds like energy, rebellion, and soul.
We are currently in the season of Lent. You won’t find this specific advice in a formal Lenten instruction book or a Sunday sermon, but perhaps these forty days can be used for more than traditional penance.
Lent can be a season of restoration—a time to reclaim the “lost youth” that the world tries to bury under medical forms and responsibilities. It is a time to consider what it would take to bridge the gap between who we were and who we are, realizing that the “days passed” are never truly gone as long as we keep walking, keep loving, and keep the music playing.
Being young for longer isn’t about ignoring the passage of time; it’s about refusing to let time have the final word. So, take a step or two today toward that version of yourself that never really left. It’s a bright, sunny day—and the dishwasher can wait.
One of my favorite meditations! Keep them coming!
Thanks cousin!
This post literally took my breath away Webb. And I am going to have to listen to Grand Funk Railroad now. Thank you!
Wow! Thanks Jill. Means more than I can express. W.