Generally, I’m on the front row at church, not because I like the front row but because no one else does, so I always have a place to sit. It’s actually the front side row since we have two small sections to either side of the auditorium with eight or so pews in each. But this particular evening, I am on the back row of that section, mainly because that’s where my husband was sitting when I got through with my kindergarten class and made my way to the devotional service.

I found myself seated behind a gentleman I’ve known all my life. He had been a teacher at our local high school; I graduated from there with his son, and his wife had been especially kind to my mother when her mental faculties began to decline but she still wanted to be present on Sunday mornings. She would sit in the auditorium class and this wonderful soul would keep her company until my class ended and I could join her. Now in his nineties, the years are beginning to take their toll and, although his mind is still good, his body doesn’t always want to comply with his wishes.

Tonight, for whatever reason, we were asked to stand for the first song. That seemed like a monumental task when you’ve just finished teaching five and six year olds. Sitting was quite nice at that moment but, muttering under my breath, I stood as requested. He was directly in front of me and my attention to the service ended as I watched him try to stand. With his hands on the pew in front of him, he tried twice to pull himself up, but the strength wasn’t there and his legs offered little assistance in the process. Accepting this temporary limitation, he settled back into his seat and began to sing. His voice was clear with the slightest quiver, the words committed to memory from years before. I could hear the reverence, the worship in his voice and, though tinged with age, it brought tears to my eyes.

When it came time for the final song of the night we were asked to stand again, and again he tried. Twice his hands gripped the pew before him, twice his legs could not offer the necessary support, but the third time he slowly rose, almost losing his balance as he did. A young lady next to him placed her hand on his back, affording him the opportunity to steady himself, to lift his head and stand erect. And he began to sing again, the notes still clear and sweet.

I know of his history, of his service in the war and his dedication to his family and his community. I know of the respect his children hold for him and how much he must miss his wife since her death. I also know that in many families, as his health declined, he would be ignored, relegated to a place where they would not have to “deal” with him, care for him, or even think of him. Such places are not so bad, unless the family views them as a substitute for their own involvement. Fortunately, that will not fall his lot; others will not be so lucky.

These days, society seems to believe that newer is better, whether we are discussing technology or people. We want the latest phone, the latest tablet, laptop or car. The younger the person, the more creative they are perceived to be, the more energetic. If we are not careful, we view age as a thing to be feared and disdained. We do not want to become what our futures may hold and we may not wish to be burdened by those who have already reached that plateau in life. But they still have wisdom to share. They still have experience upon which we can draw. And when their minds and bodies fail them to the point they can no longer share either, they should have our gratitude and respect for the years they gave us.

The post Out With the Old . . . In With the New appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.