For most of us the creases come slowly, the worry lines one by one. Sometimes I am still taken aback when I see John, whom I have loved for two score years, and am surprised that he lives in a sixty six year old body. He is still the light hearted man who played piano for me in the college auditorium late at night. But his wisdom is hard earned, his dark hair faded as each child broke open our hearts a little more. 

 

Last week he preached about patience. There was laughter in the service, erupting from the dramatic way a volunteer actor portrayed lethargy. John told the story of Frog and Toad, and the impatience Toad felt about his garden. I enjoyed the way a little brown amphibian tried to coerce his seeds to grow, knowing that we are just as silly. Those of us who have watered and watched tomato plants bide their sweet time know that harrumphing holds no sway. But that perspective eludes me when I want a solution to arrive by royal fiat. 

 

Perhaps I can recall that commanding broccoli to sprout faster is almost as ridiculous as urging a surgeon to finish a procedure in half the time. Some of the sprouting and suturing God performs on my fledging soul should not be rushed either. 

 

Looking at pictures from when we were in our twenties, I have no regrets. It was a hoot to be young but I would not trade it for the companionship of a man who still holds my wrinkled hand.