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Psalm 90:10, 12 American
Standard Version
10 The days of
our years are threescore years and ten,
Or even by reason of strength fourscore years;
Yet is their pride but labor and sorrow;
For it is soon gone, and we fly away.
12 So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
The other day we held a reunion of friends who grew up or
served in Southern Africa. About twenty of us showed up. This had dwindled over
the pandemic, when we would often have forty in attendance. I estimate that the
average age was about fourscore years; in one sense or another we must all have
“strength.” From the conversation it appears that all of them had been
vaccinated and “boosted.” In spite of all the sophistry and circumlocution that
goes around, it is only wise to accept with rejoicing what the Lord has
graciously given this generation.
Some of us were missionaries in Africa: some of us were born
there. All of us are well educated, enjoy the outdoors, appreciate the arts,
and revel in the love of God. All are doing something, even at this advanced
age, to help our fellow humans. All of us have attained to a fair amount of
wisdom.
We should be labeled sophomores in its classical sense. In
case your classical knowledge is a bit rusty, sophomore is the concatenation of
the two Greek words, “Sophos”—clever or wise—and “moros”—foolish, i.e., wise
fools.
A rather outspoken friend of mine, not at our reunion,
cajoles us rather frequently that the only way to achieve immortality is to author
and publish books. He foresees his grandchildren reading the novels he is
writing and sees them rediscovering him. He writes well into the wee hours of
the morning every day. Is that a form of numbering our days?
The other morning a fire-engine and an ambulance, lights
flashing, parked in front of the house across the street. I waved at Peggy as
she lay on a stretcher inside the ambulance, and she smiled wanly and waved
weakly back. As we see our friends and contemporaries check out of this state
of “labor and sorrow,” it reminds us that our names are perilously close to the
top of the list. Peggy is back home now, and her daughter tells me her
pervasive pain has been brought under control. For the time being, she has
beaten the grim reaper.
Thank You, Lord,
for reminding us of the tenuous nature of our present existence and the
eternity you have prepared for us.
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