A Word About Milestones

The other day in church I talked to a good friend of mine who is exactly two weeks older than I am. He said to me, “In five months, I’ll be eighty years old.” I told him I thought that was an amazing accomplishment. But almost as soon as those words came out of my mouth, I also understood that two weeks after he turned eighty years old … I’ll be eighty years old, too, if we both lived that long. 

Strange when I admit that to myself the fact that I’m approaching a milestone: The milestone of being eighty years old. There are some feelings that accompany that reality that I’ve noticed. I don’t feel eighty years old. And I guess there’s a part of me that hopes I don’t think like an eighty-year-old, either. But in all honesty, I’m not sure how someone my age is supposed to think. I’ve never been this old before.

There are seasons in life that feel as if God has quietly placed some milestone beside our path, not to announce how far we’ve traveled, but to remind us that traveling is still what we’re here to do. The story of Caleb, recorded in the Book of Joshua is a great picture, I think. After forty years of wandering around in the wilderness, and five years of fighting, at the age of eighty-five, Caleb looked at the hill country he could see off in the distance, and simply said to the Lord, “Give me that mountain.” He did not ask for some place to rest. He asked for a place of meaning. His age was not a reason to stop, it was the proof that he was finally ready to climb a distant mountain. I think God saves some mountains for when we can climb with wisdom, rather than hurry.

A prayer to God, then, about what I’d like him to give me now that I’m approaching what seems like a milestone: 

“Lord, as I stand on the edge of another milestone, I speak to You with a grateful heart. You have carried me through more years than I ever expected, more joys and burdens than I can count, and more mercy than I can measure. I do not feel eighty years old, but I recognize the truth of it. I feel the weight of time, and I feel the gift of it, too.

Thank You for the mountains You have placed in my life. Some I have climbed with eagerness, some trembling, and all of them I only reached because You took me by the hand. As Caleb once looked across the hill country and asked for one more mountain, I ask You to give me a heart like his. Not chasing comfort, not clinging to the familiar, but asking for meaning, even in these later years.

Teach me to walk wisely. Help me notice the stones You have placed along the path. Strengthen my steps for whatever days remain. Let my life point someone toward Your grace. And when my journey is finished, let me finish it with gratitude, purpose, and the quiet confidence that You have walked with me every mile.

Like Caleb of old, Oh Lord, give me that mountain. That place of determined fulfillment of your plan. There is no better place to reside.