I can't say that I feel any older on this specific day than other day. They all add up, compounding on one another. I feel more weathered. More beaten. More worn. Slower to rise, slower to respond, slower to recover. My gut is more padded, my hair more gray. While I feel more "grown up" somewhere inside me I feel able to be young. Somwhere in this accumulation of thirty eight years of life I'm finding the purpose with all my previous years.
Our memories will always betray us. Our memories have no care for facts. We remember things not as they literally were, but for the epherma that surround the moment. The memories become stories that treasure, new pictures of the way we felt. Moments pass and we can't hold on to them, but memories endure.
The Bible says that God is our Father, an analogy that only a parent can fully appreciate. Every now and then God gives you a tiny glimpse at the overall importance of your life, your role, your purpose — and that moment will bring you to your knees. As a father I had a distrinct moment of clarity the other night, not merely the realization that time escapes us, but feeling the rush as time flies.