Growing older, I’m learning, is less like climbing a ladder and more like settling into a truer room God has been quietly preparing all along. Each year, grace gently takes something away: an illusion, a sense of urgency, a need to impress. It leaves behind a clearer window through which I begin to glimpse His gentle presence. Even the mistakes I once tried to outrun now sit beside me like old companions, redeemed by mercy, no longer accusing, only reminding me how patiently I have been loved.
The past does not fade so much as it ripens in the light of God’s faithfulness. What once wounded becomes a teacher; what once delighted becomes a quiet thanksgiving. I see now how His hand was steady even when mine was unsure, how purpose was being woven through both my yeses and my failures, shaping me into someone more able to receive and give love.
And the future, strangely, feels not smaller but more holy. I no longer expect it to dazzle me; I trust it to lead me deeper into God’s heart. There are still mercies waiting to be discovered, still callings unfolding in ordinary days. To grow older is not to close a story, but to read it more slowly—with awe, with gratitude, and with the quiet confidence that every page is held in love.
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