Thou mayst in me behold
It's in old age, my dad would always say, That who a person is most clearly shows. They're like the trees whose petals, pastel-pink, And vibrant summer leaves have disappeared In one brief autumn blaze, and when the last Dried leaf has floated slowly to the ground, Winter reveals the essence of each one. Many are gnarled, their branches twisting in, But some stand tall and straight, flinging their arms Upwards to God against a reddening sky.
Spring is springing, and the longer, lighter days and merry yellow daffodils are making me glad. I’m eagerly awaiting the full display of fresh green leaves on the trees, even though when they appear I’ll temporarily lose one of my favourite sights: the black outline of a bare tree against a sunset sky.
Comparing people to trees, as I’ve done here, is hardly an original idea, of course. Shakespeare did it in the sonnet I’ve stolen the title of this post from, and David did it long before that in his psalms. It is, I suppose, an imagine that resonates deeply with us, since it’s stood the test of time so well.
I’ve seen old age up close over the last couple of years and have seen beauty, bravery, vulnerability, sadness, loss, and more. I don’t know any more than you, friend, what our old age will look like, assuming either of us live long enough to be old. But for you and me and for everyone I know and love, I hope this: that however much of ourselves as we are now is stripped away, the essence that remains will be beautiful and Godward bent.