The Middle Ages
A wise man once said that reality is the best teacher. If that’s the case, then this weekend reality was one of those nun-style teachers with a ruler that raps you on the knuckles.
Last month I put you to sleep with this post about the ten year anniversary of our move to North Carolina. This weekend, our oldest NC friends spent a couple of days with us as we walked down memory lane and then realized the next time we traveled memory lane it would be in a Hoveround®, because apparently we’re ancient.
It was significant that we celebrated the anniversary of us meeting a month after the anniversary of our move, because even though Greg & Kelly English were our next door neighbors, it wasn’t until four weeks into the deal that they actually spoke to us. Not that we’re still bitter about it ten years later, because I know Greg had a Sunday School lesson to prepare and four weeks was just enough time to make sure I’d carried in the last box and he didn’t have to help me do one. Single. Thing. (Again I want to stress: I’m not bitter.)
So on Saturday we drove over to Wake Forest to kick around Southeastern’s campus, including the seminary ghetto neighborhood where we lived. (We made a few pictures in front of our old apartment, but it wasn’t my best glamour shot ever, so you can’t see it.) And as we drove around the New and Improved Wake Forest, we sounded like crotchety old people: “These kids don’t know how good they have it! Them with all their fancy Krispy Kremes and Red Robins! Back in our day we had to drive all the way to Raleigh to go to the Wal Mart. It’s a wonder we even got a theological education!”
That night’s conversation, however, was the final nail in the coffin. We reminisced about the ages of our kids when we were in seminary. Greg & Kelly’s oldest son Tyler was just a little guy (not too little to actually help me unload the moving van even though his dad was sitting on the cou…ooops. I’m not bitter.). Jacob was four years old. Now Tyler is starting his freshman year at George Mason and Jacob just hit high school.
And then one of us – I can’t remember who because of all the senior moments – said something sobering: “You know, we could be sitting here in another ten years as grandparents.”
I’m not old enough to have a ten-year plan that includes the word “Grandparent.” I drive a grandpa’s car, sure, but that doesn’t make me one. My wife is prettier than the day we met, if that’s possible. I’m paying for kids’ braces. I still feel very…um…
…what was I saying?
You kids get off my lawn.