What’s Over the Hill
Anyone who’s lived long enough will tell you that the key to a good birthday is low expectations. I know this full well at my age, but somehow every year I go to sleep on the night of my birthday feeling utterly let down. This year was no different. My fortieth birthday was ushered in with absolutely no pomp and zero circumstance. It’s no one’s fault. I didn’t exactly ask for a party. Yet all year long as the big 4-0 approached I envisioned a momentous celebration with all my favorite people, fancy dresses, cocktails, a killer playlist of all my favorite songs, and a platter piled high with cupcakes. This doesn’t mean I was looking forward to turning forty, only that I wished for just enough hype to convince me this middle age thing wasn’t so bad. I never vocalized this vision, and even if I had, circumstances would not have permitted it. We moved across the country less than a month before my birthday. We celebrated Halloween and my daughter’s birthday just two days before. The day after my birthday we hopped on a plane to North Carolina for the weekend to attend a wedding my husband is officiating. There was simply no margin for a big to-do this year.
The day went by, slow hour after slow hour. I did nothing out of the ordinary. In the evening we went out to dinner with my family and I opened a pile of sweet, thoughtful presents, but as I fell into bed that night I was choking back tears. I felt myself slipping into a deep funk and wondering, Is that it? Is that all there is to turning forty? and I suddenly felt weary and gray. The expression “over the hill,” felt like a real thing, like I’d actually spent the last forty years trudging up a steep hill, but instead of celebrating when I reached the top, I collapsed, sobbed out of pure exhaustion, ripped off my high heels (because someone who never hikes wouldn’t have the proper footwear) and threw them over the edge in dramatic fashion, vowing never to climb a hill again.
I’ve been forty for three days now and I’ve spent considerable time mulling over the feelings of sadness surrounding not just this particular birthday, but many of my adult birthdays. What exactly am I wrestling with? The aging process? The passage of time? The ever-changing circumstances of my life? Am I grieving past seasons of our marriage, of parenthood? Am I disappointed with my life or myself in any way? Or am I just a narcissistic attention-seeker that cries when she doesn’t feel celebrated enough? I’d like to think it’s not the latter, or anything else really. I’m genuinely happy with my life as it is today. I have more self-confidence today than I’ve ever had before. I’ve accepted the fine lines, grey hairs, and aching back as best I can. My relationships with friends and family are the healthiest they’ve ever been. My marriage continues to withstand the tests of time and come out stronger every year. I love remembering when my children were infants, toddlers, and preschoolers but I relish the age they are now. They are my faithful encouragers and my sweetest friends. I can genuinely say I don’t have any regrets. That’s not to say I’ve never made mistakes or fallen short. I have. But regret is a waste of my time, and as I head into my second half of life, time is not a luxury I have. So why are birthdays so hard? Now that I’ve reached the precipice of the hill and inched over the other side, I think I know.
All these years of adulthood I’ve gone to bed on my birthday knowing all that awaits me the next day is another year of climbing. I drag one foot in front of the other; the crest of the hill is still a long way off. My perspective has been clouded. I’ve had a “just get through today” attitude. I’ve failed to look at all I’ve accomplished and instead focused on the struggle ahead, bemoaning things that have yet to come. No wonder birthdays leave me feeling so worn down.
Just yesterday I met a young couple, engaged to be married next spring. We were trading stories of what God’s brought us through and the young woman looked me in the eyes and asked, “How do you do it? How do you stop worrying about the future?” It was at that moment God used my own words to cure my birthday blues.
Without hesitating, and with confidence I didn’t feel, I said, “Trusting God comes by looking behind you and recognizing how faithful He’s been. It comes by remembering all the times He’s carried you through the fire, lifted you out of the pit, and supported your weight when you were too weak to stand. It comes by remembering you’ve never been alone or forgotten. Trusting God comes by holding your future with open hands, surrendering to the One who holds it all.”
“How do you gain that perspective?” she followed.
“You have to live it,” I said simply.
As I write this I’m swallowing a lump in my throat and imagining myself at the top of the hill, the peak of my forty-year life. I look behind me and see years of struggle and celebration. I see a sweet childhood surrounded by a family who loved me and gifted me with priceless experiences. I see years of God’s redemptive work in my life, triumph over sin. I see a marriage that has matured and steadied itself on even the most precarious terrain. I see lessons learned and forged through motherhood. I see friendships come and go, each one bolstering me for the steep section of the path I was on. I see a clear path fashioned by God, leading me to the top. The path was not always straight, but it was always safe. I smile in gratitude.
Then I look ahead of me, casting my eyes out to soak in the view from the top. It’s a hell of a view. I’m in no hurry to start the journey down, but I know I must. I peek over the edge, trying to see what awaits me on the other side. I know going downhill isn’t necessarily easier. There are just as many ways to stumble or injure myself on the climb down as there are on the journey up. In the next forty years, I will raise teenagers, become an empty nester, and throw my husband a retirement party. I will graduate with a degree in English and Creative Writing. I will navigate the world of dating, cell phones, school dances, and college applications with my children. I will stifle anxiety attacks as I watch them pull out of the driveway and hit the mailbox on the way down. I will dread a midnight phone call, the bearer of bad news. I will watch my parents age and soak up every conversation, not knowing if it will be our last. I will dance with my son at his wedding, and swallow sobs as my husband walks our daughter down the aisle. I will become a grandparent. Oh, the view from the top is indeed beautiful. I may be halfway through my time here on earth but there is so much left to look forward to. What’s over the hill is a life yet lived, a path unforged. I know I won’t walk any part of it alone.