As we age, many of us reach the point where we have very little to look forward to. Oh, sure, we might get occasional visits from children and other relatives or friends. We may enjoy certain activities in our communities, such as bingo games or easily accessible concerts. We may even be fond of a television program or two, making it a point to tune in when circumstances permit.  

But I think it’s safe to say that for most elderly people, the days of butterflies-in-the-tummy anticipation are long gone. There are a number of reasons for this – perhaps most notably, the fact that even the most momentous events seem to be over almost before they’ve begun.  

James had it right when he wrote, in chapter 4 of his New Testament epistle, “For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”

I personally think that this is another brilliant aspect of the Lord’s design for our lives. After all, if there are no fabulous events to look forward to in this life, perhaps we’ll turn our attention to what’s rumored to await us in the next – and, for those who are still uncertain, to making sure that we land in the right place.

If we look to the demonstrably true Bible, we learn that heaven will be wonderful beyond our wildest imaginations for born-again children of God. And we learn exactly how to make sure that we will be among them, by repenting and trusting in Him.    

Once we do so, and turn our attention from things of this world, we’re free to focus our hopes and dreams on the life to come. We’re able to anticipate that “glad reunion with our dear loved ones who’ve gone before.” We’re able to imagine, and to fervently pray for, eternal fulfillment of our hearts’ fondest desires. And we’re able to rejoice in the knowledge that, before long, we will rest permanently in the presence of the One who laid down His life for us almost 2000 years ago.  

In the end, looking forward to the future is simply a matter of developing eternal eyes. And when we do? Prepare for butterflies that are destined to last forevermore! 

Not long ago, I went through a few boxes containing some items from my mother's last "real" home, a two-bedroom apartment that she had vacated for the nursing home in 1992. Imagine my surprise when I found, amidst the purses and papers, shoes and socks and winter boots, a framed print of "What Happened to Your Hand?" 

Painted by a Seventh Day Adventist named Harry Anderson back in the 1940s, it was apparently a very popular image back in the '40s and '50s. And it had hung between the twin beds in the narrow back bedroom of our house on Quincy Street -- my bedroom -- for as long as I can remember.

My mom had given it to me when I was just six years old. This I know because of what she had printed on the back (printed because obviously I wasn't yet reading script):

To Kitty from Mamma -- because I love you. January 1959. 

I like to think about how excited she must have been to give me this gift. She probably saw it in one of her women's magazines, for sale in its simple white wooden frame, and ordered it by sending in a handwritten letter with a check, or maybe even cash in those days. And she probably waited eagerly for the postman every day, anticipating its arrival. 

She might have ordered the picture for Easter -- she and my dad always gave me a present on that very special day, most memorably the record "So Dear to My Heart," the story of a boy and the black-wool lamb he raised after its mother rejected it. But if Easter was her target date, she had apparently been unable to wait that long.     

I don't remember her giving me this gift. I do hope that I expressed delight over it, at least enough to give her hope through my dark decades of atheism once I'd become an adult. 

And if it might possibly matter to her now, I hope she knows that "What Happened to Your Hand?" is once again hanging over my bed, reminding me daily of her love for me, and His, and of the kinds of gifts that mothers of that era gave their children, in order to remind them of the greatest gift of all. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about complainers. You’ve probably known some in your life: You walk into their presence and before you even sit down, you’re getting the low-down on everything that’s gone wrong in their lives – things that are clearly someone else’s fault.

As I type these words, I’m getting flashes of my own predilection for complaining: Today’s traffic is monstrous,  I’m so tired of winter, the dog kept me awake half the night, there’s cilantro in my salad – you name it, I can come up with a complaint.

It’s a habit I’d better begin eliminating immediately. Because while my life is full to overflowing right now, if I live long enough there’ll  undoubtedly come a time when I’m facing hour after empty hour. And if I’d like to fill at least some of those hours with unpaid companionship, I’d best learn to be a source of happiness to others.

I’m reminded of this every time I visit  friends at my favorite nursing home. Just about everyone living there for the duration has some measure of trial and sorrow in his or her life. Some may have more pain than their neighbors, others may be more disabled physically or mentally, and many have outlived all their friends and relatives.  Yet such circumstances seem to have little impact on where these individuals land on the happiness index; some wallow in misery, while others radiate joy, regardless of their personal tribulations.    

To make sure I’m not offending anyone, I'll use some examples from the distant past.

A woman I’ll call Gladys always seemed to be a happy camper. She was 98 when I met her. Childless and widowed, her mind was no longer as sharp as it must have been once upon a time, but we always had wonderful visits. She liked to talk about God and gardening, about the perfectly lovely food she was enjoying here, about this or that  aide who had gone out of her way to be kind to her next door neighbor that morning, about the beauty of the spring blooms or autumn leaves or pristine snow outside her window. 

Gladys and I also talked at length about the good old days. When asked, she didn’t mind sharing experiences from her past. But she was never self-focused. Even though her short-term memory was often on the fritz, she always managed to ask me about something important in my life, from our progress with a kitchen remodel to the health of a sick old dog. How she managed to recall such details week after week, I'll never know. Perhaps she jotted down a few notes after I left, and reviewed them just before my regular weekly visit. Or perhaps she asked the Lord to help her remember. 

You can probably understand why I loved visiting Gladys, and how sad I was to learn one day that she had died. There was no drama in her departure: One night she’d simply gone to bed with “a little stomach ache,” and never woke up. This surprised no one. She hadn't been one to complain about her health. I even commented on that once; she said that she would have to be one ungrateful old lady to complain about anything in light of all the blessings the good Lord had showered on her throughout her life. 

Then there was Clara, 87 when I met her.  

Clara was one of the most unhappy women I’ve ever known. A professing but apparently non-practicing Christian, she too was widowed. But unlike Gladys, Clara had two children – a son who dropped in for a quick visit every week, and a daughter who showed up once or twice a year.

I could certainly understand the daughter’s point of view. With Clara, the complaints started before you even put your purse down, and ended only as you were walking out the door. Look at the messy job her aide had done with her bed this morning! You wouldn’t believe the slop they had served in the dining room this week! Old Eva across the hall snored all night long again! Wouldn’t you think someone with half a brain would come visit her now and then?

Surely Clara said something nice about someone in the four years I visited her, week after miserable week. But I honestly can’t think of a single example.  I can’t even remember her smile; it’s quite possible that I never saw it.  

Clara died a long and lingering death, having given anyone who would listen a detailed play-by-play of her illness for the last three years of her life. I went to her funeral at a nearby cemetery. There were 50 seats in the hall she’d chosen for her service, the same hall that had been packed for her husband’s funeral five years earlier.  Alas, this time there were only four of us in attendance: her son, her daughter and son-in-law, and me.

Sadly, people like Clara are often bitter to the bone. There is hope for them, of course – but they have to be willing to acknowledge their own imperfections, to repent, and to receive the free gift of eternal life. Then, prepare to be blessed: Complaints seem to be few and far between from those who are pointed toward a glorious eternity!