Reflections on My 75th Birthday
Bob Beanblossom
18 August 2022
I’m getting older. To be honest, I am old. After all, I passed the biblical three score and 10-year mark five years ago (Psalm 90:10). This birthday marks my official post-womb passage across the ¾-century mark. I have other milestones: graduation, marriage, the birth of my children. My initial crossing of the Equator was at 0 degrees latitude and longitude, and I’ve crossed the International Date line several times. This is different. This passage has real consequences. The Psalmist, too, reflected: “I have been young, and now I am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread” (Psalm 37:25). I have to agree with him on both counts.
One of the signs of my age is that memories of the Good Old Days are often more vivid than the Here and Now. Another is that I seem to have more doctors than friends. Like winning the lottery, good insurance attracts those who are concerned about by well-paying well-being.
Memories of the Good Old Days are sketchy and imprecise if not long gone, but my lifestyle reflects the passage of time clearly. I don’t get up as early or stay up as long as I once did. I work less, and rest more. My sight is dim, my hearing dull. My sense of smell left me about the same time that my hair did. My cane is not essential, but is a great comfort: it too is old and gnarly, but serviceable. My head is as hard as ever but, unencumbered by useless hair, displays my battle scars vividly.
I have had experiences that younger generations can’t comprehend. The words and phrases remain, but their original meanings, founded in function, have long since passed on. For instance, I have dialed a telephone, shared our party line, made dime phone calls from a pay phone, and used the services of an Operator to place long distance calls: all with phones “hard-wired” to the wall. “Portable” was an extra-long cord. I paid 23 cents a gallon for gasoline so that I could drive my stick shift car that “cranked” with a floor-mounted starter switch, enjoying “air-conditioning” adjusted by manually rolling the windows up and down as I listened to the AM radio, all while sitting close to my date on the bench seat. Later, I thought bucket seats were cool until I realized that the separation of occupants was a hinderance to romance. I watched cowboys and Indians and “The Wonderful World of Disney” on our 12-inch black and white TV, but (this is personal, not generational) never watched a World Series or Super Bowl game. I remember all three network TV stations concluding their broadcast day every night while playing the National Anthem and displaying a billowing Old Glory. Patriotism in those days was a virtue. I pledged allegiance to America and prayed to almighty God as part of opening activities in elementary school. Mrs. Ben, a volunteer, was welcomed into our classes weekly to give us Bible lessons.
I’ve been ignored by many and abused by a few: no big deal. It all works out. It’s usually not personal, for this world is not about me. Paul said it well: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). I am an unworthy benefactor of God’s grace, receiving abundantly what He considers good for me, not what I want. That, in itself, has been a blessing.
I am a person person, not a people person. The individual is real, someone with whom I can interact—the crowd is not. I’ve never been part of the “In” crowd. I grew up in semi-isolation as an only child on a farm. I’ve lived semi-isolated and will die in that mode. Those roots are deep and, for me, comfortable.
I am a member of the Tonkin Gulf Yacht Club. I spent most of my naval duty in the waters offshore or the air above, but I have stood on the soil of Vietnam: eaten there, slept there, been a random target there—again, nothing personal, just a pawn in a game played by elite power structures. I have seen death in all three. I survived. Many did not. The relentless “Why” has made survival uncomfortable at times. My wife does not understand the nightmares. Maybe she won’t read this. She is a Vietnam vet, too, though in a different sense. She went through our first pregnancy without me; our first son was 13 days old before I knew he had been born. He was three months old before I met him, coming off a 747 carried by his proud mama. I was fortunate: too many vets down through the years never met their children. Instead, they got Taps while their families got a meticulously folded flag.
The joy of my life is my family, though experienced rather vicariously these days: Our children are grown and busy with their own families. My wife continues to stick with me after 53 years, to her credit and my amazement.
The great blessing of my life is that, without any doubt or merit on my part, I know Jesus as my personal Savior. Because of that, I proclaim a message that the world fervently and aggressively rejects: All of us have sinned, falling short of God’s standards, but Jesus provides the correction for each person who accepts His saving grace (Romans 3:23). This is clearly revealed in God’s inspired, inerrant, complete Word, the Bible (John 1:12; 3:16-17). My voice—His message—has been marginalized, cut off, and shut down, but never silenced. The latter, of course, is the Lords’ doing, not mine. I’m expendable, but He is invincible (Mark 10:27). I’ve always tried to be competent and content as I serve others, but found that this often brought on confusion and distrust. I’ve encouraged folks to think for themselves using empirical evidence and logic rather than feelings. For that, many call me subversive.
But all in all, I’m still a voice to be heard, and a force to be reckoned with:
Ever so gently.
