I took a good look in my hand mirror that night. True, my cheeks sagged a little, and there were a few wrinkles and a sprinkling of gray hair. But old? I had never really thought of myself as old.
We had been invited for dinner to the home of friends, and after the meal the children, young adults, and older couples spent an enjoyable evening talking and playing games. A young man sat beside me on the couch commenting, "I guess I'll sit here with the golden-agers." I looked around, and then it dawned on me. He was talking about my husband, Charles, and me!
As I studied my face in the mirror that night, I turned the mirror to the side that magnifies. Then I saw it all. I was wrinkled. But there was a remedy for that, wasn't there? I remembered the ad I had received in the mail—a French lotion that tightened up the facial tissues so the wrinkles were literally absorbed. It was expensive, but I needed that cream. I'd find a way. Oh, yes. I had worked overtime and earned money that I could spend on that French cream. Besides, working overtime had probably caused those wrinkles. I was just tired.
The consultant at the cosmetic counter assured me that the fine lines would soon be gone. She suggested other basic products that would come to my aid at this crucial time. I believed her.
A few weeks later Charles breezed in from a convention in Minneapolis. The meetings had gone fine. He and some friends had had a delightful time sightseeing. He told me—with no embarrassment or restraint—about the sign in a skyscraper's elevator announcing a senior citizens' discount for the observation deck. He was 62, and this would be his first venture into the world of the SCs. "I took it," he told me, slapping the table with his hand and grinning, "and the view from the lookout tower was just as beautiful with the senior citizen's card as without it!"
How could he be so casual about being a senior citizen! He even laughed about it. I remembered the day at work when everyone was helping on a rush job. We were working in shifts, and someone suggested I take a shorter turn. I wondered why; I was keeping up; I certainly didn't feel tired. Stella saw my quandary and enlightened me. "Why, LaVerne, you're the oldest one in the room. You don't have to stay here all morning." I looked around, unbelievingly, at my friends. Maybe I did feel a little tired, after all.
The final blow came, however, in Dallas.
Tommy is one of the friendliest persons in our office. He normally greets me with a peck on the cheek when he returns from a long trip. I have heard some of the other secretaries refer to Tommy's kisses, as well. It is perfectly innocent, and we all know him to be a discreet and well-loved Christian gentle man.
At the Dallas convention center during the General Conference session, I introduced Tommy to the wife of a new employee and casually remarked that she should not be surprised if Tommy kissed her. She looked a little flustered, and Tommy, being sensitive to the feelings of others, reassured her, "Oh, don't worry! I only kiss the older ladies."
That did it. As soon as I returned to the office in Lincoln, I announced I was retiring. "Why, I had no idea you were old enough to retire!" exclaimed a true friend. Her comment was echoed by others. Maybe I shouldn't go through with this retirement, I thought. But they were already planning my party.
My husband decided that he, too, would retire but continue to work and be subsidized to full pay. That's when it occurred to us that a move nearer my parents and the change of pace offered by a local conference would be stimulating. The Oklahoma Conference let us know they were in need of the expertise Charles could offer.
It all happened so fast—packing, selling one house and buying another, letting go of our work here and reaching out to take hold of another.
I asked information of a clerk in a department store in Oklahoma City when we went there to look for a house. She could tell from my question that I was a stranger. ' 'Are you retiring here?" she asked.
How could she tell? I thought, as I nodded Yes and thanked her. The creams hadn't helped—my age was showing through.
But I've discovered something at last. It doesn't really hurt to grow older. In fact, it's kind of fun to be retired. We can still walk, run, read, write, and keep our accounts straight. We aren't senile by any means. We laugh, cry, work, and play. And we're on our way to a challenging assignment in an exciting new part of God's world.
And the creams? They didn't seem to diminish the wrinkles, and we can't afford them now, anyway. Let the wrinkles stay. You see, I'm expecting my first Social Security check Monday.
