Old Bones

March 1, 2019

Old bones protest, but I don’t listen. They didn’t cry out loudly enough until it was all over for the night. I’m listening now, but they’re just going to have to get used to it. I’ve been practicing my bass for about three hours each day since I reluctantly agreed to play in the pit band for the school musical. One of the things I like about the bass is the relative simplicity of the music, at least at the level I usually play. This musical has interesting scores with catchy (aka “difficult”) melodies and rhythms. Simplicity is a foreign word to me these days. 

But these bones protest. My left hand feels like it’s about to fall off. I’ll rest it tomorrow and Sunday, but Monday starts hell week for the musical. And these bones will protest. But that means one important thing: At nearly seventy, I am still alive. Not only alive, but able to play music that a couple of years ago would have been absolutely impossible for me. I never even so much as touched a string bass until three years ago. So in retirement, I’m still learning and growing. That’s good. There is still so much life to be lived, and I’ve been given the privilege of continuing to live it. 

I’ve been visiting my audiologist. My hearing aids work just fine, but they tell me the newer ones can do so much more. I like the Bluetooth that links with my phone. Voices are crystal clear. But I’m not sure it’s worth the expense to upgrade. Growing older can be expensive if you want to stay engaged in life, but except for the prospect of seeing Jesus, it’s better than the alternative. The good news is these old bones protest. As they ask incredulously what I think I’m doing, they’re telling me I’m still in the game, and for that I am thankful tonight.