I love the High Life Lounge – for serious. I love it.

I love this place.

Whether it’s the awesome collection of beer signs or the wood paneling, I couldn’t say for sure.  Maybe it’s the $2 Sloppy Joe, because everyone knows I hate overpaying for a meal, but the High Life is the dingiest place I ever loved.  Out with a friend a few weeks ago, I was taken aback, trying to figure out what was wrong with the place.  Finally the giant fans clued me in – they had shampooed the carpet.  It just didn’t feel like the same place when the shag was fluffy – and didn’t have Chili-Cheese Tater Tots smeared into the fibers.  I’m sure it will better by my next visit.

The High Life is a place where you can order Schlitz without shame, and take down a deviled egg or two while you enjoy your cheap, crappy bear.  I don’t disparage the good times available at the west side’s upscale hotspots, complete with their fancy martini menus and well-dressed patrons, but if you’re going to pay for a hoity-toity beer, the last thing you want to do is have it served to you with a napkin around it.  Why pay for a status beer, and then pretend you want to hide the label?  You get none of that at the High Life, a place that feels like you grandparents’ basement, where you can buy the same brands of beer your grandpa would have stocked in his basement fridge, and eat the same comfort foods your grandma would have served you at the Formica table, with the green flowered vinyl chairs.

My grandparents were all strict Baptists.  They didn’t have a beer fridge, or a basement hang out.  Even my high school home was a historic farm house with a cellar, not a paneled basement.  Maybe that’s why the High Life is such a comfort to me – it’s the teenage beer party I never got invited to.  And best of all – there are enough other 30-somethings hanging out there to keep me from feeling how old I am that the décor of my childhood is now back in style.  I hope you all have a similar place in your town – otherwise, maybe you have some neighbors that will share their basement with you?

Be happy and enjoy eating and drinking! God decided long ago that this is what you should do. Ecclesiastes 9:7

Why demolish something so sacred?

My husband jokes that if I ever become famous, they’ll have to put up more historic placards than they used for Ronald Reagan.  It seems like nearly every state has claimed a childhood home of the Gipper.  If it was me, they’d start with the hospital in Effingham, they’d mark the trailer court in Perrysburg.  There’d be East Carlisle Elementary, near Cleveland, where I attended Kindergarten in the basement.  Riverside would have to acknowledge the little ranch house on Priscilla Street, and the 1840’s brick house on Tyler Rd would become quite a landmark, because I wrote my name in the brick and the closets alike during my tenure there.  And that would be before my homeless college years, when I changed domicile from semester to semester and break to break.

The place where I spent the most time as I was growing up, however, would apparently be left off.  An old friend posted a photo this week of the demolition going on by the shores of Belleville Lake.  My high school is being scrapped, replaced by a fresh new building that, from the school district’s on-line slide show, looks very much like every other new high school being built right now, with beautiful glass atriums and state of the art everything.  It made me feel a little old, to see my high school being torn down.  I suddenly realized that it has been twenty years since I joined the choir, swam for the team, and bored the audience to laughter as the office messenger in Up the Down Staircase.  The building was outdated and lacking in many ways, even then, so surely those additional decades haven’t been kind.

For a moment, it felt like maybe I was losing something important to me.  That my next trip to the ‘Ville was going to be somehow lacking in some important connection or memory.  Like most people, I have this habit of believing that my emotions and memories dwell in the buildings where they happened.  But I haven’t been back in the BHS building since the last day I attended there.  In the last fifteen years, I’ve only even driven by once.  The relationships, lessons, life experiences, and memories that happened in that building are alive and well, living in me.  They are part of what made me who I am, and whenever I want to relive them, I have photo albums, yearbooks, and friends with whom to reminisce.  It makes no difference whether that building still stands or not.  But for a moment, looking at the photo, it mattered a lot.

We get the same misconception about faith.  We come to believe that God dwells in brick and mortar.  Oftentimes, we believe, God loves best to dwell where the seats are uncomfortable benches and the window views are obstructed by stained glass.  But it opens up a whole new kind of faith to tear down the church – at least figuratively – and let the relationship, lessons, and experiences live in you, and be lived out in you.  God doesn’t live in a building – God lives in people of faith.

My little heartache at seeing my high school torn down, reminded me again about letting go of the transient things of earth and letting the eternal dwell in me.

“But will God really dwell on earth with humans? The heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built! 2 Chronicles 6:18

The end of a season.

My husband picked up the soundtrack to Message in a Bottle back when we were first married.  The movie was nothing really special, but that CD played in the background through many of our early adventures and travels.  When our new, used minivan brought the luxury and convenience of a 6-CD changer into our lives, he dusted off the old soundtrack and plugged it into the rotation.

The last bleary-eyed new
parents picture.

Listening to these songs again invoked a wave of sentiment I didn’t expect.  Of all the milestones we’ve crossed so far, the one we’re crossing now seems to be the most bittersweet.  Our littlest girl turns one tomorrow and there are no more babies on the horizon for us.  We are beautifully complete as a family.  I am thrilled to be watching my children grow up, arm in arm with my dearest and most beloved best friend (who also looks pretty hot with a little facial hair).  I am excited for this next season of our lives, as our children become independent and our dreams have shifted and formed into our reality.  But I also feel the season of “young married life” slipping away: the falling in love, and getting married season; the getting to know your in-laws, and deciding who sleeps closest to the door season; the who is going to change that stinky diaper season; the what will our children be like season.

Every season of my life has had its high points, I have always found joy in the days as they go by, but this last decade-plus has been a treasure like none before.  I loved every minute, beautiful and ugly.  While childhood, high school, and even college came to an end for me with some relief, our early married life comes to an end with nostalgia and a little bit of longing.  There are many treasured moments still ahead for us, but for the first time in my life, I feel that something is passing away that I will miss and never get back.

Such a grown up girl already!



But, thanks in part to Hootie and the Cranberries, a large collection of photographs, and the best souvenirs ever – three darling little girls and the aforementioned husband – I’ll bid this season farewell knowing that the love and joy it brought can still be savored and recalled – like a sweet love letter, bottled up and waiting to be reread.

Happy birthday to my baby girl.

Everything on earth has its own time and its own season. Ecclesiastes 3:1

I got a cavity

Back when my pearly whites
 were pearly white.

It has been about twenty two years since my last cavity.  I remember my brother, who came through his appointment with a clean slate, laughing at the irony.  By his own admission, I brushed my teeth ten times as much as he did, but I still was the one to get the cavity.  Now, here I am, with my luck run out again.

Maybe it was the pregnancy cravings – too much sweet tea and cheddar chex-mix?  Maybe it was the bleary-eyed days when I couldn’t remember if I’d brushed or not?  Maybe it was hormones that weakened my enamel?  Or maybe I was just due.  Whatever it was, I’m scheduled to go back for a drill-n-fill in a couple weeks and I’m not thrilled about it.

The long decades without a cavity had me thinking I might make it into old age with my teeth intact.  I’ve heard that a healthy smile can make you look as much as ten years younger, and that dentures make it hard to enjoy kiwi.  Both are good motivators toward attentive brushing.  But maybe it’s the vanity that’s my problem.  Did I focus too much on keeping my front teeth polished and neglected my molars?

Now I have these paranoid images in my mind of premature tooth loss.  If one tooth could fall prey, maybe there are others that might go down like dominoes.  What do dental implants cost, because I can just see myself, seducing my husband with a coy smile, only to slip my teeth into a jar by the bed before climbing in.  Even if I stay on my current rate of tooth decay, I’m ruining one tooth every other decade…when you multiply that by the inevitable depreciation of basic use, my lifelong nighttime grinding, and the occasional loose filling or accidental chip, I could be completely toothless by the time I’m 80!  What then?  I don’t want to be scaring the grandkids away with my rotten, toothless smile!

Maybe I should start flossing.  Maybe I should brush more.  Maybe I should give up sugar.  Why can’t we be like sharks and have another tooth standing at the ready?

Your teeth are whiter than sheep freshly washed; they match perfectly, not one is missing. Song of Solomon 6:6

I don’t know what Women’s Lib even looks like.

When I was a kid, I thought the Bunkers were my grandparents. Literally. During my early childhood, on my parents’ TV each week, they appeared to be identical to my grandma and grandpa; so much so, I remember it being confusing. On visits to their house, my grandpa could be found ruling from his throne in the living room, while Grandma was always in the kitchen, making him dinner. He’d interrupt her meal preparations periodically to have her come change the channel for him, and she’d drop whatever she was doing and come flip the dial. I loved my grandparents, but I knew from a young age that I was not going to have that kind of marriage. Grandma never even got a driver’s license; she was dependent on Grandpa to take her wherever she needed to go. When I pictured my someday life, a doting, enslaved wife was the last thing I wanted to be.


 I was blessed that as I grew up, I had the chance to know Grandma better. I eventually realized that my first impression of her could not have been more wrong. The woman I first thought of disparagingly as her family’s housekeeper and cook became one of my greatest role models. My same grandma, who refused to get a driver’s license, had once hotwired a Model T with a hairpin and took her aunt on an afternoon road trip, just to spite her cranky uncle. Grandma, who served and doted on grandpa, had once assisted in his appendectomy. She likes to say she “already knew him inside out” before they dated.

Part of why Grandma had seemed so old-fashioned to me was because she was far older than my other grandparents. She was nearly an old maid, by the time she married Grandpa – thirty. She once explained to me her reason for marrying so late, “it was not for lack of opportunity,” she clarified. There was a war going on, and she wasn’t going to marry someone, just to have him go off and die in battle. Despite the pressure to conform, Grandma stood her ground. Sure enough, she married Grandpa after a short three months of courtship – once the war was over.

I also realized that if Grandma hadn’t wanted to change the channel, the TV would not have survived a day in the house. Tenacity is one of Grandma’s essential characteristics. Having waited so long to get married, becoming a mother wasn’t easily either. Her first child was a micro-preemie, born in an age when micro-preemies were miscarriages. Grandpa once described how my aunt could fit in the palm of his hand when she was born. Grandma never got big enough to wear maternity clothes. But her nurse-friends at the hospital all chipped in to get Grandma an incubator and they sent the baby home for Grandma to watch over. She pumped her milk and coddled that little baby – I believe she willed her daughter to survive. And if Grandma makes up her mind, only God can come between her and what she wants. My aunt grew up without any developmental impairments.



When the doctor delivered the news that Grandma’s second child had been born with a cleft palate, she matter-of-factly retorted that she was just going to have to love him double. Her nurse-friends came through again, with softer nipples from bottles that had already been broken in by other babies. She filled her baby’s cleft with those soft nipples, so he could suck and get the nourishment. He was another baby willed by my grandma to survival.



She kept her promise, too.  She's spent the rest of her life, loving my dad double.  And most people never guess the serious birth defect he overcame.

My grandparents, off on an adventure
 together in their younger days.

Grandma didn't become the first female astronaut or build a personal empire, but she made a way for herself, by herself when necessary.  She's been on her own again, since Grandpa died over 20 years ago.  Serving her family was a calling for her; one she pursued with all the energy and conviction she had.  She knew who she was and what she wanted and nothing would stand in her way.  I've learned from her what a gift it is to have a loving, committed marriage, and to bear and raise healthy kids - and that, as long as you have a choice, choosing to serve others is noble, not demeaning.

Grandma's 95th birthday is next month, but it looks like she'll celebrate that one with Grandpa and Jesus.  That is, of course, unless she makes up her mind not to go.

After Jesus sat down and told the twelve disciples to gather around him, he said, "If you want the place of honor, you must become a slave and serve others!" Mark 9:35

My knees are against me

My husband and I have started feeling our age in the last couple of years. When we got a church softball league going last summer, and found ourselves playing teams of twenty-somethings, it was sad how much more nimble they were, and how much more accident prone we were. They celebrated afterward with cold beer in the parking lot. We had to buy beers from the snack bar; the ice from our coolers was for medicinal needs. My brother-in-law is a physical therapist and about ten years younger than us. We were so grateful he joined the team; he handled both the triage and Center Field.

In the latest chapter of my failed athleticism, my husband suggested to me this morning that I should bail on a short, 1 mile, Fun Run I signed up to do next weekend. It’s the ultimate insult to consider myself inadequate to complete 1 stinking mile. My six year old could probably run a mile – in high heels and a party dress.

The doctor cleared me for exercise last week, and, while I have managed to drop the baby-weight, the scale really doesn’t tell the whole story; there is plenty of soft on me. I thought, perhaps, this should be my summer to really pursue a higher degree of fitness. I printed out a 22 week workout plan that is supposed to take you from couch potato to Sprint Tri-athlete. We decided that the swimming part was going to be too complicated for now, childcare wise, but my husband agreed to join me in the biking and running. I even went and purchased shoes that are actually designed for running; they're so uncool looking, I wouldn’t wear them to Walmart. Well, OK, maybe Walmart, but not Target.

We stepped up the workouts last night, and started to jog 2/3 of the time, and walk the other 1/3. I knew it was doing me good, when I started having to push myself to get through the last couple intervals. I kept putting one foot in front of the other and thought, “Oh, yeah, I can do this thing!” Celebrate with me – my half mile split was under ten minutes! I can hear the roar of your chuckles already, but if I can finish the run in less than half an hour next weekend, I get a medal!  And I won’t get run over by the serious runners when they start their race. By the way, if 1 mile is a “fun” run, why would you run further? Is a 2 mile run a “funner” run? A marathon must be hilarious.

I woke up this morning with a pain in my right knee. I looked it up online and have self-diagnose Iliotibial Band Syndrome. It says the first recourse to heal it, is to rest your knee. What? I decide to get out and exercise, and the moment I start feeling some sense of accomplishment, my knee decides it needs rest? This hardly seems fair. Even worse, my husband took my knee’s side in the matter. I feel so betrayed and old.

Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way. Isaiah 35:3

I shouldn’t have been so polite

I knew going into it that caring for a newborn again was going to test the very limits of my endurance. Anyone who says they get “baby fever” and crave having a newborn in the house, must never have breastfed. The first two weeks nursing a newborn are the toughest challenge of parenting, in my opinion. For those who have not personally enjoyed the experience, imagine getting a hickie from a half-inch vacuum nozzle, on the most sensitive part of your body, twice every three hours. And if that weren’t enough, tolerate that discomfort and continue to nurture your other family members on 4-6 hours of sleep a night, obtained in 1 ½ hour increments. I don’t mean to say that bottle fed infants are a walk in the park – I have no idea what creative means bottle fed infants use to test your adoration. That, of course, is key; I’m already so smitten with this helpless little creature that I couldn’t imagine offering her any less than my best. Even if it kills me. And I know we’re going to make a great team by the end of this early part, able to head out on a whim; her food supply secure in my bosom, without a bagful of bottles, cold packs, formula, and purified water.

If only she were always this peaceful!



 None of the newborn stuff has been much of a surprise, our little golden girl is actually a much easier baby so far than either of her big sisters were. She caught on to nursing quicker, she often sleeps between nighttime feedings, and she never broke a capillary in my breast and burped up a flood of red milk and blood clots (my middle daughter was a rather voracious nurser). What has been a real surprise, however, is how different I am as a 35 year old new mom, than I was as a 25 year old new mom.

Take, for instance, hospital visits. When my first daughter was born, we had visitors who came the following afternoon and, despite my head-bobs and lack of color, stayed 2 ½ hours. In my fear of being impolite, I didn’t take back my baby, demand that they leave, or hint about my exhaustion and her need to nurse. Many similar scenes were repeated in our living room, once we got home. In contrast, with this baby, when my husband told me visitors had just called and were on their way, I shrugged my shoulders, continued to get my clothes together, and said, “if they get here while I’m in the shower, they’ll have to wait until I’m done.” I’ve told people “no” who wanted to drop in; I’ve taken my baby back and reminded visitors how little sleep I had; I’ve turned the phone off and ignored a ringing doorbell. This time around, I’ve also developed a much higher tolerance for letting outsiders see a messy house when I do welcome them in.

On the upside, although I may have been a little impolite, there aren’t nearly as many dirty clothes and dishes for others to see. The payoff to putting up stronger boundaries has been better sleep, a baby who found her schedule quicker, and having some energy leftover to make meals, wash clothes, and keep my older kids from feeling neglected. A newborn is a fulltime job, I spend over 8 hours a day, just feeding her, let alone diaper changing and soothing cries. My husband is a willing helper in the evening, but we don’t have a whole lot extra to offer, even for our most welcome and beloved friends.

It is an honor that so many people want to welcome and love my daughter; I’ve been able to enjoy their affection so much more, by having it channeled into portions small enough to accommodate. I only wish I had known ten years ago! My advice to young moms – do what you have to do and send visitors away after 15-20 minutes. That is, of course, if they are there to ogle the baby. If they’re washing your dishes, they are welcome to stick around until they’re done.

And when you welcome one of these children because of me, you welcome me. Matthew 18:5

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/Mat+Kearney/track/Closer+To+Love

I Can't Wait to Be Old

I love old people.  I'm just like some jerk about to crack a Polack joke, who says, "Some of my best friends are Polish people."  Well, many of my good friends are elderly and I love them dearly.

So while I confess to you that I often and joyously make fun of old people, I have to remind you how much I look forward to becoming an old person myself.  As I mentioned before, there's an 80 year old lady in me, who I very much aspire to be.  So my mirth is always mixed with the very real hope that I can be just like them someday.  After all, there are some real advantages to advanced age.

I can't wait to be old enough to pick a fashion decade and stick with it for the duration.  There's a gorgeous, stately woman I know, who must be over 80.  She looks like an ad from Sears & Roebuck's 1926 catalog.  She probably hasn't had to buy a stitch of new clothing in thirty years.  If she were my age, she'd be a social outcast, and have to compromise and at least buy a pair of oversized sunglasses or something, but at some point, she didn't have to cowtow to every fad anymore.  She just found what she liked and wore it.  The prime example of this phenomenon, of course, is the purple & red ladies.  Let's just say my youth group might have trouble focusing if I showed up in red & purple feathers each week.

I can't wait to open my car doors unapologetically.  I had to get a minivan, not because my two kids overwhelmed a sedan, but because I got so tired of the guilt that went along with watching my kids door-ding every parking lot neighbor I sidled up to.  Sliding doors are a real salvation for my guilt complex.  But as someone who parks daily in a church parking lot, I can tell you from experience that pulling up too close to a Buick or Cadillac when there's a sewing circle or fish fry going on will inevitably lead to car doors that look like Brad Pitt's acne scared cheeks (I have a picture somewhere that proves this about Brad Pitt, for those who choose to deny the reality of his failed teenage hygiene).  Someday, I am going to drive a big boat, park in the wider spot by the door, and throw open my doors with the boldness of an aged woman.

I can't wait until fake eye lashes and bright lipstick won't suggest to the men around me that I'm going to charge by the hour.  I can't wait until I get to subsitute a clear plastic bonnet for my umbrella.  I can't wait until a wig will be an acceptible alternative on a bad hair day.  I can't wait until I can afford to buy the best seats when my favorite band re-organizes to release a new album after a fifteen year hiatus.  I'll sit way in front of all the youngsters who would have died for my seat and dance like a maniac to all three "early" songs, then leave when the good music starts.

My daughters have trouble with the idea of my mortality sometimes.  They become deeply concerned about the reality that our parents will proceed us in death.  I worry about that too sometimes, because I still get to enjoy the company of three of my four grandparents and both my parents.  I don't know what it will be like to bid farewell to someone who made an intense inpression on my personality and my DNA.  But I tell my dauthers often that I pray, before we have to say good-bye, that we get to be old ladies together.  Because we're going to have a hoot!

I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands. Psalm 63:4

A Pompous Consideration My Husband Might Kill Me for Confessing

When I can, I try to think like an 80 year old lady.  I figure since that's where I'm hoping to end up, and I hope to be happy when I get there, I should mostly do things that the old lady within me will approve of.  Sure, an 80 year old lady might not want to hike to a leper colony or fly to Bangkok, but I aspire to do those things, because I'm sure my 80 year old lady will love telling the stories over a nice game of Uno.

So, ever since our second daughter was born, I've had an ongoing internal debate over what my 80 year old thinks about large families.  Does my 80 year old want more cash and freedom to hit the flea markets in Bangkok, or more kids and grandkids to potentially visit her in the nursing home?  Both seem like gambles.  Nothing guarantees that my large family would be able to take the stress, stay nearby, love each other, and reproduce.  Nothing guarantees I will or won't see Bangkok in the next 50 years, either - or that I'll end up with a good story if I do go.  And, of course, there's the concerns of my husbands' 80 year old man to consider.

I've realized, as I've turned this dilemma over in my mind for a while, how incredibly arrogant reproduction is.  It was really a cocky thing to do, bringing that first child into the world.  By our actions, we made a statement.  "We believe that our DNA is so valuable, that the world needs it's propagation.  We believe that we are so mentally and emotionally stable, such great providers, such a bastion of love and social value, that the world is better off if they have our progeny in it."

Perhaps we should have thought this through before we had a kid, but we went ahead and had her, which made having a second child a no-brainer.  As soon as you think you can tolerate the sleep deprivation (and if you've been able to pay off the medical bills from the first one), you go for it.  The world does not need more "only children," after all.  We've all seen what happens when parents fail to create a sibling for a child.  So it was easy having a second.  And we've been blessed for the choice.  Our girls are bright, beautiful, and endearingly sweet.  I love every moment with them, and look forward to seeing them grow and become the women God plans them to be.

So what, really, what in the world, motivates me to consider a third child?  Especially when we've been so blessed in every way already?  How pompous am I?  To have a third child would say by our actions that the world doesn't just need a replacement for each of us - the world actually needs us to over-produce?  We're such fantastic parents that we think we can overcome being outnumbered?  We have the requisite time, provision, and emotional resources to take that crazy, cocky plunge again?  Get real.  No one's that good.  But I have to confess; it crosses my mind.

So, I hope you aren't disappointed to get to the final paragraph and find out that no, I'm not pregnant; you're probably relieved.  But yes, sometimes I'm pompous and arrogant, and really wish I knew what my 80 year old lady would prefer, because as the days go by, I know that we're going to have to make a choice whether our family is just right, or has room to grow.  And we can't change our minds once I'm 80!

They will not toil in vain or bear children doomed to misfortune; for they will be a people blessed by the LORD, they and their descendants with them. (Isaiah 65:23 NIV)