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NEVER GROW OLD

February 20, 2026

“I have heard of a land
On the faraway strand
‘Tis a beautiful home of the soul
Built by Jesus on high
There we never shall die
‘Tis the land where we’ll never grow old…”

I’ve discovered, to my surprise, I don’t really know how to have fun. Part of the problem is I really love the work I do. There’s nothing I’d rather do than creating music, leading worship, or writing pieces like this one. But I’ve noticed that on the very few vacations I’ve taken recently, most involved performing somewhere else. And I was way too “busy” to go on many of the days when Dawn was taking the kids to Dollywood.

And now that I have grandchildren, I’ve noticed it’s tough to crawl up in your grandfather’s lap if there’s always a laptop there! Even when I’m physically present, I’m way too distracted. I literally woke up in the middle of the night last night mentally analyzing the chord progressions of a Michael McDonald song I’d listened to earlier in the day. I’ve actually rewritten scripts in my dreams.

I’m afraid I’ve forgotten where the “off button” is.

I guess the ticking of life’s clock (like Captain Hook running from that ticking crocodile) made me want to accomplish all I possibly could in the time I’ve got left. So I just kept pushing.

But I’m tired, really tired, and my “flabber” is throughly “gasted”.

I’ve discovered I really don’t know how to play. If this were a fairy tale, I’d resemble Captain Hook now a lot more than Peter Pan. With all the magic and wonder I write about, I’m afraid in the past several months I’ve pretty much lost my joy. Sure, people and pressure have helped me to do that. But ultimately it’s my fault.

I’ve found that holding onto my joy gets tougher as I age. Cynicism is always waiting to pounce, to tell me, “I’ve seen all this before”. You begin to roll your eyes at the enthusiasm of the young, telling yourself “they’ll grow out of it”. .

Most people think they get wiser as they age. But in truth some have only gotten weary and mistook that for wisdom. (read that last sentence again – that’s actually wisdom in itself!) The years erode our resistance to spiritual atrophy. The passage of time helps us forget our former days of spiritual fervor, when we were hidden in the cleft of the rock and the presence of the Almighty passed by. We tell ourselves we’ve seen it all, but really we have just forgotten the wonders we’ve seen.

I’ve been at the receiving end of the bitterness many seniors spew forth later in life on their pastors. Those folks often hide hearts of stone, hardened through years baking in the sun. Many seniors are self-deceived that the years have made us so very spiritual. Truth is, many of our spirits are just barely still alive.

Like a married couple sleeping in separate beds, for many the intimacy has gone out of our romance with God. Now when we see the young “lovers” chasing after Him, in worship and devotion, we’re jealous for the passion we once had. So instead of allowing their fervor to challenge and convict us, instead we question the sincerity of their love for God. Our spiritual apathy has made us bitter and old, regardless of our years.

I too have felt the rot of cynicism creeping slowly into my heart, and the stench of a critical spirit rising up at times from within. The disappointments and discouragements of life will do that to any of us if we’re not careful. But against all odds, I’m determined not to let it steal my joy. I’m determined to never get old like some I see around me, who find more joy in disapproval and in criticism than in “the joy of the Lord”!

In short, I’m refusing to get spiritually “old” – I’m determined to learn “how to play” again. Upon the advice of the good Mr. Thomas, I shall indeed “rage against the dying of the light”. And here’s what I’ve learned about myself, and others, in that struggle…

Old is not an age, though I’ve seen its withered face and know it all too well.

It holds onto bitterness and disappointment so long you’re convinced every smile you see is really a smirk.

I’ve seen it resenting the enthusiasm of the young, instead of letting themselves experience life anew through those young eyes.

You grow old by focusing on how quickly the sifting sands of time are running out, instead of on the opportunities we still have time for.

It wallows endlessly in yesterday’s slights and oversights, when a banquet table of happy possibilities still stands before us.

You may have heard their voices too, yelling at us from their easy chairs on the sidelines. They say it’s only a matter of time until we curse the dawn the way they do. They warn us to play defense, to play it safe, to keep our hands and feet inside the car on this ride, and to not expect too much from the rest of life.

On the contrary, I will carelessly throw my hands in the air as this rollercoaster ticks up toward the top. I determine now in my last stretch of life to lean into the ebb and flow of this crazy ride we’re on.

In spite of every ache in my body, I defy your sensible shoes. I laugh at the pastel colors you demand I paint with, just so your eyes won’t be strained. But instead, I beg you to leave your dimly lit monastery of misery and join me out here in the sunlight of life. No fair hiding your contrarianism behind a facade of spirituality, for true spirituality is marked more by childlike wonder than by your pitiful piety.

“So I recommend having fun, because there is nothing better for people in this world than to eat, drink, and enjoy life. That way they will experience some happiness along with all the hard work God gives them under the sun” – Ecclesiastes 8:15 NLT

“FUN”! Did you hear “the Teacher”? He said to go have FUN! So my friend…let’s get up and eat, and laugh, and love, and wander off on yet another adventure, while there is still time. ESPECIALLY in view of how little time there is!

And while we know all too well our mortal hours are most certainly ticking away, let’s refuse to ever give the slightest attention to that wretched clock. Let’s live life so fully, everyone around us will be stunned when they see us finally, suddenly drop down and die…

“What? The old man is gone? How can this be? Is the sun still in the sky? He was so full of life! If he’s done, surely nothing is safe! Do the planets still spin a wobbly waltz around the sun’s campfire light amidst the midnight blue of the universe?”

No, old is not an age, but is truly just the curse of a lousy attitude toward life. No aches or pains can tell you the contrary unless you choose to listen to them. So snuff out all the candles, throw away the cake, and leave those “hilarious” black birthday balloons for fools who died years ago and only have yet to discover it.

I’ve got three little girls of my own now, and a wife always ready to adopt some more. So I am determined for them and for the three grandchildren I have to remember how to play, and to be the most fun grandfather ever. Better to be Peter Pan, the boy who never grew old, than Captain Hook whose only joy is found in despising youth. Why live your days in envy and fear, hating youthful joy and constantly running from that ticking clock inside a crocodile?

Not me. I’ll take the second star to the right, straight on till morning. For I’m sure where I’m headed, I’ll find my childlike wonder again. That Neverland is ruled by the One they once called the “Ancient of Days”.

“Ancient of Days” indeed! What an ironic name that is, for He never grows old! Maybe that’s because He hasn’t forgotten how to play.

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Copyright © 2024 by David Gipson. All rights reserved.

Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.

Our dream house was a 120-year old 3-story Victorian home. It was just a few blocks away from one of the loveliest parks in the city and the same distance from the church I pastored. I could literally walk to work, and did so on many mornings. How convenient!

Unlike the other brick houses that lined the streets nearby, this one was painted light yellow and stood apart from the rest. Plaster reliefs of baby angels wrapped around the base of the house. They represented the children of the original owners, making the structure even more unique. It also had a three-car garage at the back of it. Few houses in this older section of town had one as large, and many people resorted to parking on the street. But not us! On just an average salary, we had bought one of the nicest places to live in the area. 

I had always dreamed of owning a Victorian home. I had performed the role of Prof. Henry Higgins from the musical My Fair Lady right before we moved to our new city. So I was primed to live the life of the English gentleman, sipping tea in my beautiful old house. I loved the old wood, the stained glass windows, and our “penthouse suite” for my wife and me on the top floor. We’d be sequestered away from the noise of our little girls playing below us. It all seemed so ideal.

But it turned out to be anything but ideal. Our “Golden House”, as our little girls came to call it, was not so golden. In fact, our dream house almost killed us, quite literally. 

One afternoon I got a call at the church. It was Dawn, my wife, and she was sobbing hysterically. Finally I was able to make out enough of her words to understand what was happening.

“I fell…come home!”

Almost 20 years ago, my wife had been in a bad car accident that crushed her right leg. That ankle couldn’t turn at all. So as I ran the 5 blocks to my home, I knew what had happened.

When I got to the house, I found Dawn in the basement. She was headed to the washer and drier there, and had misjudged a step going down. She hit the concrete floor hard.

After getting her to the hospital, thankfully we learned nothing had been broken. However, that would be just the first of several falls for Dawn down those steps. We eventually moved the washer and drier up to the second floor, which helped a little. But the bottom line was a three-story house with narrow stairways were not meant for a woman who had challenges with mobility.

I also learned having your bedroom on the third-floor is not a good idea for a chubby guy in his mid-50s. There were a few days I wondered if I’d still be alive by the time I reached the top floor. Though I began on the stairway to the bedroom, I might end up on the stairway to heaven…

Then there was the city. Dawn and I always loved culture, restaurants, theater and all the things a great city has to offer. So living there, we felt like kids in a candy store. There was always some new restaurant to explore, always a show playing somewhere, and interesting people living all around us. It seemed ideal.

Except for crime. And taxes. Many cities are big on those, and ours was no exception. We had both in abundance.

One of our regular nightly diversions was watching the notifications on our community’s “Next Door App” alert us to all the recent shootings and hold-ups around us. One of us would hear gunshots, and I’d watch for the posts to pop up. I’d then calculate how close it was to our home. Many were within just a few blocks, some just down the street. 

We would occasionally get notices of some tax we hadn’t paid. Usually, we neglected to pay because the city had neglected to ever send a bill. Then one day, you get a notice you’re being sent to a collections agency, even though you still hadn’t received a bill yourself. 

Once we got a bill for trash pick-up. We were confused because we paid a refuse bill on time every month. But a lady on the phone informed us what we had paid was in fact only the garbage bill. There was completely different bill that was a tax for just having trash pick up available to us in the city. This bill was paying for the “possibility” our trash might be picked up. No kidding.

I’m sure they’re still probably working on a way to collect a tax on our taxes. 

All of this added together was a painful lesson on the difference between perception and reality. After we first moved to that city and were still living in an apartment, I walked down those very streets and fantasized about how wonderful living there would be. When we found the Golden House, we rejoiced and basically cried out, “Here, take our money” to the realtor. 

But the view from the outside of a situation is always much different from the inside. Nothing is ever quite what you expect…with houses, or with life.

The problem with so many of the things we want is it’s too often based on an illusion. We think a thing, a person, or a situation will bring happiness. But happiness is never found in those things outside of us.

Real happiness only happens from the inside out.

There’s an old fashioned Bible word for this foolishness: covetousness. The prohibition against coveting is actually the 10th and final commandment. It’s easily skimmed over in favor of the more R-rated commandments against murder or adultery. Simply wanting your neighbors stuff as opposed to stealing it or killing for it seems like no big deal in comparison.

But coveting is like a powerful drug. The addict never gets enough. Once he gets that one thing he’s obsessed over, he’s disappointed to realize it doesn’t fulfill his needs and he moves on to something more. The new car he’d wanted all his life now sits in the garage most days. She can’t even remember why she bought that purse now. That’s how coveting works: whatever you get, it’s never enough. You’re always left wanting something else, and even more addicted to your desires.

Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in all my labor; And this was my reward from all my labor. Then I looked on all the works that my hands had done and on the labor in which I had toiled; And indeed all was vanity and grasping for the wind. There was no profit under the sun. - Ecclesiastes 2:10-11

Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. - Luke 12:15

There was nothing wrong with us wanting a house. But it was very wrong of me to think that it would bring us so much happiness on its own. The ideal life and fulfillment I was expecting from a house was unreasonable. 

That kind of happiness only comes from God’s address, not mine.

Inevitably, we become like kids on the day after Christmas. We’ve opened every package, played with every toy, and we’re already bored with them. The newness wore off in a day, all because we were expecting too much from them to begin with.

Most homes stop being dream houses the minute we walk into them. Reality inevitably sets in, and the “house porn” on the realtor’s website is now just a bunch of plaster and dry wall. 

We finally made it out of our dream house before it killed us. No, we didn't run screaming from it in the middle of the night like in the Shining or the Amityville Horror. When we left, it did take quite a bite out of our finances, and we had to sell for quite a bit less than we'd paid. But the wound was worth it for the lesson we learned.

We’re in a new place now, in a much smaller city. We’re renting a little one-story house we’re hoping to buy soon. We're in a little neighborhood where we hardly ever lock our front door. It's pretty boring compared to city life, but that’s just fine with me.

I’ve discovered what really makes a “dream house”. The dream is not the house, it’s the people you put in it. Regardless of the size or location, those people are what makes life worthwhile. 

Everything else is just a dream. And all that glitters is not a golden house.