Getting old is hard.
Scripture does not pretend otherwise. Our bodies wear down. Strength fades. What once felt effortless now requires patience, planning, and often the help of others. The spring in our step becomes a shuffle. The mind can feel slower. The body less steady. Ecclesiastes tells us to remember our Creator “before the days of trouble come,” before the years arrive when we say we take no pleasure in them (Ecclesiastes 12:1).
That is not weakness of faith. It is simply reality. Aging brings loss, and loss hurts.
I see this up close in my parents.
My mother has become unstable on her feet. A recent fall caused a fractured neck and left her in a brace for nearly half a year. She had to learn dependence in ways she never expected, relying on others for tasks that once seemed small and ordinary. It was frustrating. It was frightening. It was humbling.
My father lives with Parkinson’s disease. I have watched the slow ebbing away of strength and skill. Where once he depended on his voice to preach and sing, there are now days when his words are barely above a whisper, sometimes marked by impediments. His confident walk has become a careful shuffle.
This is suffering. It is not easy. Sometimes it feels undignified. And yet, weakness does not erase dignity. My parents are still image-bearers, still loved by God, and still precious to those who know them. Their worth has never been measured by speed, steadiness, volume, or independence.
The apostle Paul names this tension without flinching. He says our “outer self is wasting away,” even while our “inner self is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). He does not tell us to deny what is happening. He tells us not to lose heart.
Why? Because of what God has promised.
Paul writes, “He who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us with you into his presence” (2 Corinthians 4:14). Our hope is not that we will avoid suffering, or outrun aging, or keep our strength forever. Our hope is resurrection.
In 2 Corinthians 5, Paul describes our present bodies as an earthly tent, temporary and fragile. We groan in this tent, not because we are ungrateful for life, but because we feel its burdens. We long to be “clothed” with what God will give, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life (2 Corinthians 5:1–4). This is not escapism. It is redemption.
My parents believe this. More than that, by their example they are teaching me to believe it.
Despite the real grief of what has been lost, they are looking forward to the day when Christ will make all things new. They look forward to new bodies, raised and restored, no longer marked by disease, frailty, or decay. Scripture teaches that our future will be like Christ’s resurrection life, not less human, but fully renewed (compare 1 Corinthians 15; Philippians 3:21).
I have heard people say that death is preferable to the long deterioration of the body. I understand why. When suffering stretches on, death can seem like relief. But the Christian hope is larger than relief. It is resurrection. It is not merely an ending. It is God’s act of making whole what has been broken.
And this hope is not wishful thinking. It is anchored in Jesus himself. Because he lives, we too will live. The God who dwells in unapproachable light must bring us safely into his presence, and he has promised to do so through Christ (1 Timothy 6:16). He will not abandon his people to decay.
Christ is coming again. All will be made new, including our bodies, and even this creation that groans under the weight of corruption. Though we die, we will yet live. We will rise as Christ has risen. This is our confidence.
God commands us to honor our parents, and too often we wait until they are gone to speak what should have been said while they could still hear it. I do not want to wait. I want to honor my mother and father now.
I honor them for their love, for their faith, for the life they have poured out for others. I honor them for enduring suffering without surrendering hope. I honor them because, in their weakness, they are still bearing witness. Their lives preach. Their voices still sing, even when quiet. Their hope is steady. And it has strengthened mine.
A Prayer
Father God, give us hope.
Remind us of your promises, and that they are Yes and Amen in Christ Jesus.
We look forward to the day when we will be raised, given new bodies, and fully redeemed.
Until then, be our strength in weakness and our comfort in sorrow.
Teach us to honor our parents well, with patience, tenderness, and gratitude.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.





