I’m 73 and still learning.  Got Primary Lateral Sclerosis and still learning.  By “lately” I mean at my age with this disease in the last month or so.

In the Sermon On the Mount, Jesus asks his followers why they worry about food and clothing.  Instead, they should “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to them” (Matthew 6:33).

Then he urges, “So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today” (Matthew 6:34).  Tomorrow’s worries, that’s what Jesus is addressing.

From this we get the familiar:  “Just live for today!” and “One day at a time” and other such slogans.  When I was younger and healthier “do not worry about tomorrow” usually evoked one of two responses.  “Sure, no problem.”  Back then I lived under the illusion that I had things pretty much under control.  I could “control” tomorrow just like today.  No problem.

Or, “But I have to plan.”  I justified worrying about tomorrow by being responsible for the future.  But I was conveniently discounting Proverbs 16:9–“In his heart a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps.”  And worse, I was assuming that my plans would “work out”.  (That’s because, at that point in life, they mostly did.)

Now “do not worry about tomorrow” has taken on a whole new dimension.  At 73, I’ve never known more clearly that “we’re not guaranteed tomorrow”.  And with this disease, “Today’s trouble is enough for today.”  I’ll spare you the details, except to say I’m wheelchair-confined (so physical activity is severely limited), retaining water in my feet and legs (which ache from the pressure) and finding myself generally weak (a weakness I can feel).  Other symptoms plague me, but this isn’t a pity-me party.

I’d like to say that my faith has grown or I’ve become wiser. But I have to confess:  mostly I’m too troubled with today to worry about tomorrow, too weak to take on tomorrow’s weight.

It’s liberating not to worry about tomorrow, I guess.  “I guess” because even in weakness, my stubborn, sinful nature rises up:  How bad will I suffer before I die?  Will I become bedridden?  Will my mind my affected so I can’t read and write?  How will I bear Lois’ grief if I die first?  See, I’m stronger (in a wrong way) than I think.  And even in weakness, I find faith and obedience as hard as walking on these legs.  How I need God’s mercy and grace!

And the bigger issue:  Can I today seek first God’s kingdom and righteousness?  You’d think that should be a snap.  But usually I find myself seeking first God’s healing.  Which raises an ominous question:  Is healing an idol?  Do I love good health more than our Lord?  Can I be content in him if my condition gets worse?

Now, contentment in him.  That’s a high mountain to climb.  Especially when I find myself blaming him.  My reasoning runs something like this:  God is sovereign; therefore, he has sent or allowed my illness.  Conclusion:  my illness is his fault.  More:  If part of God’s purpose in this condition is my spiritual growth, what’s the point?  I’m too old to still be growing.  Besides, when I see Jesus I’ll be instantly made like him.  Even without suffering, the end result would be the same.  So contentment in him is a high mountain for me to climb when he’s “wasting me away” in my body.

I’m ashamed.  So many others waste away so far worse.  This is a pity-me party after all!  But, you see, that’s how I sometimes think.  How I need God’s mercy for my sin and grace for contentment!  This too I have learned lately.

And this:  despite my foolish thinking, my heart remains soft to our Lord.  I can’t listen to the accompanying song without tears and without my body fairly trembling in worship to him.  So I wheelchair up to the manger.  Slide down to the ground and wobble onto my knees.  Without tottering over,I try to raise my hands.  I can’t.  But that’s okay, because my heart is worshiping.  Inside I’m worshiping as much as my eyes are raining tears.  He knows I love him.  In spite of all my doubts and questions and anger and depression, he knows I love him.  And I know he loves me.  This too I’ve learned lately in ways I’ve never known before.