When I'm 98.

My Great-Grandmother Barker turned ninety-eight a few days ago. On Sunday, the Barker progeny gathered in her honor just outside of Charlotte to celebrate her life, legacy, and continuation of her place as matriarch of our family. She was able to say a short prayer before the meal as she sat at the head of the table, while her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, as well as her latest great-great-granddaughter that I carry with me. She is such a testament to our family, and her faith, steadfastness, and determination is an inspiration to all of us.
As part of the celebrations, Aunt Betsy asked us to write an essay about what we would like our lives to look like when we turn ninety-eight--our hopes, dreams, and aspirations. As usual, I took a more creative take on the assignment and wrote a scene of what I would like to imagine my ninety-eighth birthday will look like. I have shared my scene here--being surrounded by family, as Grandmother is, is my biggest wish:

When I’m 98

By Caitlin Barker Foreman

            The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across on the road leading up to the house, the dust has already settled, though the kids have only been gone for a half an hour. I say kids, but really they’ve been grown and had families of their own for years now. I sit on the crisp-white front porch, rocking slowly back and forth, swaying to the sound of the wind in the trees that line the driveway and dot the rolling hills surrounding the house. I look up to the mountains and consider their grandeur—how small am I, how insignificant compared to them. I have lived but for the blink of an eye in light of their stalwart history. The rocking chair creaks in slow time beneath me, and I still hear the echoes of my great-great-grandchildren’s squeals and giggles of delight as they frolicked and played through the well-worn halls of the farmhouse and spilled out onto the lawn and gardens surrounding it filling the air with their joy.

            Today I turned 98 years old. I look down at my hands as they grasp the armrests of my trusty rocking chair and marvel at the change that has been wrought in them these 98 years. I’ve often wondered at the phrase about knowing something “like the back of your hand,” because I certainly haven’t gone through life staring at the backs of my hands enough to recognize them as the years change and wither their once smooth skin. Now these mountains, those I know. I know the smells that come with the first spring rains, and the early budding Dogwoods and Bradford Pear trees. I know the verdant greens that fill the valleys and peaks with beautiful new growth—I even know the constantly changing clouds and the shadows they make on the mountainside in the summer as they float lazily overhead. I know the deep dimples on the cheeks of my beloved in his ever-present smile, and the timbre of his voice as he says he loves me every night before bed. And I know my children. I know the little freckle on the side of my eldest daughter’s nose that has been there since she was a year old, and I know the cowlicks in my youngest son’s hair that still get the better of him some days. It is things like these that I have spent my life memorizing, not the aging skin on the back of my hand, but the glorious blessings with which my Creator has gifted me. More precious than jewels these things are. More precious than the books I have published that allowed me to provide for my family, or the wondrous sights around the world I have seen. Blessed am I in the eyes of the Father, for my quiver is full and my heart overflows with joy.

            I close my eyes and let the spring breeze caress my face— it blows silver hairs pulled loose from my tied-back hair that tickle my forehead.

            “Mama?” says a soft voice that followed the familiar creak of the screen-door opening. “Mama, it’s time to come in.” She comes out and kneels beside my chair—she’s still so beautiful and elegant, the years have been kind to her. She has her father’s dimples. “Happy birthday, Mama. Did you have a good day?”

            “Oh, sweetheart. Every day the good Lord blesses me with is a good day, but yes, this one was particularly fine.” Any day that I am surrounded by my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren is a very good day, indeed.

            “You sure have left a legacy of progeny,” She says with a smile as she stands up beside me as if she knows exactly what I was thinking. “Not to mention a legacy of love. God has truly blessed us by giving us you as a matriarch, Mama. I hope you know how much you’ve inspired all of us— you and Daddy. We love you. Happy 98^th birthday again, Mom.”

            My eyes fill with tears at her words. God had blessed us, beyond all measure, but I know that it is me who is the one truly blessed. She begins to help me to my unsteady feet as her husband comes out onto the porch bearing my walker—I hate that thing, but I can’t get around without it. Before they help me inside, I turn my head for another glance at my mountains. The sun has begun to set and casts a beautiful golden light on the newly green trees gracing the familiar face of those mountains. I smile to myself as I’m helped inside. Here’s to another year full of joy, family, and God’s unfailing love.