When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have him around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years. – Mark Twain
I turned fifty-eight years old at the end of January. When my father was fifty-eight years old I was his seven-year-old youngest son. He had thirteen other children. My mother was forty-nine years old at that time. I recall that I considered them “old.” Fifty-eight seems young to me now. Funny how time and life circumstances change our outlook on things.
I was not a particularly bright young man. Nevertheless, as a teenager I recall having people tell me how “mature” I was. Many assumed it was because I had older, wiser parents and many older siblings from which to draw insight. They may have been correct about that. I came to know the Lord as a teenager, and that played a major new role in how I viewed life. By my late teens I had put behind me many of the activities that mark immature adolescence. However, as I said before, I was not particularly bright. I needed guidance, maybe more than most teens my age. I had many questions swimming around in my head, dealing with my faith primarily, but also concerning day-to-day concepts. Like all teenage boys, I swam in a sea of hormones. My parents were wonderful, caring, and loving, but they were not overly preoccupied with keeping an eye on me or sharing with me the kind of wisdom I needed at that time. Provided that type of freedom at that tender of an age, many poor choices can be made, and I made my fair share of them. Yet by God’s grace none of those choices were life changing. I dated some girls I should not have dated. I did not concentrate on school like I should have. I spent quite a bit of time trying to become the next Jimmy Connors or Babe Ruth, both of whom represented sports I loved but had no business thinking I possessed the skills by which to make a living.
I do not share this to castigate myself. I was, by and large, a good young man. I went off to college and applied myself to my studies. I stayed out of trouble (at least in ways that people would know about) and, again by God’s grace, spent my time with other young believers through Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship. I never harmed anyone, treated women respectfully, worked hard and paid my own way through school, and courted my future wife. But here’s the rub—as I look back, I realize that in so many ways I still was not thinking in a mature manner much of the time. There was so much to learn. I always needed, and still do, a good mentor, friend, and confidant. I have always needed that.
This makes sense, of course. Even the Teacher of Ecclesiastes knew this when he said: Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Pity indeed. I honestly do not know where I would be today if it had not been for two older brothers, then two high school friends, then a couple older college students, then a local pastor, then a wife, and since then multiple genuine friends to help guide my path. All of these are, surely, gifts from God. They have all helped me keep my foot from slipping and kept me from “the miry pit.”
We need godly friends—all of us. Not-so-bright people like me need them and really smart people like many of you also need them. (I leave it to you to decide which category in which to place yourself.) Friends/mentors/disciplers like this generally must be sought out the older we get. A gracious God put them in my path when I was young. He seems to expect me to do the footwork now. Do that footwork, friends, and while you are at it, be that person for your children if you have them or for someone else younger and less mature than you if you do not. Do so, and you will be doubly blessed.
When I was one-and-twenty, I heard a wise man say: “Give crowns and pounds and guineas, but not your heart away. Give pearls away and rubies, but keep your fancy free,” but I was one-and-twenty, no use to talk to me. When I was one-and-twenty, I heard him say again: “The heart out of the bosom was never given in vain; tis paid with sighs a plenty and sold for endless rue.” Now I am two-and-twenty, and Oh! ‘Tis true, ‘tis true! - A.E. Housman
Grace and peace,
Pastor Jym