I Was Raised to Think I’d be Raptured Before I Turned Thirty
It’s true! I never thought I’d live to see age seventy. I was raised in a religious cult. In fact, my dad was the leader, the visionary, the self-proclaimed last prophet of the last days. He believed he was sent by a god to help failing christians recover their identity. That included every christian denomination on the face of the earth. The truth had been lost and he alone was chosen to help guide people back to “the way” before the rapture. So, until my personal emancipation from a closed society, I was told over and over that I’d be lucky to see age thirty. My whole existence should be centered on getting ready to meet his god instead.
Well, needless to say, I’m still here.
Not only have I lived to see age seventy, a good forty years longer than I was promised, but it looks like genetically I stand a good chance of staying alive another twelve years or so. Both of my parents lived to their mid eighties, much to their surprise, and died of old age and failing bodies. In the end, they were forced to buy burial plots, something they believed would never be needed because they were destined to be raptured.
Oh, well, best laid plans often go awry, eh?
After I left home and declared myself a sovereign being with the same rights of any adult to make my own decisions and choices, I soon discovered that although many Americans didn’t believe that they were living in the last days, they were pessimistic about growing old. Culturally, growing old was increasingly becoming a taboo. People were resentful of the process. Nobody welcomed old age as a priviledge. They didn’t want to die but they also didn’t want to grow old.
I soon realized that modern humans with longer lifespans of any societies in the history of humankind actually wanted to live forever but in a perpetual state of thirty something.
Even as scientists were working to increase our lifespan for a second time, even though people were excited about the prospect of living even longer lives, no one wanted to grow old. They simply didn’t feel that growing old was a privilege. Here I was marveling that I’d made it past age thirty, and there they were focusing all of their attention on their glory days of firm bellies and uplifted booties, wrinkle-less skin and firm bust lines.
What is it about age thirty that made people resent every year that they lived beyond that?
Of course, when a person believes like I once did that their days on this earth were drastically numbered, it alters their perception of what it means to be alive in the first place. I’m sure people who suffer from a terminal disease at a young age would better understand my feelings, especially if a cure was found and they, too, lived a much longer life than expected. Something my peers who passed through puberty with time to waste might never “get”.
Turns out that in addition to growing old, however, I actually love old age.
Not only have I made it this far in spite of my father’s dire predictions that the end was nigh, but I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been. Well, happy isn’t the best word choice. I’ve never met a happy person no matter how good their life might be. Contrary to popular opinion, happiness isn’t a constant state but ebbs and flows along with all the other emotions that are part of the human experience. Yet, I must say, that of all the phases I’ve completed from teens to early adulthood to wife to mother to career woman to middle age to senior citizen, I’m the most contented I’ve ever been.
It appears that not only was my father wrong, but the civilian culture that I inherited was, too.
I concluded long ago that the rapture is a myth, but I also believe that getting old is freaking awesome. It’s the closest I’ve come to true freedom. I’m free from so many ridiculous notions that dominate us. I don’t waste time on worrying about whether my butt looks good in my pants. I’m not driven to be cool. I get little satisfaction from working my fingers to the bone for material things. In fact, I’m trying to get rid of junk that I’ve accrued. I’m able to say no to people who ask too much of me and set boundaries with those who are tempted to walk all over my personal autonomy. I have time on my hands because I’m retired. Precious time to write and garden and travel, notice sunsets and fall colors and watch birds, bees, butterflies, and trees going about their business.
Growing old has been the biggest surprsie of my life.
I’m treasuring every moment of it. If I should die tomorrow, I won’t resent it. After all, death not the rapture is the undeniable truth. Still, I was one of the lucky ones. I got to grow old. I was able to relax for a time and just be. Nothing left to prove. Just lean into the days left to me and immerse myself in the moment. Every moment I have left, I intend to experience fully.
Don’t tell me that I need do anything else.
Unlike you, I never expected to live past age thirty. I know that’s hard for you to understand, because you were raised to believe that you had time to waste. I wasn’t. So, trust me when I say that getting old is a privilege. If you, too, get to experience it, you might feel the way I do. Then, we’ll have something in common even though we traveled two very different paths to reach the same conclusion.
Teresa Roberts is a retired educator, author, world traveler, and professional myth buster. You can find her books on Amazon.
