I might have dedicated this month’s column to important things like the war in Ukraine, the earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, the Russian mob connection in my own little Ulster Heights, and the recent snowfall. These things are all noteworthy and may one day be recorded in history books as formative of the story of earth and her inhabitants, but probably not. There is a reason that politicians and journalists tell each other, “The people have a short memory.” The names of the people that litter news reports of scandals, events, and provocative words and deeds are forgotten in almost the blink of an eye. They may be urged out of hiding occasionally, but not much escapes the greedy grasp of forgotten trivia. This column will wrestle with something that none of us will escape: change, and especially change in self. There is no getting away from change, especially the changes that show in your own body, mind, and soul that take place between your entry by the delivery room and your exit by the morgue.

For example, when I was 10 my build was fireplug-like and my baseball prowess was homerun-like, such that when Mr. Turner handed me a personal note inviting me to join a newly forming Little League, my personal dreams transformed in an instant from fuzzy to Major League baseball. When the local sports page headlined my heavy-hitting success at the Little League plate, Babe Ruth dreams were assured. My baseball bat and glove accompanied me to school, church, shopping with Mom, on family weekend and vacation excursions, even beside me at bedtime. My activities were oriented around the nearest ball fields which became an obstacle to homework and accordion practice. My reading switched from the biographies of Cyrus McCormick and Eli Whitney to Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Christy Mathewson. I even memorized the farewell speech of Gehrig at Yankee Stadium where, plagued by terminal ALS, he claimed in broken voice to be “the luckiest man on the face of the earth.” But a move to another city, after school jobs, and yearnings for hot rods and girls toppled baseball dreams from the throne. Indeed, when my adult self — fireplug build and long ball hitting and all — was encouraged to join an adult softball league, it was received with the same welcome a plate of insects would have been received. You see? I had changed!

Changing bodies probably get most of our attention, at least if you are the slightest bit reflective. Most who have read this column in the last 15 years know that my day job until 2013 was parish pastor. I recall vividly the Sunday when I looked down the front of my pulpit robe while descending a sanctuary riser, only to miss the bottom step and fall headlong onto my face before a few horrified front-pewed worshipers who heard the organ-drowning thud and observed the floor quaking belly flop. At the time I discounted my belly’s obstruction as the culprit and I blamed my bifocals, but quickly found truth pointing to physical diminishments. Since then, I ascend and descend steps with increasing deliberation. Thereafter, some took my more measured movements as a professional fervor grown mature, but they were only helping me save face. Now the truth is, the physical self of my pre-belly flop days is a long gone reality. So is my early preference for working with teen parishioners. In retirement’s social circles, word of that preference is received with raucous incredulity. They see well that I dread such groups these days. I’ve changed!

The voice of change speaks at first in whispered tones, then in firm declarative exhortations, and finally in deafening shouts. The changes of aging usually replace enthusiasm with cynicism, enjoyment with tedium, and activity with sitting. It is tempting to resent these changes, even as inevitable as they are. They are fought with anger, denial, impatience, fear, and other assumed nuclear defenses. But naked truth warning: everyone changes, everyone grows (some of us lucky ones grow old). Change is the only constant.

Surrender is probably the better approach. It makes change become growth. It feeds a maturing steadiness better able to discern trivial from crucial. It enlarges the vocabulary of wisdom to include the assurance, "I have something else for you to do."

For 40 years my 1040 Form recorded contributions to Social Security and Medicare. Now I am a member of the flash mob that receives benefits from these investments and begs poverty due to a "fixed income." Other benefits include grandparenting, hobby-ing, reading, writing, traveling, and other leisure things that have not yet come to mind. When one of my granddaughters was 3 I weaseled a promise from her. “Promise me you will not get any older than 3 years old.” She hesitated, obviously weighing Poppy’s wants against her own, and said, “I promise.” She broke that promise — and I remind her of it frequently. But I’m glad she did. Her cuteness is not the same, but her maturing has made her even more endearing. Change can be improvement, or at least serve as a placeholder until improvement comes.

Remember the proverb of the old farmer? "Too soon weak and too late smart"? I have often wondered what would happen if we were born worn out and wise and became slowly but surely more vital and spontaneous. Though it might help people to have the energy and idealism to enjoy their twilight years, I suppose it would end in humanity trivializing wisdom even more than it does now. So we will continue to need prophets around us to remind us to surrender to change and focus on the benefits of change. It may demand more determination, but the rewards are far better than other alternatives. Admittedly, growing up and mimicking the tone of Lou Gehrig's farewell at Yankee Stadium, "I'm the luckiest man on the face of the earth," may leave much unsaid, but there’s more truth in it than what’s not said.

Maybe you have not arrived at the point of surrendering to change, and others may long ago have stopped asking you what to be when you grow up, but I hope you keep on growing... and enjoying the wild ride. And one day grow up too!