Forgive me, for sometimes I do not think about how hard it is for you to come to worship. I take for granted things like putting on clothes and driving to the church building. I rarely think about how much pain you endure in getting in and out of a car or sitting on a hard church pew.

While you may fret about whether your hair is too thin or whether you are too slow, I want you to know what I see. I see love—love in a form that Jesus wants me to see it. Words cannot adequately describe your beautiful warm smile and the love you show for everyone in our church family. Your hugs are like being wrapped in a blanket of love—something I desperately need in the hustle and bustle world we live in today. I see a person who has weathered many years and truly knows the things that are important in life—a lesson that I’m still learning.

I suspect when you look in a mirror you see an old person—someone who feels the aches and pains of many years. But that’s not what I see. I see someone who I long to see sitting in “your pew” every Sunday.

You see age-spots on wrinkled hands that sometimes tremble.
I see the caring hands that reveal years of hard work, and gentle hands that have held many children, grandchildren, and maybe even great-grandchildren.

You see someone who can’t hear well and whose voice sounds rougher with each passing year.
I see someone who sounds just like my grandparents—a sound that I treasure in my heart.

You see someone who shuffles down the aisle and is slow.
I see someone who may need an arm for support and someone who is teaching me a good lesson on patience.

You see someone whose hair is thin and white.
I see someone whose hair reveals years of wisdom.

You see someone who you think will not be missed if you are not there on Sunday.
I see a pillar of our church family—someone who makes everything feel just right.

You see someone whose clothes may be out of style.
I see someone who has amazing stories of what life used to be like.

You see someone who can’t cook as well anymore.
I see someone whose pies and cakes are legendary at fellowship meals—and maybe someone who is now giving me an opportunity to provide meals for them.

You see someone whose memory doesn’t work as well.
I see someone whose very presence edifies and encourages me.

You see someone whose has aches and pains, and feels old and tired.
I see a Christian soldier who still puts on the whole armor of God and is showing me what living faithfully until death really means.