New York City © 1970 Craig Dahlberg
A brother and sister, our children’s playmates, were a matched set—like miniature chess pieces—completely out of scale with other children their age. They were aging at a furious pace.
Their paper-thin skin stretched over their fragile frames. Tripping over a garden hose could be dangerous. A misdirected softball might shatter their brittle bones.
They both suffered from progeria, a rare genetic disorder that occurs in just one out of every four million births. Progeria brings stunted growth, abnormal facial features, and rapid aging. The average life expectancy is just 14.5 years.
Yet while these neighborhood children were trapped in old bodies, their spirits hadn’t gotten that message. They launched their miniature frames like carefree foals, sunlight dancing off their bald heads, their oversized eyes magnified behind thick lenses. Though their hyper-aged bodies may have been nearing the end of life, the children gleefully rode tiny bicycles down our street with the joy and abandon of most nine-year-olds.
They were the happy children. They seemed to savor every moment, free from anxiety, fully engaged in each passing day. Their joy seemed a deliberate rebellion against passing time. Though their coming years might be few, their spirits pushed progeria to the very edge of their lives.
Another image comes to mind: Judah’s King Hezekiah, sitting in the shadowed corners of his throne room. At 39, he had already lived twice as long as the expected lifespan of my young neighbors. He, too, suffered from a terminal illness—a painful, ulcerous disease. But unlike the joyful siblings, Hezekiah was consumed by despair. Despite his wealth and power, he felt abandoned and afraid.
In his desperation, Hezekiah cried out to God. And God answered, granting the king 15 more years of life. During that bonus time, he even fathered an heir to the throne.
Today, many of us enjoy an even greater bonus. With medical advances and improved living conditions, the average lifespan has climbed into the seventies—thirty years longer than that of a person in 19th-century England, and twice the years Hezekiah had been given.
Longevity is a luxury. But it’s also a test.
Will I spend this gift of time clearing e-mails, binge-watching forgettable shows, or fixating on ulcer-inducing headlines? Will I obsess over spreadsheets, hoping to avoid starvation and failing to keep up?
In contrast, I often recall the wholehearted outlook of my children’s progeria friends. Could their example teach me to invest my own years more wisely? Could I cultivate a heart that is more hopeful and grateful for the joys each day brings?
Whether we face a shortened life, a fifteen-year bonus, or a thirty-year longevity bump, one question rises above the rest:
Not “How long will I live?”
Rather, “How will I fill the time I have been given?”