I've been thinking about what it's like to come out of denial.

Becky and I went to a church gathering on Saturday night. There were perhaps two hundred and fifty people there who are members of our congregation. It was a fundraiser for our ministry to the homeless in Pasadena, and we were there because Becky is deeply involved in that work. She spends half of every Monday distributing clothes and food and helping to supervise breakfast, showers, and haircuts. This was a dress-up celebration; the meal was good. I knew perhaps ten percent of the people in the room, and Becky knew everybody there.

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As I sat in that fundraiser, it occurred to me that the way I thought of myself and the way I really am are not as well-matched as they once were. This was a church where, for many years, I had served in various high-profile roles; in other rooms, at other times, it would have been me who knew everyone in the room and everyone would have known me. It was very clear to me - and I was pleased to be there in this way - that I was present as Becky’s husband more than anything else. It’s not the first time that’s happened, but it was perhaps the first time I’d seen so clearly that I was the only one who wasn’t understanding myself in that way.

In my previous roles, I’d come to expect that I would be asked to perform weddings and eulogies for my friends and their children. That almost never happens anymore. Even though I haven’t been in a public-facing ministry role for nearly thirty-five years, it’s still such a primary part of my identity that I’m always a little surprised that no one is asking me. Maybe it’s vanity or maybe it’s longstanding experience, but I think a part of me misses being asked; maybe I always will.

I notice these tendencies coming up in myself not infrequently - I’ll be in rooms or spaces or conversations and leave a little surprised that I wasn’t a main character, even though there was no reason to expect that I should have been. It brings a part of myself to light that I’m unsure how to categorize: is that patriarchy? Or a lifetime of being noticed? Do I think I’m entitled to it? Maybe it’s all of the above.

I was complaining about this to my friend George, whom I’ve known for most of our lifetimes. “They don’t ask me to teach classes at the church anymore,” I said, expecting him to commiserate with me over that injustice.

“Did you ever think it’s because you’re too old?” he asked.

I hated hearing that.

I don’t like the idea of having lost some of my capacity as a teacher, as if my energy and perhaps my acuity have been dulled by time, and it’s obvious to other people but not to me. Damn, that sucks. I don’t want to be diminished by age or circumstance, and if I am, I don’t want it to be apparent to anyone.

I don’t know why this is a surprise to me: I just spent five days in the hospital in January with a life-threatening case of pulmonary embolism. Even three months later, I’m still learning how to breathe properly and trying to regain at least some of the energy I lost through that ordeal. My recovery is not as rapid as I would have wished.

I want to see myself as I’ve always been: vigorous, forward-thinking, able to lead. This slow recovery is reminding me that denial is a powerful force.

When dinner was over and Becky had been duly recognized, we made the earliest departure we could. Even if I’d wanted to, I knew I was unable to stay for the dancing: my back hurt, I was tired, and I was eager to get home. At the valet, I saw other friends who were also making a graceful, early exit, and we laughed together about the new skills we were developing in our eighties about how to leave events with great stealth.

We were home by nine o’clock, and up early for church the next morning, and - since Becky sings in the choir - I sat with my small but lifelong group of friends who know me as I used to be, and as I am now; they also know firsthand what it’s like to be old. It turns out there’s a special kind of camaraderie in that.