Wild Sage, by Sheila Atchley

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to age well.

I am busy living, in real time, the truth that tells me that my God satisfies me with good things, and thus my youth is renewed “like the eagle”. (Ps. 103: 5)

(The Preacher and I still date…)

The world ages quietly, with shrinking significance as they grow silver-haired. But I don’t believe that’s what the Lord intends for His daughters. No, I believe we’re invited to become something far more mysterious and marvelous—something I am calling a “wild sage.”

I recently read that at one time, elders were thought of as being “weird” - or, “those with one foot in daily life and one foot in the otherworld.”

Because that language is equal parts poetic, comic, and mystic (all of those are my jam), my spirit leapt with recognition. Yes! That’s exactly how it should feel to walk with Jesus deeper and longer into this life:

one foot planted in the chaos of the now, the other planted in eternity.

(my rendering of The Trinity…)

The ancient word used was weird—not in the recent political sense—but in its original, sacred meaning: one who is entwined with destiny and attuned to the unseen. In Norse myth as well as in Shakespeare, the Weird Sisters are keepers of fate, the midwives of time and timelessness.

But in the Kingdom of God, I see my own version of the weird and the wonderful: prophets in camel’s hair, and wild-eyed women like old Anna the prophetess. I see widows who steward sacred oil (“…gather ye vessels…”), and grandmothers who pass down holy fire.

To be weird enough to be wise is, I believe, to accept a strange shaping of our inner life by the hand of God.

It’s to allow Him to use our lived experiences, personal aesthetic, artistic drive, our sorrows, and our sanctified imaginations to make us into bridges — older women with the ability to connect the seen and the unseen, the young and the old, the temporal and the eternal.

Bridges, as opposed to barges. I have met too many women who become barges in midlife. They are rather suddenly offended and upended and unmoored, floating from place to place, for what they can onboard to themselves, instead of what they can leave behind.

I. do. not. want. to. be. a. barge. I want to be a bridge!

This weird, wild bridge anointing is not for the faint of heart. But neither is it optional for those of us who feel the weight and wonder of eldership pressing on our shoulders like a mantle, and resting upon our heads like a crown.

This world doesn’t need more “normal.” Normal is just another word for numbed.

Wild sages are meant to be set apart—peculiar people, Scripture says. We are meant to speak of things that cannot be seen but are more real than what is. We are meant to remind the despairing of beauty, to summon imagination and insight in an age addicted to algorithmic answers.

A wild sage is not rebellious for the sake of being contrarian. She is rebellious in the way the great apostle Paul was—a holy defiance against dead systems and surface living. She is grounded—deeply connected to the real responsibilities of life— while her heart is tethered to a kingdom not built by human hands.

To live this way is to carry mystery in our bones, to speak in parables, to laugh at the days to come…and to weep over the wounds of the world. It is to be out of step with culture and in sync with eternity.

I want to be that kind of weird. I want to be a wild old woman, always making room for the miraculous while walking deftly in the mundane, loving what is hers.

I want to be the woman whose life says: “I have tasted and I have seen.” I hope to help shepherd an army of women safely to the outer edges of their wonder. I hope to be weird enough to be wise, wild enough to be useful, and rooted enough to be trusted.

Cheers to those of us pushing 60 or 70 years old:

“May our weirdness be not just tolerated—but treasured. May we have the unmistakable fragrance of Christ and wild sage…a life touched by the Spirit.”

The Sweetest Parts of Spiritual Community

Today was another milestone.

I got to bear witness to the wedding of a beautiful couple who met in youth group at our church, back in 2017-2018. But the bride…well, I held her as a newborn baby. I was there when her mama was the bride. (Who even am I? Old. I am old.).

The part that is just as special to me, though, is the fact that this wedding also involved two of my dearest girlfriends - one, the mother of the bride, the other, the mother of the groom.

(The mother of the groom, Trinette Williams, and me…in what world is life this sweet? Jesus, thank You. Just…thank You.)

(The mother of the bride and the father of the groom both shared their heart, at the beginning of the ceremony…)

I sat in the back, during the whole proceedings, and as always I found myself just taking in the whole moment. For lack of a better word…

…I was the fly on the wall. (My favorite thing to be, actually.)

Looking at the faces - some of them I did not know, out of town family of the groom, but many of the faces I knew almost as well as my own.

Friends. The kind of friends who are more like family.

And I found myself admiring my two gorgeous daughters’ profiles, their hair, and their presence. I am so Godly-proud of those two women, and the way they elevate a room when they enter it. My daughters carry themselves in ways that let others feel seen and cared for.

I watched their husbands as both men sat proudly by each daughter, and my grandchildren with them. I saw the way my sons-in-love would look at my daughters with such tenderness, and the way they both, as both sets of parents, would put their arms around my grandkids, smiling at the way they were enjoying this wedding.

(Proof that I stared at my girls. Both of them. Beauties.)

(The sons-in-love, who are actually lion-hearted men. :) )

This day was the fruit of so much sticking and staying. It is easy for me to understand why Jesus’ first miracle was at a wedding. I honestly believe weddings are His favorite. Weddings are times when friends and family gather with a heart and a bond that, if they are blessed, has been forged by the Spirit. Weddings brim with promise and hope for the future.

The bride and the groom are integral to the life of Harvest Church. Lydia (the bride) leads our congregation in worship on many-a-Sunday. Micah (the groom) is one of our youth pastors. Their passion for the kingdom of God is always a palpable thing, when you are around them.

(These two. Parents of the bride. Pillars in the house, as are their parents, as are their children. Harvest is so blessed to have several 3 generation families.)

(The Preacher, just before he prayed over Lydia and Micah, remarking how he first met Lydia when she was only hours old. Oh, my heart.)

If you had told me twenty years ago, how good it would all be, in spite of every hardship and heartache, I am not sure I would have believed you. Because some days it feels too good to be true, even for me.

And now, I best sign off. I need to cook dinner for The Preacher, then we will snuggle up on the couch and watch Dick Van Dyke, and Leave It To Beaver (yes…our two favorites). Then, we both will turn our faces towards Sunday.

Life goes on. The good things continue. The gathering of the saints is tomorrow. And my next big art show is one week from RIGHT NOW.

I could not be more glad.