Over the past few weeks, I have stood by and watched my little car's valiant attempts to halt the incessant march of time. With each passing day, the end seems that little bit nearer as it succumbs, slowly and painfully, to the irreversible ravages of old age. 

Meanwhile, my mother is watching the same thing happen to her mother. 

A new year often brings with it renewed hope and promise. New dreams and possibilities seemingly lie in wait like fruit, fresh for the picking. The harsh winter appears to lose some of its sting in the face of impending spring. And yet, sometimes the new year can also bring a sense of foreboding, an uneasy anticipation of realities we feel unprepared for. 

Watching a beloved parent ageing before your eyes is one of these realities. We can come to terms with the idea of it, but the actual day-to-day fact of it is another matter. A philosophical acceptance of the inevitable often proves a weak defence against the waves of helplessness that batter us in the present. Memory, that very thing that sometimes keeps us alive, becomes the same thing that breaks our hearts. When their arms lose their strength, we think of when they carried us. When they struggle to stay on their feet, we remember the times they ran to pick us up the instant we fell. We think of all these things and try not to think of them, all at once. I haven't experienced this yet, but I have a feeling this is what my mother is going through right now. 

And so every time I think of my ten-year-old car now and feel disheartened, I think of my mother and ninety-six-year-old grandmother. I think about the things that really matter and the things that don't, and I pray for wisdom to tell the difference.