Age is Just a Number

"Mom, look."

Youngest held out her phone to me earlier this evening.

I did as asked and looked.

She was showing me the song that was playing, Lauren Daigle's "Thank God I Do." Youngest has been on a fast from secular music, so it's been nice seeing what she's listening to.

Now, Youngest is familiar with the song because she likes Lauren Daigle and has it in her playlist.

I am familiar with the song because I love The Piano Guys, and they chose to cover it and mash it up with an old hymn, "Be Still and Know," on their latest album, Unstoppable. It's one of my favorite tracks.

This led me to ask Youngest if she'd heard about the too-young death of Christian artist Mandisa, whose music I knew the girls had loved at one time.

Youngest was quite sad, she said.

At this point, Middle entered the conversation. "How old was she?"

"Forty-seven. A year younger than me."

Middle clapped her hands to her mouth, vertically. "You're 47?"

Youngest's eyes were wide. "Really?"

I nodded, a little surprised. They know my birthday. I thought.

"You're 47," Middle repeated.

"I'll be 49 in July," I pointed out.

"I've been telling people you're 45 for, like, the last five years," Youngest blurted out.

Well, I'm not gonna complain. "Keep doing that," I said. I'll take the extra free years of youth.

Always one to look on the bright side, Middle concluded, "At least you're not 50 yet."

Gee, thanks.