Dear friends,

 I've never been over fond of the idea of school or college reunions. Meeting people you haven't seen since you were, say, 8 years old, can often mean that the only way to relate to each other, at least initially, is to be how you were when you were 8, if you see what I mean? The fact is that, after many intervening years and different life experiences, you are now changed people. So I had a mild attack of anxiety when I received an email from someone who was at Westhill College (my alma mater, well before Theological College) proposing a reunion.

Westhill. began as a Free Church college, training people for the Sunday School movement. From 1947 it become a training college for teachers and social, workers, part of Birmingham University. So by the time I was there, it was full of your average, indolent, irreligious, scruffy students ‑just about perfect, in truth!

Now I have many good memories of my years at Westhill. It was, after all, where I met my adorable spouse, but there are happy memories, too. Even so, I admit to having some misgivings about meeting up again with folks we hadn't seen for 40+ years. When we'd lost been together, there wasn't a grey head in sight, just flowing tresses of long and luscious hair ‑ and that was just the  blokes. Remember, this was in the days when men were men and women were women, and you could barely tell them apart.

So it was with some hesitation, when the evening of the reunion came, that we drove to a hotel in Birmingham to meet up with old friends. They really were old friends. The room was full of bald heads or grey hair, diverse wrinkles, a proliferation of plumpness (putting it nicely) and brown liver marks on most hands. Those brown marks are a dead give‑away, one of the four sure signs of, encroaching old age. The other three are: greying hair, failing memory and ..... it's no good, I've forgotten the other one.

We were all old now ‑ and so soon, it seemed. We had a very good evening as it happened, but on the way home I began to think that it's all downhill from here. For days afterwards I felt tired. I began to walk more slowly, with a limp. I thought about my will, mainly because I hadn't made one. (I have now, thanks to our resident New Road solicitor, Paul Stevens: friendly service, wide experience, competitive rates ... it says here on this leaflet).

I,even selected hymns for my looming funeral service, along with music to be played beforehand, such as the Stones' "This could be the last time" and 'It's all over now". To cap all of this, I had notice from Methodist Church House in London that this autumn I am to attend a pre‑retirement course', when I will be informed about things like pensions and rented retirement accommodation with Methodist Housing Association, and will be issued with an oxygen cylinder (okay, so I lied about the oxygen cylinder).

Then I read about two friends, aged 68 and 65, who cycled from Lands End to John 0' Groats to raise money for Christian Aid. Having learned of Christian Aid's funding crisis, they decided to do something. The 875 miles took them 22 days, as they decided to stay in the Lake District for a while, simply enjoying the hills, the waters and life in general; well, they weren't in a race.

After reading that, my limp went, I walked a bit faster and felt younger and handsome again; well, younger. It's something about attitude. I've known some who seemed to have been born old and some whose outlook has remained enthusiastic and youthful, even in advancing years. Life is God's gift to us, to be valued and relished, whatever our age.

 With love,

Revd. Stuart Davis