“He’s 3, with 32 years of experience” is how I describe my son Ben these days. Still stymied by tic-tac-toe and overjoyed by a jar of peanut butter, yet he’s got over three decades of living under his belt.

Last winter we took a long car ride, spent a night in a hotel and took two long flights from the snowy north to the warm island home of his sister. Ben isn’t able to comprehend the change in weather or being in a long metal tube far, far above the earth to get from one place to the other. And yet he’s done it often enough to stride confidently through the metal detector and salute the Homeland Security employee scrutinizing his backpack full of coloring books and granola bars.

And I wonder how he manages all of that, and yet still struggles to master simple interactions with other people.

He plays happily with his little nephew’s toys, but also comforts him and watches over him like a good uncle should. I see his pleasure in not being the “baby” among us anymore. What must it be like to always be the one cared for, and never the one to care?

28 years ago he was thrilled when we brought home his baby brother, and for a few years he thrived in his role of nurturer and protector. But it wasn’t long before those roles reversed, and Ben battled frustration as he watched Alex easily learn to do all the things that Ben just couldn’t. He sensed that the tables were turning; started lashing out as the skills gap widened between them.

Alex was probably six years old when I found him in the hallway with his Star Wars light saber. He had heard a mountain lion outside their window and taken the responsibility on his young shoulders to protect Ben, slumbering unaware in the bottom bunk.

And in the darkness of the hallway that night, I realized that Alex had taken on the mantle of big brother that Ben had previously worn so joyfully.

Ben just celebrated his birthday with a couple of his friends, gleefully eating a Spider Man cake and playing with his new remote-control car. He may have 32 years of life experience, but he will always be 3. And you know what? It’s okay.

It’s okay that he can’t understand the world. It’s okay that his accomplishments are limited to Special Olympics ribbons and rewards for doing his chores. It’s the last, Jesus said, who will be first one day. The childlike. The humble. It’s the meek who will inherit the earth.

I just returned from taking Ben to a Special Olympics tournament, and brought along a friend who is 20 years younger than me. It took me aback when she insisted on hoisting my suitcase and opening doors for me. Mind you, I’m perfectly capable of handling doors and suitcases. But her thoughtfulness reminded me that I am aging, and at some point those kindnesses will become necessities.

What then? Will I accept my growing weakness with a cheerful and gracious spirit? Or lash out as Ben did, when faced with my limitations?

Aging, illness, disability and loss pose a choice to us all: acceptance and peace, or anger and bitterness. Neither change our circumstances. But they do compose our future. Ben has found a joyful and fulfilling life within the bounds of his limitations. Have I? Have you?

While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh, but it’s not that we want to die and get rid of these bodies that clothe us. Rather, we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life. God himself has prepared us for this, and as a guarantee he has given us his Holy Spirit.

2 Corinthians 5:4-5 NLT