Years ago, I sat in my afternoon theology class at Franciscan University as my classmates, professor and I had a lively conversation about our Blessed Mother. As we discussed her immaculate conception, we pondered how it might affect her in the “little” aspects of her life.

We students wondered aloud what common calamities Mary might have dodged via her sinless nature. Would she ever come down with a cold or the flu? Would she always smell sweet? These questions allowed us to reflect on Mary in a new, more personal way. As we each took turns intuiting other ideas, another question arose: As she grew older, would Mary wear the visible signs of age? Would her skin have wrinkled? Would her hair have turned gray?

At the time, I remember confidently assuming Our Lady would have remained vibrant and youthful. But as I grow into my own adulthood and reflect on holy women who have gone before me, I’m inclined to change my mind. With each passing year, I have an increased reverence for the particular beauty earned only by age.

As Proverbs 16:31 states: “Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained by a life that is just.”

As a young child, I was so intrigued by both my maternal and paternal grandmothers’ skin. I remember their soft hands, lined with deep hues of blue just beneath the surface, that held mine tightly. I remember their faces, with cheeks that crinkled and squiggled in every direction, that looked upon me with love and tenderness. Lines running above and below their eyes, around their mouths, and across their foreheads moved as they spoke, laughed, smiled or showed concern. Their skin, looking and feeling so different from my own at the time, seemed ethereal.

Each of my grandmothers, maternal and paternal, was beautiful. Yes, physically. But that was such a small bit of their beauty. Both were generous, virtuous, selfless and faithful — much like Mary. They were hearty homemakers, loyal wives, and loving mothers and grandmothers. They were radiant women. They were beautiful.

While they’ve both completed their earthly pilgrimage, I slowly notice my own mother becoming more and more like those women, my grandmas, in all the loveliest ways. She is generous and gentle. She is crafty and handy. She is devoted, steady, faithful and brimming with holy joy. And, yes, she has wrinkles and gray hair. And she is beautiful.

Her face reflects the years she has lived through — seasons of labor, joy and harvest. The lines etched into her skin are the remnants of a million smiles and the footprints of grief; lines that knit her brows together carry memories of wonder, concern and concentration. Couldn’t Mary, having experienced the greatest splendors and sorrows of all humanity, have looked the same?

Despite all the admiration I feel, I surprise myself when, at the slightest whisper of a wrinkle or thinning of a lip in my own reflection, I quickly recite an internal “anti-aging litany,” touting all the ways I could hide or fight the inevitable. While the practices and products that come to mind are not objectively bad, I so often miss the point.

If my face or body show signs of aging, this is only because I’ve lived enough days, months and years for this process to occur. What a glorious reality! Rather than putting my energy, time and money into resisting aging, I pray to live like the women before me, my grandmothers, my own mother and my Blessed Mother, radically tethered to the present moment. We do not know how many days we will be given, but we are here now. Let us live with abundant gratitude, reveling in this unmerited gift of our life — reflecting beauty and wisdom in their fullness.

Though my Marian theology discussion occurred nearly a decade ago, I continually find myself mulling it over, especially since some sources indicate Mary was taken to heaven at age 72 or 73 — and, since the Middle Ages, “the view prevails that she ‘died’ of love,” per the Catholic Encyclopedia).

I’m no theologian, so I won’t try to claim with certainty what her aging process actually looked like. But in my heart, I love imagining a beautiful Blessed Mother Mary, radiant with wisdom and age.