My daughter questioned my title. "Mom, why 'Sharpening Iron?' Why not something about getting old?" My thought had been to point away from my age and hopefully to what I hope is a still-sharp mind. But rather than explain all that, I dodged the issue and gave her a silly, rather limp answer. "Well, I had to call it something."
That's an old joke that goes back long before her time. Back in the 40's, my grandmother and her friends all swore by an evil-tasting tonic named Hadacol, supposedly good for everything from arthritis to high blood pressure. A lifetime tee-totalling Baptist, Grandma Compton was horrified to learn it was mostly colored alcohol. In fact, bars in Louisiana served it by the shot glass.
I was just a kid (of course), but I still remember the the joke about its name: Hadacol, because they hadda call it something.
So, "Sharpening Iron," because I hadda call it something.