Live a Good Life

I had the privilege of attending a wedding recently and sitting next to a 92-year-old man. He was a friend’s Dad and he was certainly not what I would picture when I think 92 years. He was in good shape, had great hearing, didn’t wear glasses, and was complaining that the wine wasn’t sweet enough.

At the risk of being rude, I asked him what his secret was. “What secret?” he barked. “The secret to being 92 years old.” “Oh, that,” he answered quickly, as though he’s asked all the time – which I’m sure he is. “The secret is to be careful and live a good life.”

He went on to tell me some stories about his time in the military but my mind kept whirling around those few words: “Live a Good Life.” Not – take your vitamins, run 3 miles a day, avoid sugar, don’t drink alcohol, don’t smoke, stay away from cheeseburgers, or jump through hoops to look younger than you are. Simply “Live a Good Life.”

“What does that look like?” I thought. “Am I doing it right now?”

I’ve become achingly aware lately that I am not immortal. And yet there’s so much left to do. See the pyramids, learn to play the piano, read all of the classics, watch Monty Python a few hundred more times, deliver flowers to ladies in nursing homes and cookies to the men, find an amazing red dress and wear it, dance in the middle of the street, learn the constellations, learn Spanish, lie on the beach and listen to the waves, learn how to read palms and how to milk a cow. So much!

Whether I have five years left or 50, I’ll strive to make the most of it so that when I’m at the end, I can say that I too, lived a good life.

Letting Go

The Bravest Man I Know

A friend of mine has been fighting for his life for over seven months.

He’s a peaceful guy. An artist, a fisherman, a reader – soulful and relaxed. Picture a guy fishing by the lake under a clear blue sky showing a child how to tie a fly, not a care in the world, and that is Jack. He’s the guy who, when you speak to him, he really hears you, really listens. He’s not distracted by his phone or work or anything else. He’s the kind of guy you envy and then wish you hadn’t. How can you envy someone so kind? He has more friends than anyone but is also the most modest fellow you can find. 

Since his diagnosis, one he dealt with nine years ago as well, he has had to leave his job, be admitted to the hospital again and again, spend Christmas surrounded by noisy machines and cold floors, suffer through a myriad of medications that caused confusion and nausea and pain, and see his wife and daughters deal with uncertainty and fear on a daily basis.

His plight has been long with no end in sight. Recently, he made the decision to stop. He cannot take any more poking or prodding, more unfulfilled promises. He’s been moved from a hospital bed to a hospice bed to spend the rest of his days at peace. 

I was thinking about how hard that decision must have been. To say, “I give this to God now, I surrender.” How many thoughts must rustle in your head as you ponder the next steps for you and your family. As far as I’m concerned, he is the bravest man I know. My friend, my comrade, Jack.