I suppose we humans like our numbers rounded. There’s a reason there’s no 49 dollar bill. But when it comes to age, it seems rather pointless to place emphasis on an event simply because it ends in a zero. But society has protocols with which we must comply, so I shall do my best to observe the significance of this particular day.
Having not, to date, won the lottery, or been lucky to be one of those Wall-Streeters who were clever enough to offload a pile of worthless credit default swaps on some unsuspecting German banking apprentice, it would serve me well, even at the ripe old age of 50, to focus my attention on the future rather than the past; perhaps a self-review can assist in that regard.
I’d like to think I’m not all that different from the boy in a picture walking shoeless and shirtless to kindergarten in Honolulu. Carefree, cool, worries of the world on the shoulders of others. I know at least one sliver of that boy that remains; it takes a mighty cold and snowy Chicago day to get me to put on a pair of socks if I have to go out.
I’m probably not all that different either from the scrawny high-school freshman who was overly concerned with obscenely short, parent-mandated haircuts and a multitude of other false measures of self-esteem; or, the teenager who joined the football team, a sport for which he was woefully ill-equipped to participate, but that offered entrance to social circles from which he would otherwise have been excluded.
I am different, profoundly so, from the early college years of a young man on a path toward Christian ministry or at least a life imbued with notions of salvation, damnation, and theistic moral codes. This is a cause of great pain to family and friends that I dearly love, most importantly a mother who could not have displayed more grace and love to a child lurching forward hoping to find his way in the world. Sometimes pieces of our lives don’t turn out as we or others intended, or even hoped.
I remain as idealistic about the state of things, perhaps unrealistically so, as I was when I married a fantastically independent woman rightfully skeptical of my qualifications to be a full contributor to the human race, or when a now 10-year-old boy popped his head into this world to announce there was a new sheriff in town. Both have taught me that an entree of optimism paired with a side of cynicism makes for a well-rounded psychological meal.
I’ve been fortunate to spend my professional career working for people and institutions that exist to improve the human condition. This is not an insignificant factor in determining one’s sense of self-worth. I have been the recipient of an immense degree of generosity from colleagues and mentors who, quite frankly, have given so much more than I could ever return.
Today I’m most remembering two individuals who, if still with us, would’ve already shot me a snarky, unprintable text message to mark this occasion. James Charles Ferguson, your memory has often helped me through some dark times, but I would’ve much preferred your presence over the past 25 years. John Talmage, the winter sun has not been as bright since we lost you.
