My Manifesto for the Days Ahead
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
Oscar Wilde
In the early morning hours of March 3, 2024, I woke with thoughts running through my mind like squirrels playing in an attic, dashing from corner to corner. That evening, my wife would be throwing a party for family and friends in celebration of my soon-to-be sixth decade of life. Birthdays, even those considered milestones, have never bothered me nor stirred me with thoughts of what I’ve done with my life or of my future, but my sixtieth has. So, I threw the covers aside and climbed out of bed and began to write. What follows are the thoughts that came to me that early Sunday morning—a sort of manifesto for the days ahead, presented as remarks I might have delivered at the party.
Theodore Roosevelt’s daughter, Alice, said her father wanted to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at ever funeral. I have those same failings. That sounds awful narcissistic, I know. But it wasn’t and isn’t—not if you understood the relationship between Theodore and Alice, her biting wit, and his exuberance for life. And since I am sort of the bride at this wedding—or the corpse at this funeral—I wanted to share a few thoughts on turning sixty.
A couple weeks ago Mother and I were having lunch and shaking our heads at the fact that she was so old—old enough to have a sixty-year-old son. At some point during our conversation she cocked her head and said, “You’re looking old.” Not that I was getting older, mind you, but “looking old,” as if my mug was some worn-out and wrinkly old baseball mitt. She then reminded me of what Moses said in Psalm 90: “Lord, teach us to number our days, that we may gain wisdom. . . . Our days may come to seventy years or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow for they quickly pass, and fly away.” I’m a word man, which means I’m not particularly proficient at math, but I could do the math she was suggesting. She was implying, Boy, you have more days behind you than you have ahead of you.
That was an encouraging lunch.
Thinking about this party—and my uplifting conversation with Mother—I remembered Theodore Roosevelt died at sixty. (It’s been one hope-filled couple of weeks.) Roosevelt is a hero of mine. If you explore the shelves of my library you’ll see what I mean. I have books by and about him, as well as a bust and bobble head of him—and a couple of action figures thrown in for good measure. He’s a hero not because of his politics, but because of his philosophy of life. He had a lust for life, preaching and practicing what he called the “strenuous life.” I know that doesn’t sound too appealing, but what Roosevelt meant is that he (and we) should dedicate ourselves to living a purpose-filled life, not one we hope ends in mere ease—that it’s better to flame out than fade out. Thinking about that phrase and his example, three things came to mind—three charges I needed to remember for the days ahead. Maybe these will challenge you regardless of your age.
Chase your dreams. That may sound like a cliché, but there’s truth embedded in it. Find your calling, your reason for being and pursue that with a passion. God created all of us to be conformed into the likeness of His Son, Jesus, but He hasn’t created all of us to do the same things. What has He created you for? Do that. Go for it! And don’t worry if you think you’re too old. You’re not. In the book of Joshua, Caleb, who was eighty, dreamed of conquering mountains. Be Caleb. Charge hard after Christ, the things of Christ, and the calling of Christ.
Commit your life to something greater than yourself. This doesn’t mean you have to charge up San Juan Hill, become President of the United States, go on African safaris or explore uncharted tributaries of the Amazon River in a dugout canoe. You don’t have to be TR. Be yourself. But set goals that cause you to stretch and grow—and that serve others. I love what Helen Keller said, “I long to accomplish a great and noble task, but it is my chief duty to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble.” We can “do little things lovingly,” as one person said. We can “work to create community.” And that’s no small thing in our world. We won’t do that, however, if we are selfish, small-minded, and sniveling.
Cling to and be a champion of those you love. Next to our personal relationship with Jesus Christ, there is nothing more important in life than the friendships we form and the family we cherish. We’ve become too easily fractured these days. There’s an ugly spirit shouting at us that we don’t need others, that we are sufficient within ourselves. And yet, something in our souls gnaws at us and whispers, “That’s a lie.” Listen to the whisper. Let nothing separate you from the ones you love. In the end, they are the only ones who walk with you to the end. “One walks with one’s friends [and family] squarely up to the portal of life,” Henry Adams said, “and bids goodbye with a smile.”
I’m not ready to bid goodbye just yet. I’m ready “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,” as Thoreau put it. I hope you are too.
When Oliver Wendell Holmes turned ninety, radio stations broadcasted a live tribute to the Supreme Court Justice. To the outpouring of love and appreciation, his response was simple: “And so I end with a line from a Latin poet who uttered the message more than fifteen hundred years ago, ‘Death plucks my ears and says, “Live—I am coming.”’” I don’t know whether Justice Holmes was a follower of Jesus or not, but I hear Him say to me: “Live—I am coming soon.” Whether the Lord grants me seventy or eighty years, or more, He is Lord over my life. So, until He calls me home in death or takes me home at the rapture, I’m going to live—for the glory of God and the good of others. L’chaim—to life!
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Dios y Tejas.
Fine words. Would love to have heard them in person, after a fine meal, but they translate well to this means of transmission too. Keep up the thoughtful work.