There comes a point in a man's life when he stops asking himself,
"How do I get ahead?" and starts asking, "How do I finish my way?"
I think that is where I am now.
Not because I suddenly became the valedictorian. Lord knows I have spent
almost sixty years making enough mistakes to fill a library of books. I have
trusted the wrong people, argued when silence would have been stronger, chased
things that didn't matter, and held on to things I should have let go of years
earlier.
Maybe that is what sixty is supposed to be. Not the decade when you
finally know everything, but the decade where you finally know what isn't worth
knowing.
When I was younger, I wanted people to notice me. I wanted to win the
argument, get the attention, make the money, have the bigger house, tell the
better story.
Now I would rather have a strong cup of coffee before sunrise, listen to
the Sox game on the radio, have a healthy conversation with one of the ShepKids,
and find peace in my daydream on an ordinary Tuesday.
That sounds boring to some people, but to me, it sounds like wealth.
I have learned that the strongest people I know don't announce what they
are building. They simply keep showing up. They don't post every workout, every
accomplishment, every sacrifice. They don't need applause to keep moving
forward. The work is enough.
I want to be that kind of man.
I want to spend less time explaining my plans and more time living them.
Less time reacting to every foolish comment and more time protecting my peace.
Not because I don't care, but because my energy has become too valuable to
waste on things that don't deserve it.
I have noticed something else.
The older that I get, the smaller my circle has become, but the richer
my life feels. I don't need to know everybody. I just want to know the people
who make me better and the people I can make better in return.
I still want to learn something new every day. I still want to read
books that smell used. I still want to discover a new piece of jazz, a
Shakespeare quote I somehow missed or another lesson hidden inside an old
baseball box score.
Growth doesn't stop because your hair turns gray or falls out. If
anything, it becomes more intentional. The competition has changed, as well. I
don't measure myself against my colleagues, other classmates, other altar boys or
other fathers anymore. I measure myself against the man I was yesterday.
Was I more patient?
Did I listen better?
Did I forgive a little quicker?
Did I make a stranger's day brighter?
Those are the scoreboards that matter after
sixty. I have also learned that peace isn't something you stumble upon. It is
something you stop giving away. You stop giving it away to anger, to regret and
to the people who only bring chaos. It is time to stop proving yourself to
people who were never going to understand you anyway.
Life has a funny way of finally sanding off the rough pieces. It might take
decades, a few broken hearts, some funerals, a divorce, children,
disappointments, laughter, and a thousand ordinary wake ups before you finally
understand what is happening here.
The truth is... I don't want the rest
of my life to be louder. I want it to have a better sense of caring for the
peace of mind that has always been a day away.
If these next couple decades teach me
anything, I pray they teach me to become less interested in being impressive
and more interested in being dependable.
To my children.
To my faith.
To my friends.
To my colleagues.
To my neighbors.
To myself.
When my time finally comes, I hope nobody remembers me because I had all
the answers.
I hope they remember that I showed up
on time. That I worked my fat ass off. That I found joy in simple things. That
I loved deeply, laughed often, forgave eventually, and never stopped believing
tomorrow was worth getting up early to see.
Gusto and astonishment, Chalkheads.
Gusto and astonishment.
