A well-meaning soul wished me a happy 45th, and along with it another 45 years.  I laughed and said that I wasn’t sure I wanted to live to ninety.  I’ve met ninety; I’m not sure that ninety is my goal.  Life unavoidably ends, but not every life is done when it ends.  I want to live until I’m done.  Until God’s done.  

Regardless of whether I have another 45 on the clock, it’s been a good day to reflect on what God has done, and what remains still-to-be-done.

I spent some moments this morning thinking back to my childhood.  As a kid, where did I think I’d be at 45?  

Would I have guessed that I’d be at a coffee shop?  Unlikely.  

Journaling? Maybe.  

Having to stop journaling every 20 minutes to go pee? Unfortunately. 

When I was a kid in the 1970’s, I dreamed my 45-year old life would be like the Jetson’s.  Hovering spacecraft.  Robotic maid.  Fully-automated house.

But here I am at 45, most thankful for a Flintstone’s simplicity.  My lovely “Wilma” who keeps me grounded.  Barney friendships.  A home with open windows – nothing to hide, no reasons to fear.

I hope for another 45 if I can still eat brontosaurus burgers and bowl on my tiptoes.  If my daughter never brings home a guy named Bamm-Bamm.  And if I am honored with a kid’s vitamin shaped like me.  I’m just sayin’ I want to live in such a way that when my 5 o’clock whistle blows I’m ready to slide down the dinosaur tail and run Home.  Yabba-Dabba-Done.