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.
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.