Dear Saints in Santa Fe, and other far-off places,
Greetings in the name of Jesus Christ.
“It went by so fast.”
These were some of the last words my mom said before Parkinson’s took away her ability to speak, and then eventually her life. I still remember her eyes when she said them, looking at me with some astonishment that her life was almost over, a life that was so well spent, so remarkable in putting people at ease, soft-spoken but later more outspoken, an outer gentleness that belied an unwavering inner strength.
I turned 65 yesterday and mom’s words sit before me, holding space as she so often did, allowing me to reflect on my own life. There were so many times when I wanted my days to go by fast to get beyond all the traumas and trials that I was experiencing. Now I wish I hadn’t wished so well.
How much of my life has been spent wishing I was someplace else? How much energy I have spent wishing I never had cancer. How many times have I wondered whether I missed out on something important, like seeing my daughters every day as they grew up, or the forty years of Sundays spent at church rather than family visits or weekend trips?
I think now of Sir John Gielgud, one of the 20th century’s best and most durable actors, who died in 2000 at the age of 96. He spent his entire life onstage, “I didn’t want anything to interfere with rehearsals,” he admitted, but in a moment of self-reflection exclaimed “Oh, God, I have rather missed the 20th century.”
I think of Jesus, who packed his entire ministry into a span of eighteen months to three years. It is astonishing that he did all he did in his life in such a short time. The teaching, the healings, the stories, the ways he touched the lives of those before him, and the world ever since. He didn’t miss a century, the first or the twenty-first.
I think of how I have spent my time. At least 12,000 hours on sermons and their preparation. Three years of seminary. Four years of college. Twelve years of school before that. Fifteen years playing organized baseball. I can’t even imagine how many hours I have spent in meetings. How’s that?
It went by so fast, mom said, and I didn’t have a response. I didn’t say, “O mom, but you made the most of your years!” Or “you’ve brought joy to all those who know you.” Or “I can’t think of anyone who lived better.” I wasn’t sure what to say and I am sorry for that. “I love you, Mom,” would have worked just fine.
But I just sat in silence, sad, not wanting to admit that her life was ending, not wanting to admit to myself that life is fleeting and I’m not sure I have made the most of it so far.
But I’m only 65. Still room to grow. Still time, I hope, for great adventures and being with family and good friends, to share chai lattes and tell stories, to imagine still doing some important things for others and the world.
I just hope it doesn’t go too fast.
Grace and peace on your Lenten journey,
Harry