This weekend I celebrated love with a couple from my childhood church who will be married for 70 years tomorrow. 70. That’s longer than a lot of people live on earth, let alone with another person in the same home. 70 years.
Then I celebrated the life of a woman who lived 96 years. 96! That’s a lot of years on earth. She lived well even until the very end, fully aware and making her own decisions. 96 years.
Then tonight I stood in the parking lot, mourning with a friend whose husband had left after 22 years. 22. She never saw it coming.
I wish there was a secret. A formula. A few rules to follow so I could solidify my future into the 70 or 96 camp. But I don’t know of such rules because they probably don’t exist. As much as I like to help write my own story in life, I realize that I’m not the author, I’m the character. I don’t choose when or how the ending comes.
So I celebrate. And I mourn. And I pray. I live into this day the best I can.