FIFTY. Sounds old. Is old. Should feel
bad. But, doesn’t. Incredible. Compared with turning forty. What a paradox.
Without any doubt, the fiftieth
year has been the most challenging.
I’ve been reduced to the boy more this past year than any other adult year — I
think. I’ve had to let go of pride. No great loss. Made better for surviving a
series of trivial humiliations. Letting go of things that were never mine.
Letting go of other things that were only mine yet should never have been.
I had my midlife crisis at forty.
Two months of depression leading up to the day 40 came. My poor new wife had no
idea who I really was. Frightening for her and I alike. Kicked in the pants by
a shrewd therapist (which was what I needed) on August 9, 2007. Then God put
the lights on again through Proverbs — an eighteen-month adventure of mystery
and discovery that created within me the passion to write. Haven’t stopped
since. And all I did was read Proverbs eighteen times. But one thing I’ve
learned: never say never, though I’ve had to learn that again and again. I’ve
had to accept, in some areas, I’m a slow learner; an early adopter, but a slow
learner.
The period of the past 343 days or
so has encapsulated a massive excursion of reflection — of positive cognisance
of who I am, rather than what I
hadn’t achieved (which led to the calamity at 40). God took me out of the arena for such a time as this
has been, and He plunged me into another, the Refiner’s fire. It’s like turning
49 was serendipitously the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I still
cannot explain it. It’s how God works in my life; the miraculous is blissfully inexplicable,
often borne through the bowels of pain.
I promised myself I’d get in shape.
My diet has changed a lot during the past twelve months. Some patterns for
health established. But more than that. I’m in better shape for the things I’ve
had to do that I didn’t want to do; for the times I’ve found myself at the end
of myself, with no empathy for the pathetic shadow I’d become. Each time though,
without knowing how or why, God resurrected me, without my even anticipating
it. I didn’t get what I deserved. (I deserved dirt.) I ended up so much better
off. Each and every time.
I’ve read and listened to a lot of
Richard Rohr, Paul Washer, Jean Vanier, David Platt, Eugene Peterson, A.W.
Tozer, Charles Swindoll, Henri Nouwen. A diverse range of voices. I’m trying to
let go of my dualistic thinking, living more intentionally for eternity. But I
still judge too quickly, too often. Yet I accept that if I’m not there at fifty
maybe I’m not meant to be. And still I’m becoming more aware.
I’ve learned to place my mind in
environments my mind doesn’t like. To heal my heart of its predilection for comfort
I’ve come to learn something. I’m becoming healed by enduring the humiliation
of the things I hate. Healed by being immersed in what I’d prefer to reject. Voices
of others I don’t like. Bearing them. Views of people that are opposite to
mine. Appreciating them. Learning a grace that only God can give me. A
peacemaking grace. The grace of taking my time, of others taking their time, of
suffering the indignity of patience. Pouring contempt on my
not-so-inconsiderable pride.
Over the past decade, God has shown
me the importance of holding my death near. Having a young child has
accelerated the urgency to stay alive. I think about my eternal destiny more
now than ever, about when I’m gone, but my quest for making the most of the
living moment has also been an undulating journey. The beauty in a
thought-free, sensual consciousness, where God exists and that’s all that
matters.
So, with just 22 days until I
become a quinquagenarian I’m comfortable in my body, mind and soul. Comfortable
in my discomfort. Contented in my little story.
Mystery awaits. Hope abides.
Ignorance allowed. Serenity remains. Amid letting go.
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