I remember when the age of 60 sounded old. It doesn’t any more. As of today I’m included in that number.
To some, that might label me as elderly. That’s okay. Whatever the perception, I see this birthday as another invitation, another reflection, another motivation.
For stories and pictures, yes. To read the cards and texts and notes with smiles and tears and appreciation, yes. Thanking the family and friends who have endured this adventure with me, yes. Offering praise to my Creator who continues His work on my aging self, yes.
But as a season arrives when I feel more disorientated than other times, I reflect. I think. I stare at this moment and ask myself questions. Am I teetering toward nothing or pursuing appropriate plans? What can hinder or block my development? How am I, really, how am I doing at 60-years-old?
As I compose a diagnosis, I investigate my motives. Knowing the “what” isn’t enough. Clarifying the “how” doesn’t bring conclusions. I need to probe the “why” and genuinely face my true purpose.
I stare at my schedule. I study it, scrutinize it, question it. Remembering dreams and goals, revisiting hopes and prayers, recalling hurts and disappointments, I look at how I spend my time. I detect priorities. I adjust, when necessary.
Then I write one number: 60.
Then I write two words: “Now what?”
I believe in the importance of visiting yesterdays and learning more about ourselves. I value glancing with optimism into the future. But, as the title of my latest book says, I’m convinced a key is “embracing now.”
So, that is it as I hit 60. That’s what I am doing. That’s how I’m responding.
Confessing and asking for forgiveness—these decades have included mistakes. Dreaming and daring to pursue healthy desires—while refusing to ignore each conversation, each heartbeat, each breath. Remembering my weaknesses and strengths—with peace accepting my weaknesses and using my talent with proper motives.
These days aren’t easy. This season is hard. The division, the debates, the sicknesses, the sadness, the uncertainty, the anxiety: each day feels like a rock too large and heavy to carry. But with 60-year-old arms and shoulders, I plan to stop trying to carry the rocks. Today I need to let them go.
That’s not quitting. That’s realizing again, and with more clarity than ever before, my “why.” It’s knowing what to do and how to do it better than I’ve done before. And finally realizing, if I myself am never known, that is okay. Because that is not my why.
Especially at 60.