I always say a "thank you" prayer every year on this date. Back in 1972, I was badly injured while serving overseas and could've been killed. A few weeks later, a guy in my outfit died in a jeep accident. His name was Steve. He was a basketball player from Davenport, Iowa.
Steve remains 19 years-old forever. He never got life's ups and downs. He'll never know the middle-age blues as arthritis sets in and hair falls out and nothing seems as easy as it once was. But I'll bet he'd have liked the chance to find out.
Thirty-four years have passed since those August days. I think of the decades I was granted and how much time I've wasted in selfish pursuits and self-destructive behaviour. And I think of the times I rose above myself and did a good act for someone or accomplished a feat I'd always dreamed of — like the marathon last year.
I try not to waste any more days.
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August 10 was my grandma Jean's birthday. The one whose condo Walter and I got married in.
Some good thoughts, there.
Although I'm not sure I'd call those other times *wasted.* Not, oh, optimalized perhaps. But not wasted either, I think.
Didn't you learn from them? and didn't you still give, even in the darkest times?
Because I'm here to say you did.
Bless you.
I learned from them all.
If nothing else, I learned time goes fast and that I have less than I think at any given moment.
The elementary things often escape me.
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