When I started working where I do, there was a man in the department who was already well past retirement age. But I came to find that he was an indispensable part of that organization. He was the definition of kindness and consideration and peace. I was never exactly sure what his job was, but when he wasn't there, his presence was missed.
He died this week. I believe he was 89. He did finally stop working a couple years ago, but he was not one to let age stop him from being useful, from helping others, or from being productive. He hung in there longer than anyone else I've ever known, and as I sit here trying to decide what to wear to his memorial service tomorrow, I can't help but wonder how he did it.
Eighty nine years. I'm in my forties, and it sounds a lot like torture to consider that I may live another forty years. This last forty has seemed long. Long and hard. Can it really keep going for that much longer? Can I handle it for that much longer? How does a person make it all those years — and live through all the trials and hardships that everyone inevitably experiences — without becoming cynical and just-plain-weary? This man did just that, and if he were still with us, I would love to get his answer to that question. Perhaps it's genetic. Maybe he was born with the Glass-Half-Full gene. Wish I had been so lucky.
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