On Mortality
Or, how seeing my mother helped me to better accept myself
I am now the age at which my stepfather—the only man I ever truly called “Dad”—died.
He was 52.
And I am now 52.
Naturally, this has led me to consider what the remaining years of my life might look like.
This reflection was stirred, in part, by a recent trip last weekend to Oregon to see my 73-year-old mother, who had fallen ill and was recovering in a rehab unit after breaking her femur.
It’s fitting, then, that both my mother and stepfather share May birthdays.
As I sat with her, I began to see her in a new light—recognizing the frailty of her health and the sobering reality that I likely have fewer years left with her than I do ahead of me.
I’ve certainly faced death before. No one serves in active combat zones in Afghanistan without being touched by it. And as an infantry chaplain, I saw more than my share.
But seeing my mother—watching her struggle to sit up, noticing the weakness in her legs, her pale complexion—even as she laughed and whispered her distaste for the food in Spanish (so as not to offend the English-speaking staff), I couldn’t help but confront a quieter truth:
I, too, have fewer years ahead than I do behind.
To be sure, I am healthy. I exercise regularly, eat well, avoid unnecessary stress, and keep a small, steady circle of friends who care for me.
But I will die.
Someday.
And on the sleepy red-eye flight from Portland to DFW last weekend, I found myself thinking deeply:
What do I want the rest of my life to look like?
Where are the places I still want to see?
Who are the people I want to spend time with—truly spend time with?
What unfinished work remains on the spreadsheet of my life?
And, most importantly:
How am I going to engage with life meaningfully?
Will it be a hedonistic race to squeeze every last drop of pleasure, constantly chasing new experiences, always seeking more?
Or can I simply be?
Be present.
Be aware.
Be thankful.
Seneca, in a letter to Lucilius on the subject of aging, wrote:
“Let us go to our sleep with joy and gladness; let us say: I have lived; the course which Fortune set for me is finished. And if God is pleased to add another day, we should welcome it with glad hearts.”
It’s a reminder that each day—and each night—is an invitation to gratitude.
To live within the moment.
To embrace all that the world still has to offer.
For us parents, it might be the sound of our children’s laughter—lifting us out of our worries, however briefly, as we consider the chaotic state of global affairs.
For others, it might be the light filtering through the clouds during a morning commute, a small grace offered by time itself.
And for many of us, it might simply be the presence of friends—old and new. Putting our phones down, lifting our eyes, and engaging in real, meaningful conversation.
Over the past week, a particular line from Psalm 23 has echoed in my mind:
“I lack nothing.”
In this modern age—when influencers, social media, television, and music all insist we need more—it has been a necessary reminder to push back.
To reject the tide of endless desire.
To simply be.
It’s fitting that Seneca, in the same letter, also writes:
“That man is happiest, and is secure in his own possession of himself, who can await the morrow without apprehension. When a man has said: I have lived!, every morning he arises he receives a bonus.”
Each day we rise is a bonus—because with each passing day, we are dying a little more.
So the question remains—for both you and me:
How will we use this extra time we’ve been given?
Maddeningly?
Or meaningfully?