The only way to truly live

I’m struck this morning by thoughts of aging. I’ve reached a stage where my biggest memory chore is remembering my medicines and taking them at the right time.
Time has surely passed. I look back on the good days that have passed, like I was in a book whose pages are being turned.
Sure, I’m near the end, but don’t close the book on me yet ... I am a story untold, or so says whomever is rattling the cage, beating the old metal as if it were the ancient of days.
Don’t close the book on me, this story unfolding like a scroll, because I am a story best told in present tense.
Don’t close the book on me unread because I am a story whose future is like a gift of candy.
Don’t close the book because it is said we must strive for the next moment like a creature whose best lumbers behind him, but whose most wonderful times are ahead, a creature whose September mornings are as good as it’s moon-lit spring evenings
Don’t close the book on me because the future will come roaring down time’s highway and be joined with uncertain presents and mysterious pasts. The red and blue fabric is dyed bold, cotton cloth screaming to readers, asking what has happened in bold question marks. The pages go on and on and on, rolling away from the binder as if they were of a like mind.
Don’t close the book on me because there are pages on pages left to be written. Lives on lives. Some days scribbled in pencil, some typed. That’s our abundant living, us writers. Oh, the simplified motivation, being pushed to grab hold of an idea, maintain contact on a thought, being pulled along as if on a muddy river. If you didn’t know better, you would swear there is rhyme and reason behind the pages.
So, don’t close the book just yet, for life is never done until it is done.
Don’t get me wrong. Put your feet into the mix of sand and water. The cold water hits your dirty feet, and you feel it down to the bone. You really do. You’ve walked on the beaches, and like spring rain, it is a reminder of times past. The only thing we’re sure of is the story still is unfolding. Our doctor is in, his diagnosis, not so much.
Our journey, together, weaves through the valleys of the unknown like the vanilla bean being crushed for our pleasure. Ever been there? Ever seen that? Yeah, that’s a big deal. Crush that sweet bean’s substance into a pulp on the kitchen counter, push it off the counter with a butter knife, roll it onto the knife, letting the knife serve as distribution system.
So, don’t close the book just yet. The time ahead for all of us will be exciting and fresh.
Don’t close the book on our journey together, for it is one that is without question is beautiful and alive. We crawl out of the surf of new aches and pains and on to the shore with effort and fear.
Here is the best of all things.
God is with us through all things, through all days. God is with us on the early evening strolls and on those days when we would just as soon pull the covers back over our heads.
God walks in the garden in the cool of the morning, and He takes us with us on the stroll.
No matter your age, your intellect, your desires or your achievements, the truth is acknowledging God in all things is the only way we can live. Truly live.
Our story is not over. It has just begun.
Billy Turner is a pastor of the United Methodist denomination and a retired journalist.