I am proud to say that I have just recently entered my 50s. Strangely, it hasn’t shaken my foundation as I thought it would. Forty was a different story—and 30 was worse. But 50 feels somehow less invasive. You can still feel the remnants of youth at 29 and even 39. At this age, my youth is like a neighborhood friend who moved away.
I am in the autumn of my life. Perhaps I’m not jarred at this because autumn is my favorite time of year. The heat of youthful summer is gone, and the bitter sting of old age has not set in. I can feel it, but the cold doesn’t yet pinch. Still, I am acutely aware that I am closer to the end than I am to the beginning. All bodies age. It’s seasonal. It’s right.
This milestone birthday is, really, the final farewell to my younger self. Recently I walked through my old neighborhood and was flooded with memories: houses I visited, streets I biked, neighbors who have passed away. Somehow I felt like a trespasser, as if I didn’t belong there. That chapter of my life—and my youth—is over. I walked away from it and back to my current home and my current life. This is where I am supposed to be.
As I have been associated with the Franciscans for nearly a quarter century, I habitually try to find parallels between my life and that of Francis and Clare, my spiritual aunt and uncle.
When Francis’ life began to slip away, plagued by illness and in terrible pain, he saw death as a not only a respite, but also a part of life—the final step before something far more beautiful begins. He never resisted God’s design. He worked in concert with it.
Age and cultures define death differently. The French writer Simone de Beauvoir called death “an unjustifiable violation.” Her contemporary (and lover), Jean-Paul Sartre, however, was tranquil when thinking about the end of life. I’m in the middle of those two minds. Being so rooted in middle age has forced me to consider the end of my earthly journey, but (God willing) I have “miles to go before I sleep.” The sweet hereafter, I hope, is the respite I have earned. It isn’t punishment at the end of a long race; it’s the medal for a race run well.
St. Francis, in his “Canticle of the Creatures,” wrote, “All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Death, from whose embrace no mortal can escape.” When it is my turn, I hope to embrace her in kind and walk the path cleared by those who came before me—a tireless spirit moving in concert with the Almighty.
