Loneliness is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.

—Thomas Wolfe

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Well, it’s been a while. More than a while since I posted my last blog. It wasn’t random. There were reasons. And I had no clue back then, of what all was coming at me like a freight train. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t know. It would have made me fret. What, Lord? I’m going to be out of order for how long? Ah, come on. Let’s talk about it. Surely we can do better than that. Let’s make a deal. But there was no dealing going on, because I didn’t know. And it’s just as well, I guess, that I didn’t.

Warneke’s, they called it, after my brain woke up from the fog. Some kind of brain condition. I had almost died. Walked right up to the gates. I remember it clearly, the light that shone from within. But I didn’t pass through. I forgot to knock. And next thing I knew, I was back home in my house. Wow, I thought. That was wild.

So here I am. Rubbing my eyes. Wiping the cobwebs from my brain. I’m alive. I’m here. I look around. Poke around. And think about things a little bit.

First thing that comes to mind. I just turned sixty, well, back in August, I did. Sixty. During all those years of turmoil and frantic running, that little number was so far out there that it never entered my mind. I never thought of it. Sixty. That’s getting old, any way you look at it. And I never thought about it much, if at all. Sixty was for old people. That’s not me. It never coalesced in my mind, how fast it was getting here. The years rolled on. I’ve walked through a lot of crap in life, and a lot of good stuff, too. Just walking along. And now, here comes sixty. It’s here. Any way you look at it, that’s just plain wild.

But it is what it is. And so, today, at sixty, I’m thinking to look back a little bit. Feel things again. Remember. Reflect.

And I have to say. There were a few times along the way when I figured my chances to get here were pretty slim. I have walked some hard roads. Stumbled through some deep valleys. The path was rocky and rough. I kept walking. It was all I knew to do. Walk. The wild beasts swooped and howled real close at night. Keep walking, keep plugging on. The light will come. And now, here I stand on that small mountain peak. Sixty. Whatever else happens, I have reached this place. In the passing of time into eternity, it means almost nothing. But at this moment, it seems like there might be a little bit to it. It might even be a big thing.

And so, I stop for a moment and look back. I’m relaxed, but I remember. The hard times, the good times. They all blend together, kind of. And I gotta say. I am humbled and grateful to reach this milestone. And I’m not just saying that. I really am. Because chances were better than not, a few times, that I never would. When I was young, I lived wild and hard and dangerous. In later years, it was my heart that almost gave out. I put a lot of stress on my heart during those early years, from all that hard running. I can see that now. And during that adventure when it almost gave out, I walked right up to a big, bright light. Heaven’s gate, I figured later. And I figured, too. Maybe the reason I didn’t get in was because I didn’t knock. Made sense, when I thought about it. Next time, knock. This time, the realization came too late. It came after I wandered back. And now, here I stand, feet firmly planted on this earth. Keep walking. So I do. It’s a mystery and a marvel, is what it is.

And I can’t help but remember that troubled youth of long ago. How I raged at my father in those years. Raged and swore. And I remember how the troubled youth got up one night and slipped out of the house, clutching a little black duffle bag. How he slipped away before the sun came up. Gone, is what he was. And here I pause a little. Stop and think. See it from today.

It was probably the most brutal thing I ever pulled off. Running away at night when I was a mere child of seventeen. How did that make my parents feel? Especially my Mom. How did she ever cope with that pain, that loss? Her young son had just fled for a new world. Left the warmth of her house, the comfort of her kitchen. Who can ever grasp such a thing? Who can know the pain and the loss? No Mom should ever have to go through such a thing as that. A universal truth, right there. No Mom should ever have to go through such a thing as that. No Mom, Amish or English. No Mom, ever.

Well. My Mom did. And I regret today, looking back. It’s so plain to see. I regret that I tore her heart to splinters. That was a brutal thing to do. Unhuman, if that’s even a word. I know that now. And I bear the burden of that knowledge in my heart.

But a seventeen-year-old boy doesn’t just do such a thing in a vacuum. Stuff is stirring and stumbling around him, somewhere. And I remember how desolate the landscape looked when I returned. It was bleak and rocky and hard. There was little joy anywhere that I could see. There were bears, and they grizzled and growled. Ira is half crazy, is what they thought. Maybe I was. I simmered and chafed. Before many months had passed, I left again. Not at night, sneaking out. This time, it was openly, in the broad light of day.

And that’s how it went.

Today, at 60, I reflect. The strains of an old Conway Twitty song drift through my head:

I can hear my Momma calling.
Look a-yonder, y’all, who’s coming.
Down the road, he’s coming home.
But they know I never will.

I never did. And I feel it deep inside, the sorrow and sadness of those lines. I keep walking. I’m on the road I chose a long time ago. At sixty, I’m on this road. I keep walking. And I wonder sometimes how I ever survived it all.

It was a rough road, high and wild and winding and rocky. Through real wilderness, that road went. I got on it and I walked. And I survived. And here I am. Walking through the gate of sixty. I think it hit me when I got here. A hard little truth. Another decade, maybe sooner, maybe later, and the death angel will come knocking again. This time, he will have his way. I think about that sometimes. I shrug. I am not afraid. It will be what it will be. No memory will remain of me, except for the words I left. And even those words will fade out fast. Before long, no one will know I ever was. That’s just what happens in the flow of life and time.

So here I stand. The prime and passion of youth, both are gone. All of it has run its course.

I know what I know. I know the Lord loves His children. I am His child. I know He will see to His own. And I grasp that knowledge and hold it close in my heart.

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