In the ten entries where I've remembered people in my life who have died, I've only scratched the surface. There are friends I didn't write about and the big ones (Mama and Daddy) felt larger than this blog at this time. And then there's my own death.
As I write this, it is the evening of the Monday of Holy Week, 2016. Today, I had funny reminder of my own mortality. Seriously, I laughed. Here's a picture:
What we have here is a cashier at a neighborhood eatery assuming I should have a senior discount. Normally, in these places, I don't even look at my receipt, so maybe I've gotten it before. I couldn't help but chuckle while eating.
Sure, it comes a bit as a minor shock. All my life, I've been told, "You don't look that old!" When I was 40, I had to show my driver's license more than once to people who wouldn't believe it. This continued on for most of that decade.
But I also know the last three years have aged me. I see it in the mirror. A major surgery, diabetes, a few other worries---it all adds up. So it's not that big of a shock.
This isn't the first sign that I no longer pass for thirty-something. On crowded buses, younger riders have started offering me their seat, insisting on it.
So, yes, I get it. And it's okay. I'm 52 and hopeful for quite a few more years, no matter how I look.
Still, it is a reminder that there are fewer years ahead than behind. Everyone dies. This incident seems appropriate to the beginning of Holy Week. The reminder of Ash Wednesday feels distant. Today, I saved seventy-eight cents on the way to the cross. The Holy Spirit has a sense of humor, as should we all in the face of death.