Since I have passed threescore years and ten that is marked as the Old Testament’s standard limit for a length of a life, I am aware that there are many things that I am doing for the last time. Will I ever again see the streets of Buenos Aires? What about the glaciers and waterfalls of Iceland? Can I ever realize my dream of taking the Trans-Siberian Railroad all the way from Moscow to Vladivostok? Or, nearer at hand, what about the hills of San Francisco or the hoodoos of Bryce Canyon? Or even Descanso Gardens and Huntington Gardens?
Let’s take a look at what Psalm 90:10 actually says:
The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
When that day finally comes when I cross over, will I be angrily denied my access to the seventy-two large breasted virgins promised by Islam because I have not died fighting the infidel? Will St. Peter slam the pearly gates in my face because I once cussed out an aggressive panhandler? Will I be reborn in Brazil as a microcephalous infant due to my new mother’s having contracted the Zika virus? Will there, perhaps, be nothing? Or will there be a something I cannot imagine?
Because of the limitations inherent in our condition, I will continue to soldier on. So far I have been doing pretty well, considering. I’ll try to put off the “labour and sorrow” as long as I can, knowing full well that nobody lives forever.
Perhaps I write this because I am bummed out by all the famous people younger than me who recently died, like David Bowie and Glenn Frey and Natalie Cole and even the guy who played Leatherface.
I continue to walk the earth, but with a lighter step.