A voice says, “Cry!”
And I said, “Why should I cry?”

We bring our years to an end, as it were a tale that is told.

The days of our age are threescore years and ten;
or even by reason of strength fourscore years;
yet their span is but labour and sorrow;
they are soon gone,
and we fly away.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

And so I wept. Not so much from sorrow but from wonder. And I numbered my days. I imagined myself as an old man looking back on his life. This image was not so far in the distance as once I thought. I remembered my past days, when I was but a child no older than my nephew Mark. I remembered when I was a teenager and both my sister and I were young. So young. Forever young. And though I am still called young, I am a child no longer. Sometimes I still feel like a child. And so I wept. My beautiful young older sister will be 30 this year. She has two children already. My forever young parents will be 60 in no time. All in a flash. And so I wept.

Soon I shall be 30 and soon after that Mark will be as old as I am now. Not long after that my sister will hit 60 and not long after that I too shall follow. If we all make it that far. My parents will pass on. And so shall I. This realisation, this moment of magic hit me. And so I wept. Life in this present age is fleeting and beautiful. Fleetingly beautiful. Like the smoke of Ecclesiastes. Fleetingly beautiful. Like a tale that is told. And full of grief. And, not but. For there is some beauty in grief also.

But beauty and grief come together as they should only when we get that heart of wisdom.

And so I wept.

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

Let the favour of the Lord our God be upon us;
and establish the work of our hands upon us.
Yes! Establish the work of our hands.

A voice says, “Cry!”
And I said, “What should I cry?”
All flesh is grass,
and all its beauty is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades
when the breath of the Lord blows on it;
surely the people are grass.

(On Psalm 90, Isaiah 40, and a chair on the back porch in the sun)