The Once and Future Me

Fifty years.

While it doesn’t equal even a grain of sand in God’s hourglass, it accounts for the lion’s share of my lifespan thus far. I don’t know my expiration date, but I’d have to become a centenarian to get on an equal footing with 50 years.

I came to terms with turning 50 without much grief. Maybe I treated myself to some Raisinets or Chick-fil-A waffle fries. I don’t recall. But now I’m looking at that number not as a birthday but as a span of time. Not in the history of the nation.

But in my life.

Greetings from the Class of 1976.

We were the red, white, and blue crew; celebrating our freedom as the United States celebrated hers. We grew up with one phone number per family, three or four television stations (depending on weather conditions), zero computers, and an unlimited number of dreams.

Last weekend, I attended my high school reunion. I hadn’t seen many of my classmates since graduation day.

Cue the anticipation. And in the wings, apprehension.

I attended a private school from sixth grade on, so I traveled through middle and high school with the same small group of people. Over time, each person’s label became fixed: Star Athlete, Popular Cheerleader, Smart Guy, Singing Girl. (I still hear the song “Dream Weaver” in DA’s voice.)

Me? When I was sorting through memorabilia last year I found the May 26, 1976, edition of the school newspaper. There, in the class superlatives section, I saw I was the girl chosen “Most Scholastic.” I also was one of four students with “Most School Spirit.”

If you needed someone at the party who could conjugate some Latin verbs and sing the alma mater, I guess I was your girl.

Gertrude Stein said, “We’re always the same age inside.” I understand that to mean that our essential nature—my nerdiness, your confidence, her shyness—doesn’t change dramatically over time.

I’m not 17 anymore, but I’m still me.

Before the reunion, I wondered if my label still fit. What about those of my classmates?

Now I know.

The athletes were relaxed, holding court with the easy grace they displayed on the field. The cheerleaders traveled smoothly from person to person, their effervescence bubbling around them. The quiet ones stayed on the periphery, happy to engage with those who approached, but otherwise comfortable taking in the scene.

And me? As a member of the high school middle class, neither in the stratosphere nor the woebegone depths, I spent the evening traveling between the rungs of the social ladder.

The Christ Church Episcopal School Class of 1976. I’m on the far left, peeking between the first and second rows of girls.

I was surprised by a touch of hesitation as I approached a couple of guys whose high school popularity still clung to them. But I pushed forward and said hello, reminding myself that the labels were not fences and timidity was not warranted. They were quite friendly, and I believe they even remembered me. (Although the name tag may have helped.)

No one there was still trapped in adolescent misery, but I did make it a point to talk to the loyal spouses who attended, brave souls willing to take a stroll down an unfamiliar memory lane.

Mr. Pettit was among them. The same person who took me to my senior prom was still by my side 50 years later. In my eyes, that’s a miracle. Not a parting-of-the-Red Sea or restoration-of-sight kind, but a miracle, nonetheless.

It’s so easy to take the arrival of another day for granted. To forget that everything can end with a sudden lane change or a hasty climb up a ladder or a blocked artery.

Months grow into years and years stack up, one atop another, until you stop for a moment and realize decades have passed.

I don’t think God expects us to live in a state of hyper-awareness of our fragility. Even driving to the Food Lion for some milk would be fraught with what-ifs.

But milestones like birthdays and anniversaries and reunions are like benches thoughtfully placed along a hiking trail. The perfect place to take a seat and reflect.

On not just the quantity of the years God has given me, but the quality.

The still’s.

Mr. Pettit is still my best friend.

I still share a sweet sisterhood with the woman I’ve known since kindergarten, and I reconnected with another bestie at the reunion.

I still enjoy good health. (I understand that status can change in an instant, but I’ll enjoy each moment of wellness in the meantime.) I can still dance. I can still write.

Most importantly, God is still working to make me the person He had in mind before I was born. Sometimes He uses fine grain sandpaper, sometimes a scalpel, but He has never given up on me. He never will.

I’m not 17 anymore, but I’m still me.

Even better, I’m still His.