Memento Mori

When I was a kid growing up outside of New York, one had a choice of giving ones loyalties one of two baseball teams: the Yankees and the Mets. For reasons unclear to me, I cast my lot with the Mets.  Perhaps it was World Series-winning teams they fielded in 1969 (they won) and 1973 (they lost).  Perhaps it was the uniforms.  Most likely it was the players, guys like Jerry Koosman, the manager Yogi Berra, and of course the inestimable Tom Seaver.

Tom Seaver.  What a pitcher.  Dominant.  Brilliant.  And sadly, we learned yesterday, suffering from dementia.  His family announced that he was withdrawing from public appearances and would focus on his Napa vineyard while he still can.  My heart sank, not just because this is a horrible fate for anyone to suffer, but because it meant another pillar of my childhood was fading into the mists of time.  Tom Seaver was always a young guy, virile and strong.  But the man I remember is no longer with us.  Like all of us, he has aged.  I've aged.  Statistically, I'm closer to my death than my birth (the odds of me living to 110, after all, are exceedingly slim).  And so I had a chance to reflect on death, my death.

We began Lent with the imposition of ashes and were reminded that "from dust you have come and to dust you shall return."  Sobering words, but in an odd way empowering.  For it means in between my birth and passing, I have the chance to do something, to be the person God wants me to be, that Jesus lived for me to be, that the Spirit encourages me to be.  Recognizing our time on this earth is limited is not morbid; it's a reminder to make the most of the precious gift we enjoy.

So, thanks Tom, for everything.  And thanks to all of you for being part of my life.

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