Reflections on an anniversary

Dec. 8 was the 30-year anniversary of John Lennon's death, of course. The "of course" is for members of my generation, for whom this marked the end of an age. Though more worthy men have been whisked away in an untimely fashion, the death at age 40 of the first of four Beatles, at the hands of deranged fan Mark David Chapman, was the coda to our adolescence and the last stop on our ride on the psychedelic bus.

At the time of Lennon's death, it seemed tragic to me that a man should die this young, that he should not fill up half the years of a normal actuarial projection. And of course, it is tragic: Even the Bible touts the blessing of a quiver full of years (Proverbs 3:16).

But my impression has changed over time as my own sojourn lengthens and yields a new perspective. As the boomers' collective graying matter is shuffled one by one into graduated assisted living facilities (how weird it will be to see Jimi Hendrix posters on a nursing home wall), it does not necessarily seem to me to be an advantage to have outlasted Lennon-if outlasting is all we have done. Hurrah! Three extra decades to be grouchy and selfish and collect toys.

No. Long years are an advantage only if you live for Christ, only if you wake up every morning with His praises on your lips, His will on your agenda, and your image slowly becoming His. I thought as much in those lucid days when I sat alone on new grass sprouts eight feet above my husband's casket, and the conviction only grows.

I can't see that 30 extra years did Paul McCartney much good. Then again, while one is still in the land of the living there is hope.

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