This week I packed my suitcase, stocked a small cooler with food, gathered up my laptop along with a pile of printed notes and then I left. After months of waffling I'd finally made the decision to head out of town.
My departure was preceded by an early morning of preparing meals for Hubby then chairing a committee meeting. After enjoying lunch and fellowship with a dear friend I steered the car south of town. I just knew that this writing retreat was going to be something special. It was.
Forty minutes later I checked into a cosy cabin a stone's throw from the ocean and launched a new pattern of write-sleep, sleep-write. Occasionally I popped over for tea with the friends who'd welcomed me to their wee corner of paradise. One incident in particular will remain in my memory for a long time.
A conversation with our friends' children involved their telling me how old they were and the dates of their birthdays. One was five, one was three, another was eleven and still another was seventeen. I already knew the ages of the other three. Finally one of them turned to me and asked, "How old are you?"
"I'm seventy," I replied.
Her eyes grew wide with what I assume was astonishment. After moments of silence she responded: "Oh, I thought you were over one hundred!" I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.
I'm not the least bit upset at my three score years and ten, wasn't even fazed at the thought of being a centenarian. It was the reminder that there are many more years behind me than ahead so I'd better be sure I make them count.
"One thing I have desired of the Lord, That will I seek:… to behold the beauty of the Lord." (Psalm 27:4)