What gets better with age?

Life.

We had a big school reunion last year. I wasn’t sure what to expect—decades had passed—but it turned out to be surprisingly good. Familiar faces, stories retold, gaps filled in.

A few of us met up again before Christmas. No agenda, just time to talk. One friend shared how he’d spent years teaching chess in schools—something he’d loved since childhood.

I talked about my own path:
Twenty years pastoring a local church.
Twelve years teaching theology.
Eight years leading a university residential college.
Forty years of being immersed in people’s lives.

He looked at me and said, “You seem really happy.”
I paused. I hadn’t thought about it that way. But he was right.

Not because it’s been easy—it hasn’t.
But because I’ve spent forty years doing things that matter.
Days full of purpose.

That’s what gets better with age.
Life, lived with intention.
Not always smoother, not always lighter, but deeper.
Richer in meaning.

And strangely, more joyful.


Dear Class Friends,
I wasn’t sure about the reunion.
Would we talk or just compare mortgages and grey hair?
But it was good. Surprisingly good.

Dear Old Friend with the Chessboard,
You’ve been moving pawns since we were twelve,
now you teach kids how to plan three steps ahead.
Here’s to the joy of doing what you love.

Dear Friend Who Sat Beside Me at Dinner,
I spent twenty years pastoring a local church,
twelve more teaching theology,
eight leading students through the chaos of becoming.

Dear Friend Who Looked Up and Said, “You seem really happy,”
You caught me by surprise.
I hadn’t thought to measure it,
but you were right.

Dear Days That Felt Like Too Much,
You weren’t wasted.
Even in your mess,
there was meaning.

Dear Life,
You get better with age.
Not softer. Not easier.
But steadier. And full.