I'm Not Done Yet

I've had a strange couple of weeks.

I've been going home for reunions. Going home for funerals. And I've discovered that those are two occasions when you see people you have known for a very long time—and when you get a pretty good look at the distance between who you were and who you have become.

Some of these people I've known for 50 or 55 years. We were young together. We remember each other before the gray hair, before the grandkids, before retirement, before anybody was comparing medications, surgeries and scars.

And now here we are.

There is something about seeing old friends that makes aging real in a way a birthday never can. You notice people moving a little slower. You hear about prostate cancer, pacemakers, replaced joints, bad backs and surgeries. You realize that the bodies that once seemed indestructible have been keeping score all along.

At one gathering, we looked through old photo albums. There we were—young, skinny, strong, dressed in clothes we thought looked good at the time. Those pictures were proof that these older people sitting around telling stories had once been those young people staring back at us from the pages.

But the photographs weren't the only surprises.

I heard stories I had never heard before. I discovered people had been roommates and I never knew it. I learned things about careers, friendships and adventures that had somehow escaped me even though I had known some of these people most of my life.

It reminded me of something important: You can know somebody for 50 years and still not know their whole story.

But as I watched everybody, another thought kept bothering me.

Some people seemed to have slowed down considerably. Maybe that is exactly what they want, and maybe they have earned the right to do it. But looking around sometimes made me wonder: Am I doing this retirement thing wrong?

Maybe I'm supposed to be sitting somewhere chilling. Maybe retirement is supposed to mean being satisfied doing less, finally being happy with doing nothing at all. But there is another part of me that keeps answering: I'm not finished yet.

Instead, I'm still writing. Still speaking. Still working on websites. Still serving organizations. Still running. Still coming up with new ideas and finding new things I want to try.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing too much.

Then I saw Kit Kat.

All weekend people had been telling me, "James Townsend is going to be there."

James Townsend?

I kept trying to figure out who they were talking about. Then he walked in.

"Man, that's Kit Kat!"

That was the name I knew.

Suddenly an entire chapter of my life came rushing back. Kit Kat was Janet's brother, but I also knew him through an entirely different circle. He was a Kappa at Grambling, and I had been good friends with his Dean of Pledges, Stan McKinney. Our lives had crossed in so many ways that I had almost forgotten how deeply our stories were connected.

We started talking.

We remembered the old days, the people we knew, and especially those Super Bowl parties. Man, we had some times. For a few minutes, years disappeared, and two men in their seventies were laughing about things that had happened when neither one of us could have imagined being this old.

Then there was the part neither of us could ignore.

Kit Kat has pancreatic cancer.

When my sister Cheryl told us she had pancreatic cancer, it was January. By June, she was gone. I know something about that disease, and I know how cruel and unforgiving it can be.

Kit Kat told me he had been diagnosed in November 2025.

So as we talked, there was an understanding between us that didn't require many words. There was a very real possibility that this would be the last time we would see each other.

We acknowledged that.

We talked about how glad we were that our journeys had crossed. We talked about the good times. And I found myself trying to take in the moment—not mourning the man standing in front of me, but appreciating him while he was still standing there.

And then Kit Kat taught me something.

Here was a man living with a devastating disease, and he was still showing up.

He came to the funeral. He participated. He laughed. He joked. He told stories. He brought back memories for other people and, without even trying, brought joy into the room.

Cancer had changed his circumstances.

It had not taken away his ability to matter.

That stayed with me.

Maybe the question isn't whether we are slowing down. Bodies slow down. Circumstances change. Things we once did easily become harder, and eventually some things become impossible.

Maybe the better question is: While I'm still here, what can I still give?

Kit Kat could have stayed home, and nobody would have blamed him. Instead, he showed up. And because he showed up, I got one more conversation, one more laugh and one more chance to tell an old friend that I was glad he had been part of my journey.

I hope he knows what that meant to me.

These last few weeks of reunions and funerals have given me an unusual view of life. I've been looking backward at who we were, looking around at who we have become, and looking ahead at however much road is still in front of us.

And I've decided something.

I don't think I'm doing retirement wrong.

Maybe that's what these last few weeks have really given me—not a warning to slow down, but a reminder to become more intentional. I don't know how many years I have left. None of us do. But if the road ahead is shorter, maybe that's not a reason to travel it more slowly. Maybe it's a reason to pay closer attention to where I'm going.

I still have stories to tell. I still have books to write. I still have races to run. I still have grandchildren and young people to encourage. There are places I haven't seen, things I haven't tried and ways I haven't served yet.

Age may change my circumstances. Retirement may change my circumstances. My body may eventually change what I am able to do. But none of those things, by themselves, take away my ability to matter.

I know the road behind me is longer than the road ahead of me.

That doesn't frighten me.

It makes the road ahead more valuable.

So when my body tells me to slow down, I'll listen. When life tells me something has to change, I'll adjust. But as long as I have something to give, somebody to encourage, a story to tell or a reason to show up, I'm going to keep showing up.

Because Kit Kat reminded me of something I don't want to forget.

You don't have to have a lot of time left to have a lot of life left.

And when my time finally does run out, I don't want anybody to say I spent my last years waiting for the ending.

I want them to say I was still writing it.