Slipping Into Darkness

"What's the point of trying to stay alive if we're all going to die anyway?"

That's a strange thought for a man who just ran 5.2 miles, but it's one I've been wrestling with lately. At 72 years old, I've been thinking more about death than I care to admit. Not because I'm ready to die, but because lately, death seems to be showing up everywhere I turn.

Over the past several weeks, I've been traveling almost every weekend. A few reunions, but mostly funerals. Friends, family members, and people I've known for decades are leaving this world, and every goodbye reminds me that my generation is getting closer to the exit. You can only attend so many funerals before you begin wondering when somebody will be standing at a podium talking about you.

And those thoughts can do something to a person. They can quietly steal your enthusiasm, interrupt your routines, and make things that once seemed important feel almost meaningless. I've caught myself wondering why I should keep exercising, volunteering, attending meetings, planning storytelling festivals, or staying active in my fraternity. After all, no matter how well I take care of myself, I know how this story eventually ends.

That's when I realized something was happening to me. I wasn't simply getting older or tired. I was slipping into darkness.

It wasn't a sudden fall, but a gradual retreat. I wasn't running as much, and getting started each morning seemed harder than it used to be. I could see how easy it would be to skip another workout, miss another meeting, or turn down another opportunity to participate. Eventually, I might find myself sitting at home, watching life instead of living it.

And I know where that road leads. First, you lose a little stamina, then a little strength, and before long, climbing the stairs becomes an athletic event. But the greater loss might be the people, the friendships, and the communities that give life meaning. Organizations can survive without me, but I'm not so sure I want to discover what my life would be like without them.

This morning, I almost let that darkness win.

Getting started on my run was tough, and my body wasn't particularly interested in cooperating. I didn't feel inspired, energized, or eager to conquer the world. I just knew that if I kept waiting until I felt like running, I might never get out the door.

So I did what I've learned to do over the years. I started moving, even though I didn't feel like it. And when the running got hard, I reached for something stronger than motivation.

I reached for my memories.

I could hear my father's voice, just as clearly as if he were running beside me. "You can do it. Don't quit. Quitters never win, and winners don't quit." Those were words I heard growing up, and somehow they've stayed with me all these years. My father is no longer here to encourage me, but his voice still knows how to find me when I need it.

Then I thought about my brother Jeffrey. I remembered walking with him when he was ill, encouraging him to go a little farther, to keep moving, to do just a little more than he thought he could. Now, when I'm struggling, I find myself needing the same encouragement I once gave him. Funny how life has a way of returning our own lessons to us.

And then there are my grandparents. Sometimes, when I run, I dedicate an entire mile to them, reminding myself that I would never quit on my grandparents. That mile becomes more than exercise; it becomes a way of honoring people whose lives helped make mine possible. When my legs get tired, I remind myself who I'm running for, and suddenly I have another reason to keep going.

I don't always think about finishing five miles. Sometimes, I'm just trying to reach the next mailbox, the next corner, or some object a little farther down the road. Once I get there, I find another one, and then another. Before I know it, those little victories have carried me farther than I thought I could go.

And that's what happened this morning.

Somewhere between remembering my father, walking again in my mind with Jeffrey, and honoring my grandparents, I found my rhythm. The miles began adding up, and the man who had struggled to get started was doing more than he expected. By the time I finished, I had run 5.2 miles. More importantly, I had found a part of myself that I was afraid I might be losing.

I've written before about the difference between motivation and discipline, but apparently, I needed another lesson. Motivation is wonderful when it shows up, but it's an unreliable friend. It comes when it wants to, stays as long as it feels like it, and sometimes disappears when you need it most. Discipline, on the other hand, shows up whether you're excited or not.

Motivation says, "I feel like doing it." Discipline says, "Do it anyway." And what I've discovered is that sometimes motivation doesn't come until after discipline has already gotten you moving. This morning, I didn't run because I felt good; I felt good because I ran.

But I think there's an even bigger lesson here.

At 72, I'm discovering that growing older requires a different kind of courage. It's not just the courage to face physical limitations, but the courage to keep participating in a world where people you love are disappearing. It's learning to carry grief without allowing grief to carry you away from life. It's recognizing that every goodbye can either remind you that life is ending or challenge you to make better use of the life that remains.

I don't know how many years I have left. Maybe five, maybe fifteen, maybe thirty, although I suspect my knees would like to negotiate that last number. What I do know is that I don't want to spend those years slowly surrendering the things that make life worth living. I still want to run, tell stories, serve others, laugh with friends, love my family, and occasionally get myself into more volunteer work than any reasonable person should accept.

And I'm beginning to understand that discipline isn't just about keeping my body moving. It's about keeping my life connected to the people and purposes that matter. Every time I show up, participate, encourage somebody, or contribute something worthwhile, I'm refusing to let the darkness make my decisions for me. I'm choosing to remain part of life, even while accepting that life won't last forever.

Maybe that's what this season of life is teaching me. I can't control how many funerals I'll attend, how many friends I'll lose, or how many mornings I'll wake up feeling older than I did the day before. But I can control whether I get up, put on my shoes, and take the next step. And sometimes, that next step is all the courage I need.

This morning, I thought I was running alone. But somewhere along those 5.2 miles, my father was encouraging me, my brother Jeffrey was reminding me to keep going, and my grandparents were giving me another reason not to quit. People who helped shape my life were still helping me live it.

And that's when the meaning of those miles became clear.

I started running this morning because I was afraid of slipping into darkness. But I finished realizing that the people I've lost haven't left me in the dark.

They've become part of the light I carry.