Something about turning 50 makes people start talking to you like you just got drafted into the final quarter of life. They don’t say it that bluntly, of course. It’s softer than that. It’s wrapped in concern and casual comments that all seem to point in the same direction. “Make sure you’re taking it easy now.” “You’ll start to feel it.” “Things change at this stage.” The world quietly hands you a script and expects you to start reading from it: welcome to the slow fade. I just don’t buy it.
The other day, that whole narrative just didn’t hold up.
I got up at 4:30am. Not because I had to get up, not because my body forced me to, but because that’s what I do. Coffee, quiet, into the day. I put in a solid ten hours of work – meetings, conversations, decisions, the normal rhythm of life and ministry. Nothing flashy, just steady, focused work.
Then I came home, and six yards of mulch were sitting in the driveway like a dare.
You know that moment. You can walk past it, tell yourself you’ll get to it later, maybe this weekend, maybe when you have more time. Or you can just go. So I went. Quick change. Clark Kent to, ok let’s be honest not Superman, but at least a version of me willing to get after it. So I grabbed the tools and went to work.
I edged every bed around the house, around the trees that somehow seem to multiply every year. Then it was load after load of triple shredded goodness. Dump, spread, smooth it out, repeat. Six yards is a lot until you decide it isn’t. By the time it was done, everything looked the way it should. Clean lines, fresh edges, mulch laid down smooth enough to make you stop for a second and just take it in.
I cleaned up, put everything away and realized it was still light outside.
Which meant there was still time.
So I grabbed the mower and went back at it. Back and forth across the yard, cutting clean lines, weaving around trees, edging the driveway, laying down those diagonal stripes that don’t actually matter to anyone but me. There’s something about finishing a job all the way. Not halfway, not good enough, but all the way through.
By the time I wrapped up, I took the dog for a quick run down to the end of the road to burn off whatever energy she had left, and if I’m being honest, whatever I had left in the tank as well. When I finally slowed down to walk back up the driveway, the thought hit me: so this is what slowing down is supposed to feel like?
Because if that’s the case, I think I’m doing just fine.
I’m not pretending time doesn’t move forward. It does. I feel it in ways I didn’t at 25. And I’m not interested in being reckless or trying to prove something. But I am interested in not surrendering early. I’m not interested in handing over ground I was never actually forced to give up. I’m not interested in letting someone else’s ceiling quietly become my own.
So yeah, 50 is here. And if this is the final quarter, I’m not jogging out the clock.
I’ll get up early, work hard, take care of what’s in front of me, and push when it would be easier not to. I’ll finish what I start. Heck I might even finish what someone else starts.
I’ll add the stripes to the lawn even when nobody’s asking for them.
