When I was a younger man, I used to think I would wake up one day and
everything would make sense. That I would have all the answers. I'd be
settled and happy and stress-free. I would know the meaning of life.
Now, at 47, that thought makes me laugh.
Too often these days, I find myself running short on patience. I let
myself get stressed out over small things, and I take it out on the
people I love the most. That is a mistake.
I complain about my life, even though I have no right to -- I'm tired,
I'm grumpy, I don't have enough time to write, the kids drive me crazy.
Whatever. There are people all over the world who went to bed last
night, who passed away in the night and will never open their eyes
again, and each and every one of those persons would give anything --
anything at all -- for just five minutes of my painless existence.
I have a beautiful wife who loves me, and whom I love, and she has been
my very best friend for nearly 20 years now. I am blessed with
wonderful, beautiful children. I have a job that allows me to spend a
great deal of time with my family, and -- even rarer -- I enjoy it. I
work with and for some fantastic people. I have friends too numerous to
count, whom I dearly love, who have put up with my quirky behavior for
year after year without comment. I have a family that continues to reach
out to me even though they deserve better than the years of neglect I
have given them in return.
Friends, family, and Beth -- I am sorry.
I am truly blessed. I am loved. I have no right to complain.
May God allow me to always remember that.
