It was the summer of 1984, as I remember it.
I was twenty-seven, living in Dallas, Texas and working as a chaplain at Baylor Medical Center. My father was pastoring at Westbury Baptist Church in Houston. The ties between us were strained a bit, in large part because I was working hard to figure out who I was distinct from the man I was named for, much as he had had to do with Milton the First when he had been my age. Actually he had to figure it out earlier because his dad died before he was twenty-eight.
Some time that summer my father called and asked to come see me. He drove up from Houston and we went to dinner. He told me a story I knew already but I could tell somehow he needed to tell it again. My grandfather lived longer than any Cunningham male and he dropped dead of a heart attack (that was the phrase Dad always used) at fifty-seven. As we talked, I did the math in my head: my father was months away from his fifty-seventh birthday. He knew we were still figuring things out between us and he was on a sort of farewell tour, just in case fifty-seven was his number as well. We had a great evening together. As he left he told me he loved me and he was proud of me. And then he went on to live until a month before his eighty-fifth birthday.
This Friday, December 12, I will turn fifty-eight. Or, as my father always pointed out, I am finishing my fifty-eighth year.
Though the number didn’t scare me quite as much as it did my father, this is a moment worth marking: I am the second male in my family to live beyond fifty-seven. I am grateful for the life I have lived and hopeful for the days to come. I am planning to follow in my father’s footsteps and stretch this out for awhile longer. And tonight I am also grateful for both Miltons who preceded me, who begat me, who helped shape me.
Here’s to beginning number fifty-nine.
Peace,
Milton
I never knew my paternal grandfather; he died in his late 20’s of a stroke. My father did better – but he was 54 when a long and protracted battle with cancer ended. I am 57, 3 months shy of 58. So I have felt this idea of “numbering the days” and “gathering rosebuds” far too much. I often wonder if it’s what wakes me up regularly between 5 and 6 am, even when I went to bed a scant 3 hours ago.
This Friday, if I make it, I will celebrate 24 years of continuous sobriety. I am quick to share with folks that while sobriety has been continuous, sanity and spirituality has waxed and waned. But I know this: I’ve had 24 years in the bonus round – because I was killing myself at just shy of 34. And nearly four years in a kind of double-bonus round – because genetics and the vagaries of biology point to an impending pit-stop. Like you, I will keep on keepin’ on – knowing that each day I get is both blessing and terra incognito.
Thanks, Steve. Keep going . . .
Milton- I remember that time and you talking to me after that visit. We both grew up so much at Baylor working in the units. I am forever grateful for the guidance you provided as Chaplin and friend to our sick patients as well as those all too often difficult codes. You were on the right path all along with varying turns but with that same spirit of heart. I also remember our joint b day celebrations both being December babies. Best birthday to you friend- Sharon
Sharon,
I’m grateful for those days as well. Happy birthday to you as well.
Peace
Milton