Now that I’ve reached four score and eight
And know the time has grown late
Yet still I search a better way
To slow the coming of that day.
That evil day that comes to all
For strong or weak, we all must fall.
The reaper grim shall wield his blade
And all the hopes and plans we’ve made
Will vanish in eternal night
An end that to me is just not right.
Alas, my friends, nor right nor wrong
Has any part in nature’s song.
She cares for life—more life, more life
Regardless of the pain and strife
Yet pain and strife are its plan
Alike for every beast and man
And the end is always just the same.
For life is but a losing game
Fight as you will with every breath
The final score is always death.
Now death to me is the final word
The heart is still and the brain is cold
The final chapter has been told
My grandfather (pictured above), Edward L. Austen (1893-1988), wrote this on his 88th birthday[1] and, as I turn 59 this Sunday I’ve been thinking a lot about it—especially these three phrases:
- “The evil day that comes to all”
- “Life is but a losing game”
- “Now death to me is the final word”
Concerning the first phrase, he wasn’t wrong.
Although my grandfather rejected Christianity and was an agnostic, he rightfully observed that there is something “evil” and unjust about our fleeting existence; indeed, death comes to all whether we like it or not. Further, when you get to live as long as he did, I’m sure you feel some of life’s “pain and strife” more than ever. In the Bible, the Apostle Paul called death “the last enemy” (1 Cor. 15:26), and “the Preacher” of Ecclesiastes said all of life is “vanity” [fleeting], comparing our earthly bodies in their final stages to a dilapidated house:
“Remember also your Creator in the days of your youth, before… the day when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men are bent, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those who look through the windows are dimmed, and the doors on the street are shut…”
Eccl. 12:1-3, ESV- italics mine
Here the “keepers of the house” are hands, the bent “strong men” are legs, the “grinders” teeth, the “windows” eyes, and the “doors” ears.[2] The body is falling apart and has reached a point where there is little power or strength left to pursue one’s plans or dreams. And this destiny—my grandfather and the “the Preacher” agree—comes “alike for every beast and man.” (Compare Eccl. 3:19.)
By the way, “youth” in the passage is a relative term and “may mean anyone who has not yet entered the stage of life portrayed in 12:3-8, where body and mind are in decrepit decline.”[3]
But what about what my grandfather said about life being “a losing game?” That’s definitely a morbid and hopeless perspective– especially compared with the cool American apparel and accessories company Life is Good.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love the brand and its positivity. Thanks to my wife, we’ve got shirts and hats for all seasons with labs on them– flowers, campfires, favorite beverages, Winnie the Pooh, fall leaves, Santa Claus, snow– you name it. All the good feels and simple gifts of life.
But is life really good, as the brand declares, or is it a losing game, as my grandfather believed? Or is it somewhere in between?
Before we answer too quickly, let’s think a little deeper and make sure we’re doing so with sufficient empathy:
- Life is good… until it isn’t? Isn’t life really a mix of good and bad, pleasure and pain?
- Life is good… for some and not others? In other words, in flaunting “Life is Good” as our moniker, is there a danger that we overlook the sufferings of others—those who are going through a hard time or for whom life has not been so good or kind? The book of Job rightly says, “Men at ease have contempt for misfortune.” (12:5)
These are sobering questions, but even if we ultimately choose to embrace “life is good” as our motto, we need to answer another important question: Why is life good? You may have some thoughts on this, and I’d love to hear them. Next week, I’ll share some of mine along with final reflections on my grandfather’s poem.
[1] What I’ve shared here is the first half of a poem my late aunt sent me on 2.11.2003 when I was a pastor in Willow Grove, PA.
[2] David Gibson, Living Life Backward (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2027)146-147.
[3] Ibid., 134.