Life, Be Proud

Late one night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sat alone listening to a video someone sent me—Dr. Rick Rigsby, speaking about the wisdom of his third-grade dropout father and the love of his late wife. I didn’t expect it to reach in and pull something loose in me. But it did.

It was one line, really. One small phrase from a woman facing death: “Never worry about how long you live—worry about how well you live.”

That’s been my unspoken philosophy for years. Maybe not always stated so cleanly, but lived nonetheless. You see, death and I have had a long acquaintanceship. My grandmother passed when I was young. I remember her funeral clearly—how time paused in that chapel and the scent of lilies filled the air. When I was twelve, my father died. That memory is even sharper, cut deep and permanent. I didn’t have the luxury of growing up without understanding that death was real. That it comes for the young as well as the old. And it doesn’t ask your permission.

Somewhere along the line, I started joking with friends and family that I probably wouldn’t make it past fifty. It wasn’t morbid, at least not to me—it was practical. My genes are a bit of a mess. I’ve got diabetes, high blood pressure, a CPAP machine that sounds like a wheezing robot next to my bed. My body’s warranty expired early.

When I did hit fifty, I told my doctor that he could retire our relationship. “Mission accomplished,” I said. “Goal met.” He didn’t laugh. He just looked at me and said, “Then we need to set some new goals.”

I liked that. And I’ve thought about it more and more since watching that video.

See, I’ve never been afraid of death. But I’ve always been intentional about life.

And not in the “bucket list” way. I’ve never needed to skydive or swim with dolphins. I’m not chasing thrills. I’m chasing meaning. I’m chasing integrity. I’m chasing well.

I’ve tried to live in such a way that the people who knew me might say, “He didn’t just endure life. He engaged it.” That’s what Dr. Rigsby’s father did. That’s what his wife did. That’s what so many people of strength and substance have done without applause or headlines. They lived well.

Living well isn’t complicated. It’s showing up. It’s listening closely. It’s telling the truth. It’s raising a child with wisdom. It’s staying married through the rough spots. It’s being there when someone is hurting—not with answers, but with presence. It’s building something, even if no one sees it. It’s reading poems like Death, be not proud and realizing that John Donne wasn’t denying death—he was denying its victory.

“One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.”

That’s not fearlessness. That’s defiance. That’s a man saying, “You can take my life, but you can’t take its value.”

I don’t know how long I have. None of us do. But I know what I want my life to say. Not just in the big moments, but in the ordinary ones. Because the ordinary ones are the bricks we build a legacy with.

So no, I don’t worry about how long I’ll live. I worry about how I’m living. And maybe that’s the better way to think about life after all—not as something to lengthen, but something to deepen.

So here’s to setting new goals. Here’s to living well.
And here’s to the people who taught us how.

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Here’s the retort to “Death, Be Not Proud.”

Life, Be Thou Glad

Life, be thou glad, though brief thy gentle stay,
Thy moments bloom like roses kissed by sun.
Though night may chase the final light of day,
Each breath declares a work of wonder done.

No throne is thine, nor boast of endless reign,
Yet thou dost gift what death can never claim:
A laugh, a tear, the joy amidst the pain—
The soul’s bright flare no grave can ever tame.

Though death may come, he finds no conquest here;
We pass, but not undone—we rise, not fall.
Thy purpose blooms in love that draws us near,
In whispered grace, the quiet worth of all.

So let me live not long, but nobly true,
And count my days by what they bring—not few.

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Author’s Note: This post was inspired by Dr. Rick Rigsby’s powerful message on character, grief, and legacy, as well as by a lifetime of reflection. Portions of this piece were written with the assistance of ChatGPT, helping me find the words I already felt.