The words starkly written on the page. A simple truth. Not even that. An adjective? A description? A mere boilerplate response?

But more than that, an invitation to ask: “Who’s that?” and “How did I get here?”

59-year-old?

Aren’t I still that small little kid tricked into a dumpster by a friend who then ridiculed me?

Aren’t I still that small little kid sitting in a new Grade 2 classroom

knowing no one

watching them watch me

having left the world I knew

for one I didn’t understand

Aren’t I still that teenager afraid to look girls in the eye? Giving guttural responses? Grunting rather than talking?

Aren’t I still that college student who once opened a church service with “closing prayer”?

But now, apparently, “a lovely 59-year-old man.”

Man.

Man?

“Give your ticket to the man,” she told her kid. I looked around before realising that I am the man she was referencing.

A man with opinions.

Hidden ones.

Quiet ones.

Opinions about family.

Church.

God.

People.

Politics.

The world.

All trapped inside.

A preacher’s kid

A missionary kid

A churchgoer

A theology buff

A husband

A father

A pastor

A professor

A student

A foreigner

An insider-outsider-insider. One minute in the know, the next, ignorant. One minute accepted, the next, a stranger. One minute an informant, the next, the informed.

Sometimes, regrettably, a bully. Reactive. Speaking before listening. Being superior. Smarter. More educated — at least in my own mind. Forgive me.

Not a risk-taker, yet risked moving his family across the world.
Not a shot-taker, yet landed the best possible wife.
Not often out on a limb, yet managed two construction projects with no engineering experience.

Someone who once studied, got kicked out, went back again, graduated, enrolled again, graduated, enrolled again, graduated?

But now, apparently, “a lovely 59-year-old man.”

Lovely?

Me?

The one still afraid? The one still unsure? Who’s rude … who’s abrupt … who doesn’t really do smalltalk?

Lovely?

Him?

But then again, I see messages of love all around me. Messages those close have given me. Things they have said to me. Plaques. Trophies. Wallhangings. Medals. Words spoken aloud through a microphone. Words whispered in my ear. Text messages late at night.

Maybe people see me in ways I don’t see myself.

Maybe I am “a lovely 59-year-old man.”

Photo from my own personal collection. Outfit courtesy of Eva.