Teach us to number our days aright.
A guy named Albert perched on the same barstool in a Pub in Buffalo, NY, every night the last twenty years of his life.
Even though he was there every night, no one really knew him; he wasn’t a talker. Regulars nodded, but didn’t say anything because Albert wouldn’t respond.
Nevertheless, he pre-planned his funeral to take place there. He made arrangements to make it worthwhile for the Pub owner. Other than that, his entire estate went to the care of his dog.
My point is not to pass judgment, but just to say that life ought to count for something—and to salute you because you’ve made sure that yours does.
Some count their years.
You make your years count.