From the time I was about six years old, my father imbued in me that one day it would be my responsibility to support my family. It was the culture of the 1950s where most husbands worked and wives stayed home. I remember trying to imagine myself at some kind of job (primarily as a cowboy like Hopalong Cassidy, left) bringing home food, fighting bad guys and building shelter for my imaginary family. I took my future responsibility so seriously that I started to have nightmares that I might be injured. If so, then who would support my family?
In my mid-fifties, I had a chance to retire. But, the old imperative spoke loudly. I wasn't old enough to retire. And the truth is, I didn't want to. That's still true.
I'm very grateful to have reached age sixty-five. It's a gift in so many ways. When I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease in 1963, my doctor told me I might not live past age forty. Every year since then has felt like frosting on the cake.
As my daughter has said to me when I've occasionally groaned about a given birthday: "Be grateful for your age, Dad, think about how many people don't live very long." She's right, of course. It's a wonderful blessing to live long if you have a good quality of life.
I hope to work many more years. Since I love my work, I never plan to retire and will live my calling one way or another.
It's a strange experience to have a birthday on Halloween, especially with all the imagery of ghosts. One of my best friends sent me a card that said that Halloween birthday's come back to haunt you every year. One day, instead of a cowboy, maybe I'll be a ghost and come to haunt you, in a good way, of course, with joyful memories of loving care.
-Erie Chapman
Journal of Sacred Work 
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