We are immortal.
We are not immortal.
No truer thing can be said.
At first, it sounds impossible—two statements in direct opposition. But everything turns on one small word:
“We.”
I. The Mortal We
“We” usually refers to our physical selves—this shifting mass of flesh and bone.
They say the human body regenerates every seven years. All our cells replaced by… well, replacements.
The trouble is, not all replacements are first-string.
At some point, we start fielding a late-quarter team, long after the game seems decided.
So here I am—decades into second-string cells—trying to hold the line, trying to win or at least tie the game.
No wonder I don’t feel immortal.
II. The Immortal We
But there’s another reading of “we”—the immortal spirit.
That incorruptible self, created by God, destined for eternity.
I believe in that deeply.
So deeply that I don’t fear death.
And yet… I don’t live entirely there.
I am still drawn to the ache of the temporary.
Still ruled, too often, by this faltering flesh.
It begins with stewardship.
The immortal “we” is given charge of the mortal “we.”
We are caretakers of the temporary.
And how have I done?
III. A Brief Ledger of Poor Stewardship
Let’s just say:
The first half was a disaster.
1. Age 8 – The Chevy Tanker Incident
Fascinated by matches.
Spent an afternoon trying to toss a lit match into the gas pipe of my father’s ‘58 Chevy Bel Air.
Unsuccessful. Blessedly.
2. Age 13 – Homemade Explosives
Discovered the pharmacy would sell us gunpowder ingredients.
Manufactured grenades from CO₂ cartridges and sparkler dust.
A galvanized trash can took the damage we never did. Again—blessed.
3. Age 19 – The Fast Draw Fiasco
Practicing my gunslinger draw with a Ruger .22.
Shot myself in the leg.
Had it been the .357 I was also shooting, I wouldn’t have walked away. Or lived.
4. Ages 17–21 – The Hitchhiking Years
I wandered the West, thumb out.
This isn’t so much a moment as a lifestyle of stochastic endangerment.
5. Age 20 – The Grand Teton Gamble
Climbed the Middle Teton with a friend, no ropes, no gear, I wore sandals.
No summit, but no funeral either.
6. Military Service – [Redacted]
Too many stories. Some classified. All foolish.
7. Age 27 – Acme Truck Drop
A construction truck lost its brakes and fell down a hill onto the road—where I was standing.
It landed a foot in front of me. The marriage didn’t survive, but I did.
8. Age 30 – The Sierra Stream
Tried to cross a flooded, snowmelt-swollen stream with my wife.
Multiple crossings. Backpack ferrying. Roped her to my back.
Neck-high whitewater. Hypothermic conditions.
Still one of our favorite backpacking trips.
IV. The Reckoning
I should have died—multiple times.
By recklessness. By stupidity.
By statistical probability.
And yet I didn’t.
So what now?
V. The Second Half
I have an obligation.
Not to nostalgia. Not to regret.
But to stewardship.
If I am not yet dead,
and if I believe the soul is immortal,
then I am still in charge—briefly—of this borrowed flesh.
I owe it effort.
I owe it respect.
I owe it a kind of reverence.
Because I’m not here by merit.
I’m here by mercy.
And mercy, too, requires stewardship.
A Work Progressing 