I’m at the twilight of my 30s, soon to bid goodbye to the generations of the young and enlist myself to the anecdotal claim where “life truly begins.”
But when I look at the mirror, I don’t look like a man my age but younger, good looking and admired by many.
I feel the orchestra of cheers for the high expectations of the good life that I must live; for the battles that I must win; and for the dreams that I must reach.
The mirror tells me that I am loved by people of all ages; that my charm is simply irresistible; that I’m an heir apparent of a so huge wisdom; and that my feet were destined for life’s biggest adventure.
It tells me, however, that these great things did not happen because I was born with a magic wand. But because I have parents who, amid life’s difficulties, showered me with love, taught me of righteousness, and guided me in faith.
I’m not talking about the actual mirror. I’m looking of how my life is reflected into the life of my son Kyle.
For the greatest measure of man’s legacy is not how much richest he gains in his lifetime. But how much honor his children speak of him and how much love, not hatred, they learned from him.