He checked the math a final time. 9,131. That's what it came to--the number of days he had left to live.
Actuarily, that was. The insurance tables predicted he'd make it to age 85, given his current age, health, physical activity, and prior history (former smoker), plus whatever else they threw into their statistical black box that spit out the "85" terminal result. It hovered there on the screen, reminding him of the first digital displays on a TI calculator. The numbers just seemed to appear back then, seemingly out of nowhere. The chips--actually, that was a single chip--would suddenly disgorge its solution, after some secret sauce processing that went on within that hard plastic shell. That was...let's see...at least 30 years ago. 10,957 days before. More time that he now had to go. Actuarily.
How many more days he had left on this earth actually was a different kettle of fish. God knows. "Kettle of fish"...now where had that come from? He'd never seen a kettle, no less one filled with fish. Where do these sayings come from? Why do we adopt them so readily?
And why this focus on days? Why was that the metric he zeroed in on with that laser-like focus? Because it felt like the best unit of measure. One day captured a full cycle. Waking, eating, working, talking, communing, loving, praying, sleeping. While the sun circumnavigated the globe. Good science that!
Days. Each day a gift. He really believed that. So he best count them. No guarantee he'd wake tomorrow, despite that actuarial result. Ergo, if he did, it was the gift of another day. The challenge then became: what am I going to do with it? This gift of a new day. It kept him focused; motivated; hungry.
So that explains the measure...days. But what about the afterlife? How was he supposed to get that factored in here? It was a discontinuous function, right? You live a life...let's say 31,000 days, plus or minus...then you die. But that's not the end of the story. That only closes out the first two and a half chapters.
Why two and a half? Well, let's take birth--his creation--as one. Then there's his fall...every man falls, he knew that from experience. That was chapter two. Then there was redemption, but only half that chapter occurred in this life. The redemption of the spirit, of the heart. The redemption of the body came later. After his 31,000 days, plus or minus.
That was the next chapter...chapters? Who knew. But how was he to factor that into his thinking now? He liked precision. He liked knowing or, at least, pretending he knew so he could plan accordingly.
And there were real impacts to how he framed the question, and did the analysis. Example: was he storing up enough treasure to last 9,131 days? [note to self: the recent market meltdown had made that calculus a lot more challenging]. What about the rebound, his resurrection? Should he be looking for some TIPS Bonds that went out a bit further? How about the house? The land? What was he supposed to do with that stuff? Should he keep it in the family, just in case Christ's return was in the near term?
His head was starting to hurt. This was all insoluble with the tools he had. It was mind numbing. He felt the weight but, incongruously, it was heavy on his leg.
Lucy moved when he suddenly awoke, freeing his trapped leg. Lucy, his Australian Shepherd. Startled.
It was a new day. Thank you Lord. Show me your will. Your way.
Chris Joyce
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