Dancing with Old Ghosts in a New Reality

I just spent three days at a multi-class reunion, which, for the record, is about two days too long for any sane person, so I was well within my element. Don’t get me wrong—there’s something sweet about gathering with folks you’ve known since your hair had color and your knees and back bent without complaint.

But there’s also something sobering about it. You find yourself walking into the banquet hall with one set of memories and walking out with an entirely different reality.

Some of the faces I knew, some I had forgotten, and some—well, let’s say they’d forgotten me on purpose years ago, which is fair enough. We all carry our own little lists.

What I saw was a mix of broken spirits and lost souls, people who had that fire in their eyes but now stare at the floor tiles as if they’re trying to remember if they paid the electric bill. It was a strange sight, like watching kids you grew up with trying to squeeze back into their letterman jackets while the jackets had other plans.

We came of age under the long shadows of the Great Depression. Our parents and grandparents carried lean times in their bones, and they passed down those lessons whether we wanted them or not.

Waste nothing. Save everything. Mend what you can, pray for the rest.

We grew up that way, and it shaped us—made us tough, sometimes too tough. We plowed forward, built families, worked hard, and built little kingdoms of brick, sweat, and hope.

Now, standing in that reunion hall, it hit me like the smell of Aqua Net at a high school dance—we’re slowly watching those kingdoms crack. Health problems, broken marriages, estranged kids, and bank accounts that don’t stretch like they used to.

We’re still here, but some of us are just hanging on by a frayed shoelace. A lot of the people I spoke to were trying to resurrect their younger selves—laughing too loudly, bragging about old touchdowns, or wearing outfits that must’ve gotten rescued from 1979.

But the fatigue of spirit showed in their eyes, couldn’t be hidden. Behind every forced smile was the whisper of, “What in the hell went wrong?”

And let me tell you, I understand that whisper. Some of us turn to God, some to the bottle, some to silence.

Even the faithful—those who praise Jesus every morning—sometimes feel like they’re sitting too close to the flames of Hell anyway. It’s not a lack of belief, but the weight of years pressing down like a stack of unpaid bills.

The hardest part? Many of the old friends I spoke with already seemed to be rehearsing their final lines.

They know they’ve got fewer years ahead than behind, and they wear that truth like a heavy coat in July. No one said it outright, but I could feel it in the way conversations trailed off, or how people lingered in goodbyes a little too long.

There’s no tidy bow to wrap this up. No grand life lesson to tack on the end like a Hallmark card.

Sometimes the truth sits there—raw, stubborn, and undeniable. These are the closing chapters of our lives, and no amount of hair dye, laughter, or karaoke is going to turn back the pages.

If we can’t change the ending, maybe we can change how we play out our last scenes. We can choose to be kind when sarcasm would be easier, reach for gratitude, even if it feels like trying to hug a cactus, laugh at our own brokenness—because honestly, if you can’t laugh at yourself when you’re standing in a room full of bifocals and hip replacements, when can you?

So yes, I saw broken people at that reunion, but I also saw survivors. People who’ve carried scars, shouldered burdens, and still showed up for three days of awkward small talk and questionable prime rib and buffet chicken, and maybe that’s enough.

Because sometimes survival itself is the victory, even if it doesn’t look pretty.