Tomorrow begins my 96th semester of teaching. I am more excited today about the classroom than ever. It feels monumental and important and terrifying all at the same time. I look back over these past 5 decades, over two-thirds of my life, and it just doesn't make sense that a boy from Kailua Beach should have ended up in the classroom. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed every minute of my career. God took an ordinary life and spun it through with something that feels like magic. I'm breathless with the beauty I see in every magnificent moment. I know it's my duty to feel grateful -- and I am -- but I can't stop asking why. Why me? Why have I had such a satisfying career when so many fight tool and nail just to make it through their shift? And why did it have to go by so fast? And then a voice comes to me.
Life is a breath, all of it. I am the Constant when everything changes. Remember, Dave, that I have carried you this far and will not abandon you or let you slip beneath the waves. You are mine. You don't have to worry about tomorrow, for I am already there.
Decades after Patrick Henry's death, his youngest son, John, marked his father's grave with a marble tablet. It's visible still at Red Hill. It contains this simple inscription: "His fame his best epigraph."
Patrick Henry's fame has endured throughout the generations. But all fame is fleeting. All the firsts are suddenly lasts. To paraphrase General Douglas MacArthur, old Greek teachers never die. They just slowly fade away. One day I too will slip into the dim light of history, rehearsing days long forgotten, a mere memory in my consciousness, ambition quenched, God's calling fulfilled. And every time I think about this, I think about him. As I type these words, I'm resting in the arms of God, nestled up against his chest. I know that suddenly winter will give way to spring. It won't be anything like it used to be, but my life will be different. I am going to love with a fire that burns away everything that doesn't matter. And what is left is going to be perfect.