ALL LIFE HAS MEANING
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All Life Has Meaning
First in a 5-part series
from The Reflective Pen Manifesto
Suppose for a moment that all of life—not just the “good parts”—had meaning. Would we live differently? Would we choose more carefully, or more courageously?
This post marks the beginning of a five-part series, drawn from my Reflective Pen Manifesto—a concise collection of the core beliefs that shape my writing and living.
These aren’t abstract ideals. They are field-tested truths, built from joy and woe, faith and fear, laughter and loss.
And they hold up, even now.
Belief One: All life has meaning and purpose and is meant to be lived fully until our last breath.
That’s not just a hopeful slogan. It’s a posture I stand in. A way of seeing I use to observe the world around me.
I make a daily decision to live this way, not because circumstances are perfect, but because life is sacred.
Too often, we’re taught to believe that living fully is only for the young, the well, the wealthy.
That full living means crossing off bucket lists or collecting trophies. But what if living fully wasn’t about the visible markers at all?
What if it had more to do with a mindset—a quiet creativity that keeps showing up no matter what changes?
I’ve come to believe that to live fully is to embrace the whole human spectrum: joy and sorrow, success and failure, health and illness, rising and falling, beginnings and endings.
There is room for it all.
The Marbles, the Bus Ride, and the Births
I remember the simple thrill of winning at marbles when I was a child. The joy wasn’t about being the best. It was about being present—knees in the dirt, fingers curled just right, surrounded by the sounds of childhood.
There was joy again when, as a teenager, I crossed the country alone by bus, watching the vastness of the land pass by.
And deep, breath-held joy when I gave birth to my two sons. There was pain, of course. But pain didn’t cancel joy. They lived side by side.
Living fully doesn’t mean bypassing sorrow. It means holding joy and sorrow in the same hand.
Loss and the Ledger
I’ve known what it feels like to succeed—to have a savings account and the ability to lend money to others. I’ve walked through bankruptcy, losing a beloved country home in the process.
I’ve had to leave cherished jobs in nursing and ministry when my health tanked. Some losses came slowly. Others arrived like a thunderstorm on a hot summer day.
But even there, in the aftermath, I discovered that creativity doesn’t require a perfect setting. It just needs permission. I found time and encouragement to journal, which turned into writing a blog, drafting a couple of books, and teaching a class. The world narrowed in some ways, but opened in others.
Success and failure are poor endpoints. They are better used as trail markers, each pointing toward something unexpected.
Sitting and Hiking
When illness struck hard, parenting looked different. There were days I parented from a wheelchair. The smallest outings required careful planning.
But the love? The love held steady.
And eventually—through a remission or two—I hiked again, even danced a little. And I returned to play trumpet in a community band.
I discovered that both seated and standing, I could still show up for my life.
Health is never a guarantee.
But meaning isn’t reserved for the healthy.
We don’t wait for a diagnosis to give us permission to live.
Coming of Age (More Than Once)
I turned sixteen with that wide-open sense that anything was possible. The road ahead felt long and generous. And it was.
However, coming of age didn’t happen just once. Over the years, I’ve had to let go of certain dreams—some gently, some wrenchingly. And yet in each release, I found new possibilities waiting. Greater than I had imagined.
Living fully means coming of age again and again…each time we say yes to who we are becoming, rather than clinging to who we were.
Not a Brick Wall, But a Doorway
Death, too, has taught me to think more about meaning and purpose in life.
The early death of my father left an ache I still carry. But it also sharpened my sense that life—every ordinary moment—is a gift.
I’ve come to believe that death is not an insurmountable barrier.
It’s a turning point.
A passage for the one leaving, and an invitation for those who remain: To reflect. To reframe. To live with the end in mind, not in fear, but in reverence.
Choosing a Creative Posture
Creativity is often thought of as painting or writing or playing music. But it’s so much broader.
Creativity is how we respond to what life hands us.
It’s how we reimagine what’s possible when something beloved falls apart. It may be a marriage, the death of a spouse, our health, or our bank account.
To live fully is to approach each day with a creative spirit:
What now? What else? What might be?
And it doesn’t require perfect circumstances. In fact, some of the most creative living I’ve seen has come from people with very little money, limited mobility, or a house full of caregiving demands.
Or all three!!
They still found ways to make meaning. To tell stories. To share laughter. To make something beautiful, or brave, or quietly resilient, right where they were.
I am so glad you are with me on this journey to discover meaning and purpose in life, all the way to the end.
This is the first of five beliefs from The Reflective Pen Manifesto. I’ll share the next four in the coming weeks, each one a thread in the tapestry of what it means to age with purpose, to tell our stories honestly, and to find meaning even in our limitations.
In the meantime, I invite you to ask yourself:
What does living fully look like for you—today, right where you are?
Maybe it’s starting a letter you’ve been meaning to write. Or noticing the stars on a dark night. Or calling someone who might be lonely. Maybe it’s sitting still long enough to listen—to your own heart, or to the silence beyond it.
We don’t have to go far to live deeply.
But we do have to show up.
See you next week.
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