I hope they have name tags,” I whispered to Lori as we walked to the venue for my 50th high school reunion.
My class of 1975 had 330 students, so I stood a good chance of not remembering a name or two. Or three.
But perhaps the greatest challenge was remembering who I was.
We form an image of our past — filtered through years of tragedy and triumph, joy and sadness, loss and gain — that’s forged in the stories we have repeated to ourselves about who we are and why.
Class reunions have a way of crystallizing the past and present through prisms of pain, kaleidoscopes of celebrations, collages of emotions that cast a clearer, cleaner, crisper vision of our place in the world we know today.
We laughed and cried (especially at the pictures of the 31 classmates who have passed and others we can’t find, seemingly vanished and gone) through a presentation of our years at Grand Ol’ Altus High.
Later, I mentioned to Lori, “I realize how very ordinary I was, not outstanding in any particular way.”
I wasn’t expressing feelings of low self-esteem. I was a good student, a decent athlete, and hopefully a good-natured and loyal friend. Average does not necessarily equate to mediocre.
This is good news for those of us who haven’t won a Nobel Prize. Come to think of it, most of my life influencers have been the ordinary types.
I recall something St. John Berchmans, the 17th-century Jesuit scholar known for his pursuit of holiness and for finding God’s grace in seemingly ordinary things, once said. “My penance above all others is common life,” the “common life” referring to community life with others, complete with its daily struggles and the perpetual negotiations with prickling personalities. Berchmans, who died at the age of 22, wrote, “I will pay the greatest attention to the least inspiration of God.” And that he did. And so can you and I.
My inspiration came from a classmate who served a lifetime career in the Air Force. When I thanked him for his service, he simply said, “I would gladly do it again.”
Or the ladies who showed up with smiling faces, despite their fresh grief at the recent loss of their spouses.
Or the numerous teachers who spent years in education, investing in the lives of others.
Or the college administrator who had a career dedicated to placing the right people in the right positions.
Or the classmate whose son, on a football scholarship at the University of Oklahoma, suddenly died.
Or the classmate whose husband and son all passed within a year.
Or the physician who chose to stay in his hometown for his entire career when he could have easily moved to more prestigious positions.
Or the friend who is preparing for a second career. As a priest.
Or the low-profile classmate who has created a high-profile avenue for promoting talent.
Or the classmate whose son flew one of the B-2 Stealth bombers over Iran.
We were fortunate to have been one of a generation that could enjoy a life of our choosing, participating in events like class plays, (A friend reminded me of my one line in “The Sound of Music,” how I ran out on stage as a German soldier and announced, “They’re gone!” to which my friends hoo-hawed, “Think you can remember your lines, Whitlock?”). While another told the story of how I secretly changed the chemicals in chemistry class, shocking the teacher, who almost set the room ablaze by accident.
Our class did well to reach a point where we could reflect on our successes and failures, learn from them, and appreciate who we are today.
My class of 1975 has done pretty darn well, I concluded, glancing over my shoulder as Lori and I walked out of the last event for the weekend.
And the best part is, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” A 60th or 70th, or, for the youngsters, a 10th or 20th, are mere markers, pointers to the past, shining a light on an ever-dawning future for ordinary lives that can still make extraordinary differences.