My Life as a Freeway

I am a freeway now.

When my son was very young, he had (and retains) a relentless focus. His ability to concentrate on a single interest for long stretches of time is remarkable to me. One of his early interests was a Volkswagon named Herbie, the title character in a movie called “The Love Bug.” We watched The Love Bug and then every sequel Disney ever made: Herbie Rides Again, Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo, Herbie vs. Rocky VII, Herbie Wins the Hunger Games. Once when I spoke at a church and left Johnny in child care, we picked him up afterward; he’d gotten a small scratch and the “ouchie report” listed his name as “Herbie Ortberg.”

In this era he was captivated by freeways. We lived in southern California, and I am not exaggerating when I say that Johnny at age 5 would entertain himself at a restaurant by turning the placemat over and drawing a map of the Southern California freeway system that would allow the average driver to navigate her way anywhere from San Diego to Ventura County. It came close in accuracy to anything AAA could produce, and was probably more accurate than the average cell phone GPS.

One of his great delights was the year that my parents had “freeway birthdays.” My father turned 60, and a few months later my mother turned 57, and those numbers happened to be two of his favorite freeways.

“Beepa (my dad’s honorary grandfatherly title), you’re a freeway now!” he said when he realized what birthday it was. Somehow it made the world a richer and more interesting place; there was a connection between two of his favorite roads and favorite people.

I thought of this last Saturday. My son has long since given up drawing freeway maps. He is a double major in physics and music; he maps the waves that govern reality and beauty.

On Saturday I watched him walk across the stage to receive his diploma. He got it from his mom; Nancy had been invited to be the commencement speaker, and she gave an unforgettable talk about living between the tensions of our world: between beauty and longing, between gratitude and suffering, between acceptance and calling.

I watched that towering grown up man, all 6 feet 6 inches of him (we gave up disciplining him about half a foot ago), with a mind full of knowledge and insights about string theory and blues scores and what makes a wave rideable that I will never know, receive the affirmation that he is a learned and learning human being. I thought of the mystery of time; something that specialists in his field tell us is relative; something that Augustine said he understood until somebody asked him to define it; something whose passage is both the most predictable and most surprising event in the world.

On that same day, I had a birthday. I turned 55 on 5/5.

I read not long ago (actually in Leadership Journal) about a nurse who specialized in working with terminal patients. When she’s asked if they have any regrets, the most common regret of dying people is having worked too hard. It’s not the physical exertion they regret. It’s the way we let work become both our ogre and our tyrant. It sucks out of us the ability to be present in each other moment of our life. It becomes our preoccupation instead of our occupation. It denies us entrance into the joyful Kingdom of a playful God.

I’m deeply grateful to get to work; to get to work at a church. I want to work hard, in the context of living fully and loving deeply. I want the memory of the brevity of time to inform both the urgency and the lightness of my work.

The 55, too, is a freeway in LA. It’s a short one; it runs past John Wayne Airport down to Newport Beach. If you take it north you can reach the 57; get on the 57 and you will hit the 60. I am on my way to those freeways too. Someday I will find my exit. I hope I make it past the 60, but I’m not planning on becoming the 605. Whenever the exit ramp comes, my reputation—my petty successes and failures—will not matter at all. The person that I have come, and the love that I have offered, and the value that I have created—those will go with me into eternity.

For the moment it is good to remember that my boy has grown up, the clock keeps ticking, life in all its glorious transience is back for one more day.

I am a freeway now.

John Ortberg is editor at large of Leadership Journal and pastor of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church in Menlo Park, California.