One Man's Opinion

Turning 60 has a way of making you reflective—maybe a little more than you intended.

Writing last week’s post, and even sitting down to write this one, reminds me of that scene from Jerry Maguire where he pours out everything he believes about life and work, prints it up, and sends it out into the world… and then immediately wonders if he went too far. When people start reacting, he shrugs it off with, “It was just a mission statement.”

I get that feeling a little bit. Like maybe you’ve said more than you planned to. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe taking the time to put a few thoughts down—about life, about what matters—is worth it, even if it feels a little exposed.

Because if there’s one thing that becomes clearer over time, it’s this: life isn’t easy. And it’s not supposed to be.

That’s not a complaint. It’s just an observation you earn.

When you’re younger, you don’t really think in those terms. You just go. You don’t overanalyze. You don’t measure effort the same way. You certainly don’t spend much time wondering if something is “too hard.” You just do it.

I think back to summers at Camp Cherokee on Lake Burton. Some of my best memories are from that place, especially with my buddy Frank Reinstine. There was a simplicity to those days, but also a kind of quiet toughness built into everything we did.

One memory stands out more than most—the two-mile swim to the Lake Burton dam.

The first day, Frank wasn’t interested. I went with another camper, for the helicopter Moms reading this, we had a counselor paddling alongside us in a canoe. The next day, Frank decided he was in after all—but the rule was you had to go in pairs. So I turned around and did it again, swimming alongside him, again with a counselor keeping pace nearby.

I remember Ross McConnell telling me he was a little concerned I might get fatigued.

The truth is, I didn’t even really know what that meant.

That’s not a statement about toughness—it’s more about perspective. At that age, you don’t label things the same way. You don’t stop and ask if something is going to be difficult or tiring. You just start swimming and figure it out as you go.

Somewhere along the way, we all learn what “fatigue” means. Life has a way of teaching that lesson pretty thoroughly. Responsibilities stack up. Plans don’t always work out. You realize effort has a cost.

But if you stay with it long enough, you also learn something else: the effort is where the value is.

Not in a loud, obvious way. Not in a way that always gets recognized. But in the quiet accumulation of days where you chose to keep going. Where you didn’t turn back early. Where you pushed through when it would’ve been easier not to.

That’s where life starts to take shape.

Amy and I have had a front-row seat to that journey. Jack is about to graduate high school and head off to play golf at Truett McConnell University (I don’t think there’s any relation to Camp Cherokee Director Ross McConnell, but ironic, nonetheless). That didn’t happen overnight—it’s the result of years of practice, discipline, and learning how to push through the tough days. Claire is navigating life with confidence, making upward job changes, growing, and genuinely happy in who she is. Blake is chasing dreams and the sky—literally—with all his flying ratings in hand and a wide open future in front of him. And Cate, in 10th grade, is hitting her stride as a student, with a curiosity and drive that makes us excited about what’s ahead for her.

None of that came easy. And that’s exactly the point.

The pride isn’t about outcomes or milestones as much as it is about the way they’ve each learned to engage with life—to take it on, even when it’s hard. To keep moving forward without any guarantee of how things will turn out.

That’s the part that feels meaningful.

Because over time, your definition of success changes. You start to value the willingness to try more than the result. The resilience more than the recognition. The consistency more than the occasional win.

And maybe that’s what these reflections—these “mission statements,” if you will—are really about.

Not having all the answers. Not pretending life has been perfectly figured out. But simply acknowledging that the path has been worth it. That the hard parts weren’t detours—they were the road.

Theodore Roosevelt once said that he did not admire the life of ease, and that the highest reward belonged to those who chose “the strenuous life”—a life of effort, of responsibility, and of purpose, where meaning is found not in comfort, but in doing the hard things well.

At 60, that doesn’t feel like a quote to hang on a wall. It feels like something you’ve seen play out, over and over again. In your own life, and in the lives of the people you care about most.

Life isn’t easy. It never was.

But the rewards of showing up, putting in the work, and staying in it—those are real. And they have a way of revealing themselves over time, often in ways you couldn’t have planned.

Looking back, I’m not sure I’d change much—even the hard parts.

Because somewhere between not knowing what fatigue meant and understanding it all too well, you begin to see what really matters.

And it turns out, it was never about ease at all.

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Sometimes a season sneaks up on you.

Turning 60 was one of those moments.

No fanfare. No big announcement. Just a quiet realization that I’ve stepped into a different phase of life—whether I was ready or not.

And the truth is… I think I am.

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The Samurai Years

I’ve come to think of this stage as the “samurai years.”

Not in the sense of fighting battles every day—but in the discipline that comes from having already fought a few.

By 60, you’ve seen enough.

You’ve had success. You’ve had failure. You’ve been tested in ways you didn’t expect—and you’re still here.

That changes you.

You don’t react as quickly.
You don’t speak as often.
But when you do… it tends to matter more.

There’s a steadiness that shows up if you’ve been paying attention.

And if I’m being honest, a lot of that steadiness doesn’t come from me.

It comes from a lifetime of being guided—even in the moments when I didn’t fully recognize it at the time.

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A Gift I Didn’t See Coming

This birthday, my wife Amy gave me something I didn’t expect.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t something you unwrap and set on a shelf.

She had reached out to a group of close friends and family and asked them to write letters—just a few words, memories, thoughts… whatever they felt led to say.

Then she took those letters and had them placed in a simple leather binder.

That was the gift.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t quite know what I was holding at first.

But as I started reading through them, one by one, it landed.

Hard.

These weren’t casual notes. They were thoughtful. Personal. Honest.

Some made me laugh. A few hit me right in the chest.

All of them mattered.

I’ve received a lot of great gifts over the years. But this one… this is probably the best I’ve ever been given—not just from Amy, but from the people who took the time to write those letters.

Those people are my world.

And what they put down on paper is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

It also serves as a quiet reminder of something Scripture tells us—that where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

That binder made it pretty clear where mine is.

In fact, I told Amy—half serious, half not—that one day, when the time comes, they can just put that leather binder in the casket with me.

I’ll take those words along for the ride.

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From Leading to Letting Go

One of the biggest shifts at this age isn’t professional.

It’s personal.

Your kids aren’t really kids anymore.

They’re somewhere in that “semi-adult” phase—making their own decisions, building their own lives, and yes… making some of their own mistakes.

That can be tough to watch.

There was a time when you could step in and fix things. Offer direction. Set the course.

That time passes.

Now, the role is different.

Now it’s about being available—but not overbearing.
Present—but not controlling.
Supportive—but not steering every decision.

That takes discipline of a different kind.

And maybe a little more faith than we’re used to.

Faith that they’ll find their footing.

Faith that the foundation you helped lay will hold.

And faith that God cares for them even more than you do.

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Strength Looks Different Now

There was a time when strength meant pushing harder than everyone else.

Outworking. Outlasting. Outperforming.

There’s still value in that—but it’s not the whole story anymore.

At 60, strength looks more like restraint.

It’s knowing when to step in—and when to stay quiet.

It’s having the experience to recognize a problem early… and the patience to let it play out if that’s what’s needed.

It’s being steady when others aren’t.

There’s a quiet confidence that comes from knowing you don’t have to carry everything on your own anymore.

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Clarity Has a Way of Showing Up

One of the benefits of getting older is perspective.

You start to see what really matters—and what never did.

Some things just aren’t worth the energy anymore.

And that’s not a sign of slowing down.

It’s a sign of getting focused.

Time is a little more precious now. So you spend it differently.

On people.
On purpose.
On things that actually matter.

And you become a little more grateful for the time you’ve been given—and the grace that’s carried you through it.

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Still in the Arena

Let me be clear—this isn’t about winding down.

At least not for me.

There’s still work to do. Still opportunities to serve. Still chances to lead when it counts.

But it’s not about proving anything anymore.

It’s about being useful.

Being steady.

Being someone others can count on when things get uncertain.

And trying—imperfectly, but intentionally—to live in a way that reflects something bigger than yourself.

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Final Thought

If there’s one thing I’m learning about turning 60, it’s this:

You don’t put the sword away.

You just learn when to use it.

And more importantly… when not to.

And if you’ve been blessed, as I have, with faith, family, and people who will tell you the truth—

You realize you were never carrying the weight alone to begin with.

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#GodSpeed, Matt!

There are people, there are good people and then there are people who just become instant “longtime” friends. For me, Matt Speed is in the latter category… and I need my friend back.

https://gofund.me/2a97733c

Matt comes from a north Georgia family of just good people. His immediate family includes bankers, a Sheriff, entrepreneurs and, most importantly, a wife and three children who love him dearly.

A while back, Matt went all in on his dream business and started Custom Combat Trucks. He’s a man’s man and does what most of us “Type A-s” would love to do: build (and rebuild) really cool, beastly looking trucks. Like I said- instant friends, right?

http://www.customcombattrucks.com/

Today, however, Matt is trying to rebuild something a little different- his own body. Covid has wreaked havoc on his lungs and he needs our help.

How can you help? Pray for Matt and his family. Next- Pretty simple- either go buy a Humvee from CCT (a stretch, I know but I thought I’d mentioned it), donate to help alleviate some of the family’s costs, share their Gofundme, or share this blog post. You truly never know who might see your social media effort and go all in with some help.

Also- let’s make #GodSpeed, Matt! Go viral. It’ll be a journey for the Speed family. Let’s show them that we’ll be with them the WHOLE way.

Come on, Matt. We have stuff to do! #Godspeed, Matt!

My cousin (who I called Uncle) Newby has gone to Heaven. He was as fine and memorable as he was kind. He was from “good stock” in Georgia and he packed a lot of life into his years of living. Today his family and the United States Navy are sending him home.

I grew up with an extremely colorful extended family. There was Aunt Al and Uncle Joe. Robert Newby always had a corvette. He took my cousin John and I for rides in it and made us promise never to tell our Moms how fast we went. He had a laugh you could hear for miles. Royce, Johnny and Will Pharr were all brothers and had smiles that you’d never forget. These are just a few of the personalities. And then there were the Kelts.

We didn’t know them as “the Kelts”, of course. They were Newby, Dottie, Patti and Marci. They always had atleast one dog with them. They were the epi-center of any family gathering. The stories and laughs couldn’t really start until “The Newb” showed up. He would usually announce his arrival, “It is I” he would say, as he walked in. His wife, Dottie, was always close beside or behind, smiling with her effervescent beauty all the way.

As The Newb and Dottie entertained, Patti and Marci were usually engaged in unpacking dogs, shotguns, perhaps a few beers or some other traveling requirements of the Kelt crowd. They knew the process. Shortly afterward, they would arrive with their inner and outer beauty taking over the room. As a kid, I would usually be dismissed shortly thereafter, as the crowd became more boisterous. This was usually how the Annual Newby Clan Opening Day Dove Shoot (or ANCODDS) would begin. Ah- family memories.

Legend has it that Newby played football, for a while, at the University of Georgia. As the story goes, he became acquainted with Wally Butts’ daughter and they dated for a while. Apparently he fell out of favor with the young lady and then Coach Butts, as well. He finished his college athletic career at Georgia on the wrestling team.

As a kid, I didn’t realize that Newby had flown in the Navy. I didn’t learn until later that he was one of the first RF-8 Crusader fighter pilots who found nuclear missiles on the island of Cuba. He never bragged about being awarded the Navy Distinguished Flying Cross for “single acts of heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in aerial flight.” He didn’t need to, ofcourse. He lived the heroism and achievement every day.

The Newby I knew was all about family, big smiles and love (and maybe a Bloody Mary, as needed). He once told his Mom, in response to her question about how he would summarize the sermon on that particular Sunday, by stating: “It was about Love, Mom.” That has become a general summary over a Sunday lunch for my family ever since. “That was a great sermon about love!”

Over the last few days Marci and I have shared stories and pictures about our Dads. We’ve promised to reunite our family and tighten the bond, once again. I shared how my Dad thought hers had hung the moon. In return Marci shared similar kind words, asked us to come visit and promised that, when we do, we’d be sent home with atleast one chicken, goat or dog. I don’t doubt that.

W. Newby Kelt’s life was one well lived. He served proudly, loved kindly and lived boldly. He leaves a family who will miss him dearly and will also carry their Mom and Dad’s legacy proudly. Godspeed, fair winds and Calm seas, Commander.

Newby and his wife Dottie are being buried together at the Jacksonville National Cemetery. You can read Newby’s apropos “official” obituary here:

https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/timesunion/obituary.aspx?n=william-newby-kelt&pid=198633168&fhid=11103