RIDE OF A LIFETIME
A Man, A Bench, and An Amusement Park
This reflective story is inspired by reverence for the passing of years and what matters most. Dedicated to my parents, Bernie & Judy Schlueter, whose testimony is its heartbeat.
When I was a child, the amusement park was a place I had only heard about, a wonder described to me in breathless detail by my best friend. His words painted a vivid picture: roller coasters soaring into the sky, the mingling aromas of popcorn and candied apples, music rising like a spell from the earth. I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even a picture to guide me—only his testimony, his uncontainable joy. And yet, I believed. His words awakened a yearning in me, a longing for something just beyond my reach.
When my parents finally took us, it was as though the gates to a promised land had opened. The skyline transformed as we approached, looping coasters and gleaming Ferris wheels rising like monuments to a dream made real. The air buzzed with anticipation; the road ahead was thick with families converging on the same destination. At the gate, the world burst into brilliance: the chatter of children, the shimmer of lights, and the mingling scents of sweets and salt filled the air with magic.
Inside, the park seemed infinite, a tapestry of delights. Pirate ships swung high against painted skies; carousels glowed with golden lights; coasters hurled people through the air in gravity-defying arcs. The rides lifted me up, hurled me down, and spun me round and round—a breathless, dizzying rhythm that seemed endless.
And then I saw him: the man on the bench. Amid the whirlwind of sound and color, he was a point of stillness, seated on a weathered bench as though rooted in the earth itself. He seemed utterly apart from the chaos, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the noise and motion. I noticed him only briefly before the call of the park swept me away, but he lingered in my thoughts—a quiet figure, a mystery I couldn’t yet fathom.
Years later, I returned with friends, bold and brimming with the confidence of youth. The park became a conquest, a battleground for adrenaline. We plotted our day with precision, determined to conquer every ride, every drop, every twist and turn. The coasters lifted us up, hurled us down, and spun us round and round. The thrill was intoxicating, the laughter unrestrained.
But as the day wore on, the rhythm of the rides began to feel cyclical, even repetitive. The loops, the spins, the plunges—they excited but didn’t satisfy. Between rides, we talked, our conversations straying into dreams and fears as though we were reaching for something greater. The park began to feel like a mirror, its wild loops reflecting the cycles of life: up, down, and round and round.
Walking past the bench, I saw him again. The man was older now, his back slightly stooped, his hands folded in his lap. He still sat in quiet contemplation, his eyes steady and distant, as though he saw something I could not. A fleeting curiosity stirred in me, but it was drowned out by the noise of youth, and I hurried on.
When I returned as a father, the park transformed once more. Now, it was my children’s joy that captured me. Their laughter and their wide-eyed wonder became my delight. I held their hands, pointed out the spinning teacups and the glittering carousels, and rode the wild coasters alongside them. I did not want to sit on the sidelines as my father had. I wanted to be part of their journey, to share the thrill, the laughter, and the small moments that knit hearts together.
The rides lifted us up, hurled us down, and spun us round and round. But now, it wasn’t the thrill that mattered. It was the bond, the shared wonder. I marveled at how love grows through action, how what my parents had given me—a foundation of love and wonder—I now sought to give my children. I wanted my ceiling to become their floor, their lives built on the heights of all that had been poured into mine.
The man on the bench was still there. His frame had grown frailer, a cane resting beside him, but his stillness remained. His gaze seemed deeper now, less distant, more centered. For the first time, I felt something more than curiosity. I felt recognition, faint but undeniable—a sense that his stillness held a truth I had yet to grasp.
As a grandfather, I returned again. The park, once a place of thrilling chaos, had become quieter for me. My grandchildren’s laughter filled the air, their joy drawing me into moments of pure delight. Yet I no longer rode the rides. The spinning coasters and plunging drops had lost their pull; the amusements had subsided. My joy now was rooted in watching my children and grandchildren, in the moments of connection that needed no flashing lights or wild spins.
The rides lifted them up, hurled them down, and spun them round and round, but I sat on the edges, content to marvel at the bonds we shared.
And then, for the first time, I noticed the bench was empty.
It startled me, the absence of the man who had always been there. For so many years, he had been a fixture, his stillness a counterpoint to the park’s movement. With unspoken reverence, I stood beside where he had once been, feeling the weight of his absence. It was a different kind of testimony, one not spoken but felt. I wondered if this was the nature of testimony: to meet us where we are, first as children, with stories of wonder, and then as adults, with quiet truths that invite us to listen with our souls.
Now, I am old. My body is slow, my strength diminished. My days are quieter, my steps measured by the weight of years. My children and grandchildren visit when they can, their laughter a sweet echo that lingers in the chambers of my heart. Friends who once walked beside me have faded into memory. The love of my life, who anchored my joys and bore my burdens, is no longer here.
Her absence is a tender ache that humbles me, sharp as the first pang of loss yet softened by the passage of time. And still, she lingers. Her presence weaves through my days like the warmth of the sun after rain, steady and certain. In the quiet, in the caress of a breeze, in the melody of an old song, I feel her—a testimony that speaks not with words but with love; an invitation, summoning me to a place I have not yet seen, but in my depths I know I am destined to go.
And I know where I must go.
The park feels quieter now, not because it has changed, but because I have. The rides still rise and fall, spinning endlessly in their rhythm: up, down, and round and round. Yet they no longer draw me in with their motion. Instead, their rhythm whispers of something far greater. The laughter of children, the clasp of parents’ hands, the spinning motion of the rides—are reflections of life itself. Every cycle, every joy, every ache has carried me to this moment.
I come to the park now because of a pull, quiet yet insistent, as though a hand has been guiding me all along—through childhood wonder, youthful thrill, and the profound joys and sorrows of family. Step by step, it has brought me here, to the quiet of old age, where the threads of my life weave into sudden clarity.
The realization rises slowly, then all at once, a quiet crescendo of certainty. I have been summoned here, to this place of stillness, to witness what the motion cannot reveal.
And then I see it.
Amid all the amusements that once captivated my imagination, what now speaks most clearly to my soul is no longer an inconspicuous place to rest. It is imbued with meaning—indeed, the center of it all. It is the culmination of the force that has carried me through every season. This is where the rhythm ceases, the world subsides, and something eternal begins to take form.
As I sit, the bench creaks beneath me, its wood worn smooth by countless lives that have paused here before mine. The faint grooves and weathered grain tell stories of those who sought its refuge—of laughter softened by time, of burdens briefly laid down, of moments stolen from the clamor of the world. The bench is not merely a seat; it is a witness, its quiet endurance a testament to the currents of life that have swirled around it.
I run my hand along its edge, the texture familiar yet sacred, as though it holds the echoes of those who came before. I think of the man who once sat here, his stillness now a part of me. I feel the weight of his presence, not as absence, but as entrustment—a quiet passing of something eternal and hallowed, from him to me.
Here, now, the park begins to fade—not into silence, but into clarity. The bench holds me steady, a beloved companion as the rhythm of the world ebbs away. I close my eyes and feel its quiet strength beneath me, the unseen presence that has guided me through every season now drawing me forward, gently, lovingly.
The solemn quiet wraps around me and holds me fast.
I am ready for my final ride.
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Greg Schlueter is an author, speaker, and movement leader passionate about restoring faith, family, and culture. He leads Image Trinity (ILoveMyFamily.us), a dynamic marriage and family movement, and offers thought-provoking commentary on his blog, GregorianRant.us. He hosts the popular radio program and podcast IGNITE Radio Live (IGNITERadioLive.com) alongside his wife, fostering meaningful conversations that inspire transformation. His recent book, The Magnificent Piglets of Pigletsville, uses the power of allegory to illuminate our current cultural challenges, offering a compelling, hopeful vision for renewal.