As I begin my 11th year as Faith and Values columnist, I find myself looking back further than the past decade.

Forty-five years ago I graduated from Wenatchee High School. This month I will attend our class reunion. Anticipating that event, I’ve been reflecting on lessons I’ve learned since graduation.

The year we reached for our diploma, Richard Nixon was President. The draft was populating our military presence in Vietnam. Earth Day was established. In 1970, Clearasil was the drug of choice. Image was everything. What we wore mattered almost as much as who we hung out with. Jocks. Greasers. Band geeks. Drama nerds. Smokers. Students.

Actually we were all students. Many were average. Some were good students. A handful were really good. Those below average were smarter than their grades indicated.

And then we graduated. (Well, most of us did).

Attending Friday night football games gave way to focusing on the game of life. Concerns over lost homework would give way to attempts to lose weight or finding ways to deal with the loss of moms, dads and mates. Some are even attempting to cope with a diagnosis of memory-loss.

Preoccupation with pimples on our faces gave way to fixation with pictures on Facebook. Wearing our hair the right way has given way to feeling grateful for the hair we have.

What mattered 45 years ago doesn’t seem to matter so much. What does matter is time with children and grandchildren or caring for the needs of aging parents.

Students who mocked those who were quick to verbalize their faith in high school are more apt to embrace the need of God as their own health declines or as family issues find them on their knees. Those who tended to be a bit Pharisaical about their faith are more inclined to be less legalistic.

I’m grateful for one more opportunity to interact in-person with those who are more than a young face in an old yearbook. Those with whom I will gather are far more than a clever post on a Facebook page. They are people with whom I share a common past and an unpredictable future.

They are people who realize every memorial service we attend is one closer to our own and that each day is a gift.

Rev. Greg Asimakoupoulos is a regular columnist for the Mercer Island Reporter.