I’m currently enjoying a few days in North Florida, which is—for those unfamiliar—the part of Florida not heavily populated by the New Jersey diaspora. Breezy blue skies and a roaring ocean work their soothing elixir after I’ve cruised into town on a hectic autumn’s fumes. The grime, crime and clogged interstates are in my rearview mirror; life has returned! I guess I’m on an Atlantic High without the actual voyage, but with a hat-tip to the late William F. Buckley for the clever title that captures my mood.

This isn’t a typical Florida retirement town, despite the trifecta of golf, sun and ocean. There are plenty of older people in the mix, but the proximity to a larger city attracts professionals and families, too. The area is dominated by single family homes, so there are no Del Boca Vista Phase II developments along the coastline, making it a bit less appealing to the throngs that flock to Florida’s southern beaches.

Still, the complement of golf-loving retirees flavors the everyday habits of shopping, dining, and strolling the beach. The ambient calm of their slower pace infects us all; and most older people observe the fast-fading manners of a generation raised without brain-wasting cell phones. There’s no throbbing nightlife here, and nobody cruises “the strip.” The visible result is a coastal community of well-kept yards, low crime and lower blood pressure. You may be flagged for cycling too fast, though; I was shouted down for not observing the “speed limit around here” as I pedaled by a dog walker at a blistering 13 miles per hour.

Observing the relaxed world of retirees is, in other ways, like strolling a cemetery, but with the living on display as instructive monuments. We will all be there one day, after all. Their lifetime of years is not engraved in marble but piled up in garages and destined for thrift stores—old china, boxes of magazines and holiday decorations, or idled ski equipment. Some lives are proudly encased in frozen Botox stares, the trademark expressions of wealthy women who now defy both gravity and human warmth. Some wear their sorrows and joys humbly, yet nobly; a wrinkled and stooped figure, the most human of all, promises a story that might move us to tears, and a weathered countenance conceals hard-earned wisdom.

It’s Thanksgiving, though, so seniors of all stripes now push their posterity around the neighborhood or rest happily on benches, watching families flock in sweatshirts on the beach. Their kitchen counters will likely host potatoes, tin foil pans, and messy trays of favorite sweets. Their packed garages will be treasure troves for curious children, thus delaying their thrift store destinies. For a joyous while, the old and the new still travel together in the high spirits of holiday fun.

Those with no visitors may experience a very different Thanksgiving—a lonely or silent spell amid crowded grocery stores and holiday frivolity. For those suffering and weary spirits, bigger truths and enduring treasures may seem lost in others’ cranberry merriment. For a few weeks, the louder immediacy of food, lights, gifts and gatherings commands everyone’s attention, and we’re either enlivened or dispirited by the turkey and tinsel show.

For all of us, though, Thanksgiving presents an opportunity to slow down and ponder life’s weightier glories— not just turkeys or pilgrims, as wonderful as these traditions are. Agnostic approaches to such reflection are as shallow as a baking pan; and rendering thanks to a vague “universe” won’t satisfy our deeper appetites. If we’re wise, we can instead take a day to consider whether our lives will be spent as a blessing or a curse. Will others one day walk in thankful relief for the path we lit heavenwards, or will they labor under the darkness of our wayward and futile example?

A lifetime’s most impressive monument—even if gravestones fail to report it—is its legacy among the living. Old souls carry either an “aroma of Christ” or a stench of vanity that clings to those who journey in their wake—children, grandchildren, students, coworkers and neighbors. The responsibility is heavy, but not unforgiving; even an old life broken by stupid living or vanity can find redemptive beauty that ripples hope through generations. Turkey or not, surrounded or alone, we can be thankful for the God of second chances.

This originally appeared on Restoring Truth.