We are born. We live. And then we die.

Oh my, Bartow. What wisdom you impart. Such profundity.

Alright. I hear you. I get what you’re saying. Still, that is what it is. That is how it goes.

Now, of course there’s more to it than that. Of course. Yet there comes a time in the lives of each of us — some sooner, some later — when introspection compels us to, well, sort of assess what the journey has been all about. What it has meant. What comes after.

How do we measure the value of a life? What is really important? We do ponder these things, do we not, friends.

I particularly like that which was said, not so very long ago, by a prominent national figure, when speaking at a gathering to honor and remember those who had died in a tragic shooting rampage. (These events have become so commonplace that they seem to run all together at times.)

He asked, “How do we measure the value of a life? By wealth? Or status? Or power? Or fame? No. We measure the value of a life by how well we have loved.”

Then too, we probably all ponder how we will be remembered. If we will be remembered.

In this regard I’m reminded of the lyrics of the “Whiffenpoof Song,” that iconic Yale standard that has been sung so often down through the years. The melody is beautiful, the words haunting. The school’s men’s glee clubs of so many generations have harmonized so powerfully and poignantly this song.

It begins, “From the tables down at Morie’s to the place where Louie dwells, and the dear old Temple bar we love so well — Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled, with their glasses raised on high, as the magic of their singing casts its spell. Yes, the magic of their singing, of the songs we love so well . . .”

Then the chorus, “We are poor little lambs, who have lost our way. Baa, baa, baa. We are little lost sheep who have gone astray. Baa, baa, baa.

“Gentlemen songsters off on a spree, doomed from here to eternity. Lord, have mercy on such as we. Baa, baa, baa.”

And then, plaintively, the song nears its end when the men sing, “ … then we’ll pass and be forgotten with the rest.”

Forgotten with the rest. Is that what it will be? Well, yes. Eventually.

But maybe, just maybe, how quickly we are “forgotten with the rest,” or how long we may be remembered, isn’t really what’s truly important.

Maybe what’s important, really important, is “how well we have loved.”

We are born. We live. And then we die.