Among my treasures is a tarnished silver cup, just over a half-century old. The bottom half of the round cup flares out; the top half narrows before broadening once again at the rim. Each of my siblings have a similar silver cup, though--significantly--each with a distinctive profile.

The sweet spot of the cup is engraved with my name. The name my parents chose has proven eerily prophetic. "Michael" is an expression of wonder for the divine: "Who is like God?" "Andrew" is descriptive of a calling: "One who speaks on God's behalf." And, of course, "Fox" describes a remarkably fine looking gentleman.

Well, two out of three's not bad.

When my mother pulled the silver cup from its wrapping fifty-five years ago, it was without blemish and empty of all but promise. Today, the cup is tarnished, but it's full: education and experience; meeting and parting; weakness and strength; failure and success; infidelity and faithfulness; shame and honor; disappointment and gratitude; sorrow and joy. 

And more. So much more.

The cup and its fullness represent the early quest for identity, security, survival. What an exhausting investment of energy in the accumulation! As I enter the second half of life, however, I think less about filling the cup, and more about emptying it.

And as I empty the cup, I imagine that only then will I be filled.

What comes to mind when you contemplate the contents of your silver cup? 

Would you describe its contents as bitter or sweet?

How might you empty your silver cup to redeem your years?