The old man opened his eyes slowly. How long he had slept, he couldn’t be certain, but the early signs of daylight that cut through the darkness outside his window told him it was time to stir.

A gentle knock at his bedroom door broke the silence.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Burwell.”

The valet was carrying a basin of fresh ice water which he placed on the floor beside the bed. The ice water had two purposes. To wake the mind and to ease the aches and pains of an aging body.

“You need my help, sir?”

“No thank you. I’ll get to it in a moment.”

The bedroom door closed and he could hear the footsteps descending the staircase to the kitchen. He pushed up on one elbow and tossed the covers back enough to work his legs over to one side. In one stilted motion he swung his body upright and placed his feet in the ice cold basin.

As he sat there, his mind turned to the many seasons of his life. Born into the farm life of Virginia. Married into the land he called home. A troubled politician. An aging soul wondering about the legacy which he might leave behind and by which the future might judge him.

To evaluate one’s life accurately is an elusive pursuit driven equally by the determination of ego and the misgivings of failure. Every man has his moments of glory in which he perceives some degree of honor due him. But in his later years it is easier to feel the humility of the decisions, actions, and words that leave him empty and without opportunity to correct the past.

He reaches for the towel at his bedside and dries his feet. He stands on the cool hardwood floor for a moment to collect his balance. The pain in his hip is a daily reminder of the arthritis that has stolen his once athletic ability to move effortlessly through life.

He dresses and takes a seat at his writing desk. His early morning routine is to write letters. He has been an avid reader since he was a boy. The written word and the nuance of language has always served him well. As an elder statesman of some note, he takes great pride in responding personally to the many letters he receives and in continuing the conversations with trusted friends who have labored beside him over the years.

Burwell enters the room again carrying a tray. Fresh baked bread, butter, beef tongue, and coffee. He sets the tray on the table beside the desk.

“Thank you, Burwell. The bread smells wonderful.”

“Yes sir. Will there be anything else?”

For hours he writes. Just him, his pen, and his papers. For over forty years he’s been saving his letters. Often, he makes duplicates of what he writes before sending them off. He does so partly because he is meticulous by nature, and partly because he has an eerie sense of his own posterity and what these letters might mean to the generations that follow. He knows that his voice will be forgotten but his words might live on.

By late morning he walks out into the garden he has built on this Virginia hillside. The orchards. The massive hedges. The measured rows of vegetables. The majestic trees, most of which he planted. Here he is at peace. The turmoil of politics cannot reach him. For all those years he spent away from home serving the greater good, he is more at home here than anywhere else on earth.

He pauses for a small bite of lunch, but his mind is on his afternoon ride. Although he stands erect at six foot two and a half inches, his legs are weak. He is not as stout as he once was. But in the saddle, he feels solid and unmovable. He feels the strength of his youth and those who saw him ride often talked about his horsemanship.

“Up there,” they said, “he looks like a young man again.”

A stable hand brings Eagle around to the side of the back porch. The difficulty of mounting from the ground had become nearly impossible for his unruly legs. From the porch, however, he can lower himself into the saddle where he centers himself in both body and soul.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?” The help worried about him.

“I have never felt more right,” he said.

He would be gone for hours riding over the hills and across the creeks. But his ride was leisurely. Unlike the 120 miles he had ridden many times between his home and Washington, his ride’s purpose now was merely pleasure. No meetings. No political agendas to resolve. No arguments to debate. No opposition to assail. No wars to win.

That was all in the past. Out here it was only him, Eagle, and the land he loved.

No man ever knows what mark he will leave on this world. He wonders what good he has done. Will his work live beyond the final curtain on his life? Even if he is aware that he has been engaged in one of the greatest and most turbulent times of recent history, he wonders.

On April 22, 1820, he wrote in one of his letters: “I regret that I am now to die in the belief that the useless sacrifice by the generation of 1776 is to be thrown away by the unwise and unworthy passions of their sons…that my only consolation is to be, that I live not to weep over it.”

We will all judge for ourselves whether or not Thomas Jefferson spent his life’s work as an exercise in useless sacrifice or as an expenditure of brilliant statesmanship. However you look at The Revolution, these are the men who gave to us the nation that we love.

I will not romanticize the generation of 1776. All men are flawed. But in light of our 250th birthday I would think myself a fool not to be grateful for the sacrifices made by the men who mutually pledged to each other their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.

On a hot July day in 1826, Thomas Jefferson fell ill. He laid in his bedroom at Monticello unable to wake, unable to write, unable to ride his beloved Eagle. He was 83 years old.

In Quincy, Massachusetts, some 560 miles away, his political adversary and closest friend, John Adams lay in his own bed near death. He was 90 years old. Both he and Jefferson had corresponded voraciously over the last 15 years and left for us perhaps the truest testimony of the spirit of the great Revolution.

On the evening of July 4th, 1826, exactly 50 years after the Declaration of Independence, John Adams breathed his last. His final words, “Thomas Jefferson still survives.” Although he was often opposed to Jefferson in the political discussions that shaped our fledgling country, he acknowledged the respect between them.

Adams was not aware that only hours earlier Thomas Jefferson had also breathed his last.

200 years ago, on July 4th, a divine appointment concluded.

Happy 250th America.