“Are you ready for retirement?” I asked myself that question last week at my dad’s retirement reception. Of course I’m not ready for retirement. Unless someone drops a couple of million into my bank account, it will be years before that day arrives in my life. But, preparation for retirement begins long before actual retirement. The question, “Are you ready for retirement?” has to be asked with a measure of urgency, and the sooner the better. In a sense, we have to get in the retirement mode, which is difficult for most of us. Someone said it like this: “When you retire, think and act as if you were still working; when you're still working, think and act a bit as if you were already retired.”
When we fail to plan for retirement we plan to fail in retirement. This past year millions of Americans awoke on their retirement day with some sobering news: apart from either government assistance or family support, they do not have the resources to survive their retirement years, much less enjoy the fruit of their labor. For thousands, this is the direct result of the 2009 financial collapse; for others, simple negligence is the cause.
The truth is, less than half (43%) of Americans have calculated how much they will need to retire. I’ve learned it’s much more than I thought. One reason it will take more than many anticipated is because of the simple fact that we are living longer. The average life expectancy in the US was 72.6 years in 1975; by 2007, it had increased to 77.9. For many people who will live into their 80s, 90s, and even 100s, this means they will be retired longer than they worked, says Carl Macko, CFP, president of Synergy Capital in Smyrna, Georgia. But there are other reasons, according to Forbes.com reporter Lisa LaMotta. Adult children can have money problems, which can quickly drain the parents’ financial resources. In addition, health care costs and taxes, inflation, and home repairs are all potential problems just waiting to absorb your retirement fund. Financial advisors, I hasten to add, strongly recommend not touching retirement savings to address these unexpected situations.
But, the question still remains, “Are you ready for retirement?” Let’s suppose I did win the lottery, and won millions. Would I be ready for retirement? We can have all our financial “ducks in a row” and still be “sitting ducks,” unprepared for what awaits us. Our inner lives will not suddenly be different at retirement than now. A good retirement begins with a good today.
Each today leads to another tomorrow; each day is filled with whatever we choose to put into it, which is the condition for what we receive from it. How we live each passing moment will bear the fruit we will eat in later years.
The day after Dad’s retirement reception, Dad, my two brothers and I, met for coffee. I couldn’t help but overhear a worker say at mid-morning break, “I just can’t wait for this day to be over.” I understand, I’ve had days like that. But then again, I wondered if that was her life, one day at a time.
The retirement reception for Dad was outstanding. My sister-in-law, Joy, had been there to make it happen. All I had to do was show up, and then at the close, help Dad up the steps. It was there, holding his hand, that I caught his smile again, and as he glanced my way with that smile, it was quite suddenly early Saturday morning, December, 1962. I could feel my dad’s steady hand lifting me into the air between steps as my seven year old feet, striving to keep in step with his fast pace, were lifted by the strength of his arm. Hurrying alongside Dad, left hand warm in my coat pocket, right hand secure in his, I was afraid of missing the moment, in this case, arriving at Art’s Boot Shop before he closed at noon, anxious as I was for a new pair of Christmas cowboy boots. And in that moment, looking up at Dad, I felt his smile, as he too anticipated what lay ahead.
Now on this day, 45 years later, as I slow my walk to match his hobbled, uncertain ones, I embrace that same smile, grasping the adventure of walking together. Retirement day is only the culmination and continuation of life’s crooked, meandering, and thrilling uphill climb. The walk is as much the adventure as the arrival. And retirement is just another step in the mystery of this life we live, even as it reminds us of our boundaries, our limitations, and our expiration date.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can contact David @ drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
“Al and Tipper: After all those years, Smash!”
Barney Fife is steaming, once again. In an effort to make Barney suffer for having taken her for granted, (“I’ve got that little girl right in my hip pocket,” he boasted), Thelma Lou goes out with Gomer Pyle. Barney is nonplussed; then he is completely unglued, and Andy Griffith comes to the rescue. Trying to calm Barney down, Andy first asks, “Barney, is anything wrong?
“Wrong?” Barney sarcastically responds. “Just that everything’s gone smash, that’s all! We’re all through, Thelma Lou and me. It’s all shot. It’s all come to an end. After all these years, smash.”
You can’t help but wonder if anyone ever asked the Gores that question, “Is anything wrong?” It seemed to us, on the outside looking in, that the question needn’t be asked. After all, theirs was the placid, stable, almost boringly steady marriage, solidly anchored in a love that safeguarded them in the turbulent sea of American public life, while the marriage of their counterparts, the Clintons, was rough, unsteady, stormy, and seemingly adrift. Yet, the Clintons are still “Together,” while the Gores are “Split.” This doesn’t mean the Clintons necessarily had or have a better marriage than the Gores; it only means the appearance of “better” is no guarantee of endurance.
“This is very much a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration," the Gore’s email said.
Does the Gore’s breakup spell trouble for baby-boomer marriages? Does their separation signal a new trend for late-stage marriages? The fact is, even under the best of circumstances, marriage has always been a precarious institution because the people who enter into it are so often unpredictable, subject to the emotions that make them who they are: sometimes passionate, sometimes passive, often careless. Not every picture perfect marriage is what it appears to be, once you step inside the picture frame.
Let’s face it: no marriage comes with a warranty, not even, as with the Gores, after forty years, four children, and three grandchildren. When someone stops paying attention, eventually the relationship goes “smash,” more often with a silent “smash,” or in the words of T.S. Eliot, “not with a bang but with a whimper,” so that the news, when it finally comes, surprises and shocks, as if it were something that happened that day and not as it is, a death that occurred long ago.
Maybe the Gores are causalities of love’s slow fade, where love itself is taken for granted and once taken for granted, assumed, then ignored, and finally, missing. Like sandcastles on the seashore, swallowed by the retreat of each outgoing tide, so love can be eroded by neglect and strewn across the sun bleached beaches of moribundity, desiccated by apathy. Multiple factors---sometimes money, sometimes differing values, sometimes a lack of interest, sometimes someone more exciting or just different---serve to gradually pull two people apart until they awake, and upon discovering themselves strangers to one another, decide getting reacquainted is too much effort. Saying good-bye becomes as antiseptic and dull as the marriage itself, “a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration."
Do I hear a yawn? Apparently, the Gores did for quite some time.
How then can you make love last in a marriage? Before his death on June 4th, Hall of Fame basketball coach John Wooden was asked that question. Not only was he the greatest college basketball coach in NCAA history, winning 10 national championships, including seven straight (1968-1973), Wooden also had a successful marriage to his wife, Nellie, who died in 1985 after 53 years of matrimony to Coach Wooden. Until his death, he would write his deceased wife a love letter on the 21st of each month and gently place it on her pillow. So, what was his key to making love last? “Only one way,” he said. “Truly, truly, truly love. It’s the most powerful thing there is."
I take it from the repetition of the word, “truly” that he meant: genuinely, consistently, devotedly, wholeheartedly.
Wooden’s degree of love for Nellie is extremely rare. For most of us, living love day in and day out is much easier said than done. But it is possible, especially when it truly is love. And when it comes from the heart, truly, and is more than empty words, it’s right, so very right, even if we get it just right only now and then. After all, the adventure is in the striving.
So, “Is anything wrong?”
“No, Andy, everything is right, just right.”
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit David’s website at davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
“Wrong?” Barney sarcastically responds. “Just that everything’s gone smash, that’s all! We’re all through, Thelma Lou and me. It’s all shot. It’s all come to an end. After all these years, smash.”
You can’t help but wonder if anyone ever asked the Gores that question, “Is anything wrong?” It seemed to us, on the outside looking in, that the question needn’t be asked. After all, theirs was the placid, stable, almost boringly steady marriage, solidly anchored in a love that safeguarded them in the turbulent sea of American public life, while the marriage of their counterparts, the Clintons, was rough, unsteady, stormy, and seemingly adrift. Yet, the Clintons are still “Together,” while the Gores are “Split.” This doesn’t mean the Clintons necessarily had or have a better marriage than the Gores; it only means the appearance of “better” is no guarantee of endurance.
“This is very much a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration," the Gore’s email said.
Does the Gore’s breakup spell trouble for baby-boomer marriages? Does their separation signal a new trend for late-stage marriages? The fact is, even under the best of circumstances, marriage has always been a precarious institution because the people who enter into it are so often unpredictable, subject to the emotions that make them who they are: sometimes passionate, sometimes passive, often careless. Not every picture perfect marriage is what it appears to be, once you step inside the picture frame.
Let’s face it: no marriage comes with a warranty, not even, as with the Gores, after forty years, four children, and three grandchildren. When someone stops paying attention, eventually the relationship goes “smash,” more often with a silent “smash,” or in the words of T.S. Eliot, “not with a bang but with a whimper,” so that the news, when it finally comes, surprises and shocks, as if it were something that happened that day and not as it is, a death that occurred long ago.
Maybe the Gores are causalities of love’s slow fade, where love itself is taken for granted and once taken for granted, assumed, then ignored, and finally, missing. Like sandcastles on the seashore, swallowed by the retreat of each outgoing tide, so love can be eroded by neglect and strewn across the sun bleached beaches of moribundity, desiccated by apathy. Multiple factors---sometimes money, sometimes differing values, sometimes a lack of interest, sometimes someone more exciting or just different---serve to gradually pull two people apart until they awake, and upon discovering themselves strangers to one another, decide getting reacquainted is too much effort. Saying good-bye becomes as antiseptic and dull as the marriage itself, “a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration."
Do I hear a yawn? Apparently, the Gores did for quite some time.
How then can you make love last in a marriage? Before his death on June 4th, Hall of Fame basketball coach John Wooden was asked that question. Not only was he the greatest college basketball coach in NCAA history, winning 10 national championships, including seven straight (1968-1973), Wooden also had a successful marriage to his wife, Nellie, who died in 1985 after 53 years of matrimony to Coach Wooden. Until his death, he would write his deceased wife a love letter on the 21st of each month and gently place it on her pillow. So, what was his key to making love last? “Only one way,” he said. “Truly, truly, truly love. It’s the most powerful thing there is."
I take it from the repetition of the word, “truly” that he meant: genuinely, consistently, devotedly, wholeheartedly.
Wooden’s degree of love for Nellie is extremely rare. For most of us, living love day in and day out is much easier said than done. But it is possible, especially when it truly is love. And when it comes from the heart, truly, and is more than empty words, it’s right, so very right, even if we get it just right only now and then. After all, the adventure is in the striving.
So, “Is anything wrong?”
“No, Andy, everything is right, just right.”
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit David’s website at davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
"It Breaks Your Heart"
Angelo Bartlett Giamatti, former President of Yale University and before his untimely death in 1989 at the age of 51, the 7th Commissioner of Major League Baseball, said of the game he loved, “It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.”
Anyone who watched the replay of Armando Galarraga’s elation in that split second when he rightly assumed he had pitched the perfect baseball game---only the 21st perfect game in baseball history, the first 28-out perfect game, the first perfect game for a Detroit Tiger pitcher--- anyone who watched him rise to baseball heaven in that ecstatic moment, anyone who winced in sympathy with his pain when an umpire snatched him from it in an instant, pulling him from the joy, pushing him to the agony, and all because of a botched call, anyone who watched the replay where perfect was called imperfect, flawless declared flawed, faultless found blemished, anyone who watched the wry smile on Galarraga’s face at the realization of the loss, anyone who saw the tears of personal disappointment on umpire Jim Joyce’s face upon admitting he made an enormously inexcusable mistake, anyone who viewed that historic scene would agree with Giamatti, “It breaks your heart.”
And that’s why I love baseball.
Baseball is life, really. Not in the sense that it in itself gives us a meaning, a purpose, or a reason for living. Rather, the game of baseball mirrors so many of life’s realities: it is completely fair and subject to an umpire’s mistake; it’s frequently dramatic and often mundane; it’s intense and relaxing; it keeps you on the edge of your seat while you wait and wait for something, anything, to happen; it’s a game in which many are overpaid and more don’t earn enough, a game where a player’s mistakes might be published daily and his perfections forgotten in a moment; it is a sport that displays the spoiled rottenness of some and the graceful compassion of others. Just like life.
And that brings me back to pitcher Armando Galarraga and umpire Jim Joyce. Joyce, who is by no means an incompetent, made a mistake. Until he saw the replay, he was convinced had made right call. As soon as he recognized he hadn’t, he headed to the Tiger’s clubhouse to apologize, requesting to speak personally with Galarraga. Joyce then publicly apologized with sincere sympathy for Galarraga: “I took a perfect game away from that kid over there who worked his (*#*!) off all night.” And Galarraga graciously accepted. “He really feels bad, probably more bad than me,” he said. In a public display of forgiveness, the next night Gallarraga presented the lineup card to Joyce at the beginning of the game. Both shook hands. Then, Joyce wept.
This baseball episode will be a favorite rerun more for the authentic and spontaneous exhibition of compassion and forgiveness in the leading characters’ roles than for the missed call or the perfect game.
And isn’t that like life when lived as it should and can be? What we give in love, kindness, and forgiveness is what endures. We often make mistakes, sometimes enormous ones, publicly. And it’s embarrassing. But, every now and then we get it all together at just the right moment. It’s perfect, beautiful. But it only takes one person who mistakes a work of art for the mediocrity of an amateur, and the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of the artist can die in an instant. And sometimes the artist and judge are one and the same: ourselves. It’s then, when we, the judge or the artist, must do what Joyce and Galarraga did: admit our mistake and extend the hand of forgiveness, knowing in our heart that when we pitch the perfect game, no one can take it away, even when no one recognizes it for what it truly is, even when no one recognizes it at all.
And that’s life. It breaks your heart. It’s designed that way.
Anyone who watched the replay of Armando Galarraga’s elation in that split second when he rightly assumed he had pitched the perfect baseball game---only the 21st perfect game in baseball history, the first 28-out perfect game, the first perfect game for a Detroit Tiger pitcher--- anyone who watched him rise to baseball heaven in that ecstatic moment, anyone who winced in sympathy with his pain when an umpire snatched him from it in an instant, pulling him from the joy, pushing him to the agony, and all because of a botched call, anyone who watched the replay where perfect was called imperfect, flawless declared flawed, faultless found blemished, anyone who watched the wry smile on Galarraga’s face at the realization of the loss, anyone who saw the tears of personal disappointment on umpire Jim Joyce’s face upon admitting he made an enormously inexcusable mistake, anyone who viewed that historic scene would agree with Giamatti, “It breaks your heart.”
And that’s why I love baseball.
Baseball is life, really. Not in the sense that it in itself gives us a meaning, a purpose, or a reason for living. Rather, the game of baseball mirrors so many of life’s realities: it is completely fair and subject to an umpire’s mistake; it’s frequently dramatic and often mundane; it’s intense and relaxing; it keeps you on the edge of your seat while you wait and wait for something, anything, to happen; it’s a game in which many are overpaid and more don’t earn enough, a game where a player’s mistakes might be published daily and his perfections forgotten in a moment; it is a sport that displays the spoiled rottenness of some and the graceful compassion of others. Just like life.
And that brings me back to pitcher Armando Galarraga and umpire Jim Joyce. Joyce, who is by no means an incompetent, made a mistake. Until he saw the replay, he was convinced had made right call. As soon as he recognized he hadn’t, he headed to the Tiger’s clubhouse to apologize, requesting to speak personally with Galarraga. Joyce then publicly apologized with sincere sympathy for Galarraga: “I took a perfect game away from that kid over there who worked his (*#*!) off all night.” And Galarraga graciously accepted. “He really feels bad, probably more bad than me,” he said. In a public display of forgiveness, the next night Gallarraga presented the lineup card to Joyce at the beginning of the game. Both shook hands. Then, Joyce wept.
This baseball episode will be a favorite rerun more for the authentic and spontaneous exhibition of compassion and forgiveness in the leading characters’ roles than for the missed call or the perfect game.
And isn’t that like life when lived as it should and can be? What we give in love, kindness, and forgiveness is what endures. We often make mistakes, sometimes enormous ones, publicly. And it’s embarrassing. But, every now and then we get it all together at just the right moment. It’s perfect, beautiful. But it only takes one person who mistakes a work of art for the mediocrity of an amateur, and the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of the artist can die in an instant. And sometimes the artist and judge are one and the same: ourselves. It’s then, when we, the judge or the artist, must do what Joyce and Galarraga did: admit our mistake and extend the hand of forgiveness, knowing in our heart that when we pitch the perfect game, no one can take it away, even when no one recognizes it for what it truly is, even when no one recognizes it at all.
And that’s life. It breaks your heart. It’s designed that way.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Will My Dog be in Heaven?
People sometimes ask me if their dog will be in heaven. My short answer is, tongue in cheek, “Heaven? Yes. Hell? No!”
I do believe dogs will be in heaven, but since they are not capable of making moral decisions, hell is not an option. It is only by God’s mercy that dogs, or humans for that matter, will be in heaven. Now, before you protest that mercy is reserved exclusively for humans, since only they are responsible for moral decisions, let me explain.
In the first creation account in Genesis, animals were placed under the care of humans. In time, because of humanity’s disobedience, so the story goes, God brought judgment on the earth in the form of a worldwide flood. When God spared Noah and his family, they took animals on board the ark. Animals, incapable of choosing right and wrong, were by God’s mercy, spared. God’s plan for a renewed earth obviously included animals, and I suppose my two Schnauzers’ ancestors were on board then.
But that’s not all. Apparently, God’s plan for a new earth, or kingdom, or heaven, includes animals as well, if you believe the Hebrew prophet Isaiah, who foresaw a new heaven and earth where, “The wolf and the lamb will feed together. The lion will eat hay like a cow.” This harmonizes nicely with the Apostle Paul’s belief that “all creation has been groaning” under the curse of the fall and “eagerly awaits” complete deliverance. “All creation” would surely include animals. (My Schnauzers raced through the house, over and under the furniture, in rapturous joy after I sat them down on my lap and shared this thought with them.)
Of course, some scientists and philosophers scoff at all this as nothing more than poppycock. They maintain that dogs, for example, are nothing more than “social parasites,” which means our canine friends have learned to mimic certain human behaviors, ingratiating themselves to us so that we love them, mistakenly thinking they “love” us. Dogs need us for food and shelter and this explains why they, in the evolutionary course of nature, have attained this ability, and raccoons, rats, and squirrels have not: the latter creatures don’t need us for survival as dogs do. (I reminded my dogs how much they needed me just the other day as I chased them down the street and from under the skirt of an innocent neighbor at her mailbox).
But, this misses the point. Just as all creation “groans,” and not just those at the higher rung of God’s evolutionary ladder, so all will be released from the “curse.” And we could assume then, that the qualities of God would be reflected in his creatures. As Randy Alcorn notes in his book, Heaven, “Once the Curse is lifted, we’ll see more attributes of God in animals than we’ve thought about.”
All right then, that explains why, when I first let my Schnauzers out of their crate in the morning, they can’t wait to lick me right smack dab on my nose: those aren’t the kisses of a “social parasite,” training me to feed them and let them outdoors; those are drops of God’s love, teasing me towards the anticipation of better things to come. So, when I get home tonight, I’m going to rub my dogs’ tummies, trust that God’s Word is right and throw in with Will Rogers, who said, “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
I do believe dogs will be in heaven, but since they are not capable of making moral decisions, hell is not an option. It is only by God’s mercy that dogs, or humans for that matter, will be in heaven. Now, before you protest that mercy is reserved exclusively for humans, since only they are responsible for moral decisions, let me explain.
In the first creation account in Genesis, animals were placed under the care of humans. In time, because of humanity’s disobedience, so the story goes, God brought judgment on the earth in the form of a worldwide flood. When God spared Noah and his family, they took animals on board the ark. Animals, incapable of choosing right and wrong, were by God’s mercy, spared. God’s plan for a renewed earth obviously included animals, and I suppose my two Schnauzers’ ancestors were on board then.
But that’s not all. Apparently, God’s plan for a new earth, or kingdom, or heaven, includes animals as well, if you believe the Hebrew prophet Isaiah, who foresaw a new heaven and earth where, “The wolf and the lamb will feed together. The lion will eat hay like a cow.” This harmonizes nicely with the Apostle Paul’s belief that “all creation has been groaning” under the curse of the fall and “eagerly awaits” complete deliverance. “All creation” would surely include animals. (My Schnauzers raced through the house, over and under the furniture, in rapturous joy after I sat them down on my lap and shared this thought with them.)
Of course, some scientists and philosophers scoff at all this as nothing more than poppycock. They maintain that dogs, for example, are nothing more than “social parasites,” which means our canine friends have learned to mimic certain human behaviors, ingratiating themselves to us so that we love them, mistakenly thinking they “love” us. Dogs need us for food and shelter and this explains why they, in the evolutionary course of nature, have attained this ability, and raccoons, rats, and squirrels have not: the latter creatures don’t need us for survival as dogs do. (I reminded my dogs how much they needed me just the other day as I chased them down the street and from under the skirt of an innocent neighbor at her mailbox).
But, this misses the point. Just as all creation “groans,” and not just those at the higher rung of God’s evolutionary ladder, so all will be released from the “curse.” And we could assume then, that the qualities of God would be reflected in his creatures. As Randy Alcorn notes in his book, Heaven, “Once the Curse is lifted, we’ll see more attributes of God in animals than we’ve thought about.”
All right then, that explains why, when I first let my Schnauzers out of their crate in the morning, they can’t wait to lick me right smack dab on my nose: those aren’t the kisses of a “social parasite,” training me to feed them and let them outdoors; those are drops of God’s love, teasing me towards the anticipation of better things to come. So, when I get home tonight, I’m going to rub my dogs’ tummies, trust that God’s Word is right and throw in with Will Rogers, who said, “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, May 28, 2010
Unspoken Prayers Sometimes Speak the Loudest
Sometimes it’s the silent prayers that speak the loudest.
For years my mother has prayed for me on Sunday mornings before I preach. Last Sunday, Lori and I had taken our oldest daughter, Mary-Elizabeth, to the airport to fly to New York City where she is interning with Harper’s Bazaar for the summer. As Lori and I were driving back from Mary-Liz’s 7 a.m. flight, we talked of how we were excited and somewhat apprehensive about her opportunity in New York. And then back home, on my way to church, I asked mom to pray for Mary-Liz as she was at the moment in flight.
Mom started to pray for her granddaughter, and in mid-sentence stopped. Thinking it was a dropped call, I looked at my cell phone, then spoke, “Hello? Hello!” Nothing. Then I realized it wasn’t a dropped call or a dead area but an unspoken prayer. Mom’s voice, a tad weaker after 88 years of life, falters easier than it did in younger years. And I could sense she was tired that day. But something else was happening too.
Sometimes we simply can’t say the words. The emotion inside can squelch the strongest of voices. The intercessor whose soul searches for words expressing the yearning of the heart--- a heart sometimes burdened with the plight of others, sometimes exuberant with joy, sometimes pained with past failures, but nonetheless seeking a connection with God, a God who receives the inexplicable, the unutterable, the unspeakable with infinite understanding---on occasion can only gasp for words. And that was what happened as mom prayed. Her prayer was silenced.
But it was heard, ever so clearly. As Origen, the early church father of the third century observed: “God pays less attention to the words we use in prayer than he does to what is in our heart and mind.” The Searcher of hearts is attentive to those desiring him, those desperate ones, those delirious for him. And when we, prompted by the Spirit of love are moved by compassion, care, and concern for others, even as we search for the Finder of hearts, then the One dwelling in us speaks the unspoken for us. This knowledge gives the speechless believer hope. The hope is that prayer, even when inexpressible, is ultimately the declaration of a life seeking its purpose beyond the self. As the Cistercian monk of the Abby of Gethsemani, Thomas Merton, said, “The purpose of our life is to bring all our strivings and desires into the sanctuary of the inner self and place them all under the command of an inner and God-inspired consciousness. This is the work of grace.”
When mom couldn’t speak, I spoke for her. I prayed what I thought she wanted to pray for Mary-Elizabeth. But words were not necessary. They had already been spoken. Sometimes it’s the silent prayers that speak the loudest.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com., or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
For years my mother has prayed for me on Sunday mornings before I preach. Last Sunday, Lori and I had taken our oldest daughter, Mary-Elizabeth, to the airport to fly to New York City where she is interning with Harper’s Bazaar for the summer. As Lori and I were driving back from Mary-Liz’s 7 a.m. flight, we talked of how we were excited and somewhat apprehensive about her opportunity in New York. And then back home, on my way to church, I asked mom to pray for Mary-Liz as she was at the moment in flight.
Mom started to pray for her granddaughter, and in mid-sentence stopped. Thinking it was a dropped call, I looked at my cell phone, then spoke, “Hello? Hello!” Nothing. Then I realized it wasn’t a dropped call or a dead area but an unspoken prayer. Mom’s voice, a tad weaker after 88 years of life, falters easier than it did in younger years. And I could sense she was tired that day. But something else was happening too.
Sometimes we simply can’t say the words. The emotion inside can squelch the strongest of voices. The intercessor whose soul searches for words expressing the yearning of the heart--- a heart sometimes burdened with the plight of others, sometimes exuberant with joy, sometimes pained with past failures, but nonetheless seeking a connection with God, a God who receives the inexplicable, the unutterable, the unspeakable with infinite understanding---on occasion can only gasp for words. And that was what happened as mom prayed. Her prayer was silenced.
But it was heard, ever so clearly. As Origen, the early church father of the third century observed: “God pays less attention to the words we use in prayer than he does to what is in our heart and mind.” The Searcher of hearts is attentive to those desiring him, those desperate ones, those delirious for him. And when we, prompted by the Spirit of love are moved by compassion, care, and concern for others, even as we search for the Finder of hearts, then the One dwelling in us speaks the unspoken for us. This knowledge gives the speechless believer hope. The hope is that prayer, even when inexpressible, is ultimately the declaration of a life seeking its purpose beyond the self. As the Cistercian monk of the Abby of Gethsemani, Thomas Merton, said, “The purpose of our life is to bring all our strivings and desires into the sanctuary of the inner self and place them all under the command of an inner and God-inspired consciousness. This is the work of grace.”
When mom couldn’t speak, I spoke for her. I prayed what I thought she wanted to pray for Mary-Elizabeth. But words were not necessary. They had already been spoken. Sometimes it’s the silent prayers that speak the loudest.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com., or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Avoiding the Graduation Blues
It can happen to you most anytime and anyplace; all that’s required is a stuffy auditorium filled with graduates in caps and gowns, a principal or president or superintendant who directs the program with boring predictability, speaks in a monotone voice with a staccato cadence, and of course, a guest speaker, who is prone to talk long after most have stopped listening.
And then, quite suddenly in the midst of this, you are overcome by the graduation blues.
It’s happened to me, in lesser or greater degrees, every time I graduated. I thought with my last and final degree I had certainly earned perpetual immunity to this strange and mysterious malady. But alas, it struck me again just last week when my oldest daughter graduated from Eastern Kentucky University. In what seemed like a nanosecond, the blues enveloped me, time traveling me back to every crowded auditorium where I had once sat just like those graduates did that day last week, transporting me back to Altus, Oklahoma, carrying me down to Waco, Texas, lifting me to Ft. Worth, thrusting me miles and miles from there to Princeton, New Jersey, and finally depositing me in Louisville, Kentucky. It was the same scenario in every graduation ceremony: the anticipation of the event, the slight nervousness just before my name is called, the excitement in holding the diploma, then the deflation as I step down and walk back to my place, and finally, the uneasiness, the angst, as I sit down.
What causes this? I thought about that as I watched each graduate walk across the stage last week. I felt for them, entering this uncertain economic climate, a climate with stiffer competition for fewer jobs, and even if they plan for graduate school instead of immediately entering the job market, there is the reality of no longer being at the top but orienting to a new program filled with unfamiliar faces and unknown ways. In each seat in that auditorium, there sat a person facing doubts and fears about themselves and the world around them. A chapter of life closes, washed over with memories of friends who will move on. Even though they can reconnect in many ways, it is never really the same.
Anxiety about an uncertain future disconnected from friends only submerges us further into the deep freeze of the graduation blues. The fear is that all the fun that is to be had is gone. As Jenny (Carey Mulligan) says to her headmistress in the 2009 movie, An Education: “If people die the moment they graduate, then surely it’s the things they do beforehand that count.”
But, as Jenny painfully learns, it’s not. Graduation day is a milestone, but not the end, certainly not of an education, which should continue for a lifetime. Graduation may close one chapter, but it opens another, and another, and another. In fact, every day is in some way graduation day.
The graduation blues are not all bad; they do serve a purpose: by forcing us to slowdown for at least a moment, we can reflect on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re headed. It’s okay to shed a tear--- or even two--- as we, diploma in hand, glance back at the stage. Yet, we can be happy: we can, after all step forward; we do have control of our lives, at least most it; we can walk boldly and confidently into the future, knowing we can make a positive contribution. The cure for the graduation blues lies in embracing them and realizing that we are what we choose to be, that every tomorrow has its own opportunities, and we don’t die the moment we graduate.
Next week my youngest daughter graduates from high school. As she walks away from the platform, I will look forward with her to a hopeful future that’s promised to none but possible for all, a future filled with possibilities but not certainties, a future we can shape but not control. And as I do, I will be thankful for everything, including the graduation blues, even as I wave goodbye to them.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit his website at www.DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
And then, quite suddenly in the midst of this, you are overcome by the graduation blues.
It’s happened to me, in lesser or greater degrees, every time I graduated. I thought with my last and final degree I had certainly earned perpetual immunity to this strange and mysterious malady. But alas, it struck me again just last week when my oldest daughter graduated from Eastern Kentucky University. In what seemed like a nanosecond, the blues enveloped me, time traveling me back to every crowded auditorium where I had once sat just like those graduates did that day last week, transporting me back to Altus, Oklahoma, carrying me down to Waco, Texas, lifting me to Ft. Worth, thrusting me miles and miles from there to Princeton, New Jersey, and finally depositing me in Louisville, Kentucky. It was the same scenario in every graduation ceremony: the anticipation of the event, the slight nervousness just before my name is called, the excitement in holding the diploma, then the deflation as I step down and walk back to my place, and finally, the uneasiness, the angst, as I sit down.
What causes this? I thought about that as I watched each graduate walk across the stage last week. I felt for them, entering this uncertain economic climate, a climate with stiffer competition for fewer jobs, and even if they plan for graduate school instead of immediately entering the job market, there is the reality of no longer being at the top but orienting to a new program filled with unfamiliar faces and unknown ways. In each seat in that auditorium, there sat a person facing doubts and fears about themselves and the world around them. A chapter of life closes, washed over with memories of friends who will move on. Even though they can reconnect in many ways, it is never really the same.
Anxiety about an uncertain future disconnected from friends only submerges us further into the deep freeze of the graduation blues. The fear is that all the fun that is to be had is gone. As Jenny (Carey Mulligan) says to her headmistress in the 2009 movie, An Education: “If people die the moment they graduate, then surely it’s the things they do beforehand that count.”
But, as Jenny painfully learns, it’s not. Graduation day is a milestone, but not the end, certainly not of an education, which should continue for a lifetime. Graduation may close one chapter, but it opens another, and another, and another. In fact, every day is in some way graduation day.
The graduation blues are not all bad; they do serve a purpose: by forcing us to slowdown for at least a moment, we can reflect on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re headed. It’s okay to shed a tear--- or even two--- as we, diploma in hand, glance back at the stage. Yet, we can be happy: we can, after all step forward; we do have control of our lives, at least most it; we can walk boldly and confidently into the future, knowing we can make a positive contribution. The cure for the graduation blues lies in embracing them and realizing that we are what we choose to be, that every tomorrow has its own opportunities, and we don’t die the moment we graduate.
Next week my youngest daughter graduates from high school. As she walks away from the platform, I will look forward with her to a hopeful future that’s promised to none but possible for all, a future filled with possibilities but not certainties, a future we can shape but not control. And as I do, I will be thankful for everything, including the graduation blues, even as I wave goodbye to them.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit his website at www.DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Curious Case of Aaron Glascock
Daisy: You're so young.
Benjamin Button: Only on the outside.
Time is slipping away for Aaron Glascock. It daily slithers through his fingers, snakes unseen through the iron bars that keep Aaron confined, clandestinely floats by the security doors at the Federal prison’s entrance, and happily rises to freedom, leaving Aaron behind, stuck in a past he can’t reclaim, aging ever so quickly, growing older from the inside out.
Aaron’s youthful, twentyish-looking face, fit, athletic build, and boyish grin betray an inner age far beyond his 33 years. Now eleven years into a thirty year sentence for conspiracy to distribute cocaine, Aaron, native of Lebanon, Ky., and member of the church I pastor, remains hopeful that somehow, someway, his sentence will be commuted. Federal law requires that he serve at least 85% of his sentence. He will be 48 years old when he is released. Aaron’s last great hope is that President Barack Obama will commute the sentence to time served.
His case is curious in many ways and points to inconsistencies in the federal judicial system.
How is it that a young man in his early twenties, a law-abiding, church-going, well-rounded young man with a steady girlfriend, a young man who was a model pre-med student, a biology major at an academically respected Catholic school, Bellarmine University, how is it that he, in his last semester before graduating, gets charged with conspiracy to traffic in drugs? Perhaps the answer lies in a young man’s desire for a father’s relationship.
In the spring of 1998 Aaron’s father, who had not been a part of his son’s life for years, suddenly took an interest in him. He began taking Aaron, by then a college student at Bellarmine, to Florida when Aaron was on spring or summer break. His father was supposedly buying homes, making needed repairs, and selling them at a profit. Aaron would help with electrical wiring. He liked staying in a beach-front hotel and hanging out at the beach. He didn’t bother to ask where the money was coming from. Three such trips had been made when his father asked Aaron to do something curious: make a trip not to Hollywood, Florida, their usual destination, but to Gainesville, Florida, and travel not with his dad but with his father’s friend. They were to start working on repairing homes until the elder Glascock could arrive.
The first night in Gainesville, early on the morning of March 11, 1999, officers with the Drug Enforcement Agency (D.E.A.) knocked on their hotel room door, burst in, read Aaron his rights, and charged him with trafficking in cocaine.
His life would never be the same. Time would pass, but Aaron would remain frozen in 1999, aching from within, holding on to his childhood dream of becoming a physician, slowly aging on the inside as his dream slowly faded until, like the early morning fog, it finally disappeared at high noon with the rejection of Aaron’s third appeal.
Aaron could have admitted guilt and received 12 years, or he could have cooperated and been sentenced to 3 years. That was the “deal” the government offered him. He turned down both options, refusing the first, since he maintained he knew nothing and was therefore innocent; he would not cooperate, believing that justice would surely prove his innocence, allowing him to pursue his life-long dream: a medical career.
Now Aaron waits. And works. And reads, mainly the Bible and newspapers. He keeps one eye on the world above; and the other on the world outside. And both feet in prison.
Some people think Aaron knew what was going down on those trips when he accompanied his father, and maybe that’s the way it happened; others think he not only knew but cashed in, and maybe that’s the way it happened; and others think he was a totally innocent pawn in someone else’s game, and maybe that’s the way it happened.
One thing is for sure: the punishment exceeds the crime, especially when you consider the sentence given Glascock is longer than that given to Manuel Noriega, the former Panamanian dictator and drug smuggler, longer than the ten year sentence for conspiracy to murder given to John Walker Lindh (alias Sulayman al-Faris), who was captured by American soldiers as an enemy combatant in Afghanistan, and it’s longer than the average amount of time actually served by first time sex offenders.
Curious? Indeed.
In prison, Aaron rests in Psalm 23, finds solace in Jesus’ words that we are not to worry about tomorrow, and prays for mercy.
As I leave, walking through the prison gates, wondering if there are other Aaron Glascocks behind other prison walls, the wind hits my face, awakening me to the freedom on the outside; the setting sun’s orange glow reminds me that another day is passing into infinity; and my heart cries for an explanation to a curiosity: how a man’s soul---worn by the routine of prison life, wizened to the skill of prison survival, scorched by disappointment in the court system---can be aging so quickly and yet still be so alive, even as that burdened soul is hidden beneath a hopeful outlook, a warm handshake, and words that promise a new tomorrow.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. Visit David’s website, DavidBWhitlock.com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Benjamin Button: Only on the outside.
Time is slipping away for Aaron Glascock. It daily slithers through his fingers, snakes unseen through the iron bars that keep Aaron confined, clandestinely floats by the security doors at the Federal prison’s entrance, and happily rises to freedom, leaving Aaron behind, stuck in a past he can’t reclaim, aging ever so quickly, growing older from the inside out.
Aaron’s youthful, twentyish-looking face, fit, athletic build, and boyish grin betray an inner age far beyond his 33 years. Now eleven years into a thirty year sentence for conspiracy to distribute cocaine, Aaron, native of Lebanon, Ky., and member of the church I pastor, remains hopeful that somehow, someway, his sentence will be commuted. Federal law requires that he serve at least 85% of his sentence. He will be 48 years old when he is released. Aaron’s last great hope is that President Barack Obama will commute the sentence to time served.
His case is curious in many ways and points to inconsistencies in the federal judicial system.
How is it that a young man in his early twenties, a law-abiding, church-going, well-rounded young man with a steady girlfriend, a young man who was a model pre-med student, a biology major at an academically respected Catholic school, Bellarmine University, how is it that he, in his last semester before graduating, gets charged with conspiracy to traffic in drugs? Perhaps the answer lies in a young man’s desire for a father’s relationship.
In the spring of 1998 Aaron’s father, who had not been a part of his son’s life for years, suddenly took an interest in him. He began taking Aaron, by then a college student at Bellarmine, to Florida when Aaron was on spring or summer break. His father was supposedly buying homes, making needed repairs, and selling them at a profit. Aaron would help with electrical wiring. He liked staying in a beach-front hotel and hanging out at the beach. He didn’t bother to ask where the money was coming from. Three such trips had been made when his father asked Aaron to do something curious: make a trip not to Hollywood, Florida, their usual destination, but to Gainesville, Florida, and travel not with his dad but with his father’s friend. They were to start working on repairing homes until the elder Glascock could arrive.
The first night in Gainesville, early on the morning of March 11, 1999, officers with the Drug Enforcement Agency (D.E.A.) knocked on their hotel room door, burst in, read Aaron his rights, and charged him with trafficking in cocaine.
His life would never be the same. Time would pass, but Aaron would remain frozen in 1999, aching from within, holding on to his childhood dream of becoming a physician, slowly aging on the inside as his dream slowly faded until, like the early morning fog, it finally disappeared at high noon with the rejection of Aaron’s third appeal.
Aaron could have admitted guilt and received 12 years, or he could have cooperated and been sentenced to 3 years. That was the “deal” the government offered him. He turned down both options, refusing the first, since he maintained he knew nothing and was therefore innocent; he would not cooperate, believing that justice would surely prove his innocence, allowing him to pursue his life-long dream: a medical career.
Now Aaron waits. And works. And reads, mainly the Bible and newspapers. He keeps one eye on the world above; and the other on the world outside. And both feet in prison.
Some people think Aaron knew what was going down on those trips when he accompanied his father, and maybe that’s the way it happened; others think he not only knew but cashed in, and maybe that’s the way it happened; and others think he was a totally innocent pawn in someone else’s game, and maybe that’s the way it happened.
One thing is for sure: the punishment exceeds the crime, especially when you consider the sentence given Glascock is longer than that given to Manuel Noriega, the former Panamanian dictator and drug smuggler, longer than the ten year sentence for conspiracy to murder given to John Walker Lindh (alias Sulayman al-Faris), who was captured by American soldiers as an enemy combatant in Afghanistan, and it’s longer than the average amount of time actually served by first time sex offenders.
Curious? Indeed.
In prison, Aaron rests in Psalm 23, finds solace in Jesus’ words that we are not to worry about tomorrow, and prays for mercy.
As I leave, walking through the prison gates, wondering if there are other Aaron Glascocks behind other prison walls, the wind hits my face, awakening me to the freedom on the outside; the setting sun’s orange glow reminds me that another day is passing into infinity; and my heart cries for an explanation to a curiosity: how a man’s soul---worn by the routine of prison life, wizened to the skill of prison survival, scorched by disappointment in the court system---can be aging so quickly and yet still be so alive, even as that burdened soul is hidden beneath a hopeful outlook, a warm handshake, and words that promise a new tomorrow.
Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. Visit David’s website, DavidBWhitlock.com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
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