I had heard the complaint before in other places, at other times. “I struggle with wanting my child to participate in summer little league baseball and still have time for our family events, not to mention participation in church,” the concerned mother told me over the phone. “It just seems like we can’t do it all.” In her particular situation, baseball games were being scheduled not only on Sundays, but on Sunday mornings--- a definite conflict for Christians who want their family to worship together. As a parent, and as a pastor, I understood.
This is not an isolated, local problem. The Wall Street Journal printed an article on July 21, 2010, about the challenge parents face when involvement in organized team sports begins to overwhelm families, interfering with vacations, stealing visits from grandparents, aunts and uncles, consuming weekends, leaving no time for family leisure and outings. Although the story focused on elite youth sport teams that often requires a year-long commitment, the gist of the report was that parents are pushing back and sometimes withdrawing their kids from these programs so that the family can maintain a more balanced and healthy lifestyle.
Let’s face it; few if any of the kids who play little league sports will ever make a career of it. Even of those that play competitive sports in high school, less that 1% ever makes it to the pros. For baseball it’s 0.44%; for football, 0.08%. If becoming a pro is the dream, the odds are not in your favor.
But team sports do have a definite positive side: sports can teach young people how to cooperate with one another in attaining a common goal; they can teach basic life skills---like how to deal with conflict--- and develop athletic abilities for further participation in competitive sports. Involvement in youth sports has been traced to improved self-esteem, lower obesity rates, and improved grades in school.
So, what to do about the time constraints youth sports--- particularly summer sports--- put on families? The problem is best dealt with before the season begins. When we give other people the permission to establish our priorities, they inevitably will. If we let the city’s little league game coordinator determine our summer schedule, he/she will. And it will likely be at our expense. A clear sense of priorities is the only way I know of steering the family ship through the sea of summer frustrations.
If the goal for your child’s involvement is to make him/her a more complete and integrated person, then let the coach or little league committee know your goals from the very beginning. If your priorities are God first, family second, and summer league baseball third, then why let a summer sports scheduler reverse the order of your life purposes?
After all, just how much is that first place trophy worth, anyway? Is it worth tearing up your family’s summer schedule? Only the parent can determine that. But remember, your priorities do reflect your values.
As a parent who rarely missed one of my son’s little league games, I have observed that the problem of over emphasizing competitiveness in youth sports is more frequently driven by parents who are trying to fulfill their own dreams as athletes through their children. Kids will generally take the sport about as seriously or lightheartedly as the parents and coaches do. I recall watching a coach shout at a 4th grader in a city league football practice: “What do you think this is?” he screamed, “Fun? This is football; it’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Really?” I thought. If it’s not fun how do you expect a child to continue playing the game? I switched my son to a different team with a coach who had a sports philosophy more compatible with mine.
Parents have to remember they are ultimately in control of their children’s activities.
Here’s the bottom line: if the parents refuse to have games on Sundays, or Sunday mornings, it won’t happen, unless coaches are willing to import players from another part of the country. And if they are able to do that, some city has too much money and somebody is thinking too hard about how to waste it. Remember this: youth sports are meant to be fun. In the words of Benny Rodriguez, in the 1993 film, The Sandlot, “Man, this is baseball. You gotta stop thinking. Just have fun.”
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
"Hot Town, Summer in the City"
“Hot Town, Summer in the City”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.
It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.
We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.
This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”
Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”
I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.
The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”
Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.
But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.
I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”
No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.
Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.
And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.
I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.
That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.
David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Saturday, July 17, 2010
“Lying to Lindsay”
What do you do with Lindsay Lohan? Lock her up and throw away the key? Laugh? Shake your head in disgust?
How about looking yourself in the mirror and making sure the person you see is the person you really are? Maybe there is more of Lindsay in us than we would like to believe.
Several weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you whether you whether Lindsay Lohan was a singer or an actress or both. Now I can’t help but know. The media has made sure of that. They’ve pounced on her and won’t let go. And Lindsay has given them no reason to back off; her outrageous antics continue. From her party-hardy lifestyle, to the Los Angeles DUI requiring her to wear an alcohol monitoring anklet, to the missed court dates, to the “f&-k you” message on her fingernail during her last court appearance, Lindsay has been on a roll.
Legal experts say she will likely only serve two weeks to a month of her 90 day sentence, due to the sheriff’s practice of releasing non-violent offenders because of overcrowding. Even so, Lindsay hasn’t given up the fight yet: she and her mother have talked with Chicago defense attorney Stuart Goldberg about helping Lindsay. She reportedly maintains that her human rights have been violated and intends to appeal her sentence.
And the saga continues.
Until what? Until she completely crashes and burns? Why this kind of behavior? Is it simply another spoiled celebrity who earned too much, too soon, and too easily? Is it just one more case of drug and alcohol abuse?
Or is there more to this? What causes people---not just celebrities---to destroy their lives? Is it a “death drive,” Freud’s theory that a force within us, pulling us down to self-destruction, rivals the upward push toward success? What compels people towards self-destroying addictions in the first place?
The 19th century psychologist and philosopher William James observed, “The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.”
The power of denial and the compulsion to anesthetize oneself from the “cold facts and dry criticisms” of life cannot be underestimated. Recovering addicts know that the first step toward healing is to admit you have a problem. But that first step is oh so difficult because the addiction hides the truth. The person you see in that mirror may not the person you truly are; lying eyes under the influence deceive.
Sheryl Crowe’s 2004 hit song, “Strong Enough,” contained the lyrics: “Lie to me/I promise I’ll believe/Lie to me/But please don’t leave.” It’s sad when such words are written for a lover; it’s sadder still when the lover is a drug.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. David’s email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www/.davidbwhitlock.com
How about looking yourself in the mirror and making sure the person you see is the person you really are? Maybe there is more of Lindsay in us than we would like to believe.
Several weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you whether you whether Lindsay Lohan was a singer or an actress or both. Now I can’t help but know. The media has made sure of that. They’ve pounced on her and won’t let go. And Lindsay has given them no reason to back off; her outrageous antics continue. From her party-hardy lifestyle, to the Los Angeles DUI requiring her to wear an alcohol monitoring anklet, to the missed court dates, to the “f&-k you” message on her fingernail during her last court appearance, Lindsay has been on a roll.
Legal experts say she will likely only serve two weeks to a month of her 90 day sentence, due to the sheriff’s practice of releasing non-violent offenders because of overcrowding. Even so, Lindsay hasn’t given up the fight yet: she and her mother have talked with Chicago defense attorney Stuart Goldberg about helping Lindsay. She reportedly maintains that her human rights have been violated and intends to appeal her sentence.
And the saga continues.
Until what? Until she completely crashes and burns? Why this kind of behavior? Is it simply another spoiled celebrity who earned too much, too soon, and too easily? Is it just one more case of drug and alcohol abuse?
Or is there more to this? What causes people---not just celebrities---to destroy their lives? Is it a “death drive,” Freud’s theory that a force within us, pulling us down to self-destruction, rivals the upward push toward success? What compels people towards self-destroying addictions in the first place?
The 19th century psychologist and philosopher William James observed, “The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.”
The power of denial and the compulsion to anesthetize oneself from the “cold facts and dry criticisms” of life cannot be underestimated. Recovering addicts know that the first step toward healing is to admit you have a problem. But that first step is oh so difficult because the addiction hides the truth. The person you see in that mirror may not the person you truly are; lying eyes under the influence deceive.
Sheryl Crowe’s 2004 hit song, “Strong Enough,” contained the lyrics: “Lie to me/I promise I’ll believe/Lie to me/But please don’t leave.” It’s sad when such words are written for a lover; it’s sadder still when the lover is a drug.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. David’s email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www/.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Rogue Rosaries and Captive Crosses
Wearing rosary beads has become fashionable, among gangs. That’s right. Gangs are wearing rosaries--- beads grouped in series of tens, attached to a crucifix. For hundreds of years rosaries have been a helpful means of prayer for many Christians. But the gangs are using them for something other than prayer. “It's become part of the look,” said Victor Castro, a detective and school resource officer who leads gang awareness training in Hillsboro, Oregon. "They use it as a reminder of protection.”
Schools have for over a decade banned gang-related clothing, bandanas, and hairstyles. But no one is sure where the trend for wearing rosaries began. “One gang started it---who it was, nobody knows. Another gang saw it and thought it was cool and started using it, too,” says Robert Walker, a former head of the gang identity unit for the South Carolina Department of Corrections.
The rosary beads identify the gang. Red rosary beads are worn by the Bloods; the Crips wear blue, for example. Even the arrangement of the beads on the rosary has significance: it identifies the member’s rank within the gang.
Rosary-wearing gangs would not have created a stir had not Raymond Hosier of Oneida Middle School in Schenectady, New York, been suspended for wearing his rosary-like crucifix to school. Civil rights groups rushed to his defense, claiming the school had violated his constitutional rights. Other states---including California, Oregon, Texas, and Virginia---have a no-rosary rule, the object being to protect other students from gangs.
This is by no means the first time people have used religious symbols and paraphernalia for purposes other than that for which they were first intended. Adolph Hitler, for example, restored the use of the Iron Cross, which had been used by the Prussian army as a military decoration, to prominence. He issued it for military valor and even designed another cross, the War Merit Cross, for non-combatant military recognition. The War Merit Cross appeared on certain Nazi flags. The cross, signifying freedom in Christ’s death and resurrection, was momentarily captive to a political regime, in this case Nazism.
And, equally bizarre, Nazario Moreno Gonzalez, head of a Mexican drug cartel, La Familia Michocana, known for gunning down police and beheading and dismembering its opponents, has penned a book, filled with images of the cross and replete with admonitions to pray the rosary and read the Bible.
This should serve to remind us that what symbolizes exclusion, racism, violence, hate, and even murder to some may connote love, peace, freedom, and spirituality to others. One person wears rosary beads to identify rank and order within a certain gang; another wears them as a reminder of a spiritual presence. One person lifts the cross to condemn; another raises it for freedom. The purpose for which religious symbols are used has everything to do with the behavior that follows. As Christian author Jon M. Sweeney says, in explaining why rosary beads are part of his daily attire, “I carry the prayer beads with me every day in my pocket along with wallet, business cards, and Palm Pilot. I don’t carry them as a talisman to ward off evil or as a good luck charm. But I do keep them in my pocket precisely so that I will be reminded of them, of my prayers, and of Christ throughout the day.”
Now the question: why did Raymond Hosier wear rosary beads to school? He says he wears them in memory of his brother who died in a car accident: “When I wear the rosary beads, my brother's memory is alive." His brother, Joey Hosier, was holding the rosary when he died.
So, this has become a civil rights issue and should be considered as such by public institutions, including schools. While schools do have a right and responsibility to protect students from gangs, the best means of evaluating how religious emblems are being used is to look at the behavior of those who claim them. It’s the behavior that should be examined, not the wearing of religious pendants themselves. To do otherwise may prohibit the expression of free speech, guaranteed by the first amendment, and prevent forms of authentic prayer or at least the admirable devotion to someone or something.
What kind of personal behavior the wearing of or adherence to religious regalia produces will reveal the intent--- good or bad--- and the devotion, sacred or secular. When praying the rosary results in a spiritual person and when cherishing the old rugged cross produces love for others, the meaning behind the symbol is revealed. As Christians like to sing, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” In the meantime, let the rogue rosaries be and the captive crosses stay.
They only serve to underscore the authenticity of the real thing.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, in Campbellsville, KY. You can visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Schools have for over a decade banned gang-related clothing, bandanas, and hairstyles. But no one is sure where the trend for wearing rosaries began. “One gang started it---who it was, nobody knows. Another gang saw it and thought it was cool and started using it, too,” says Robert Walker, a former head of the gang identity unit for the South Carolina Department of Corrections.
The rosary beads identify the gang. Red rosary beads are worn by the Bloods; the Crips wear blue, for example. Even the arrangement of the beads on the rosary has significance: it identifies the member’s rank within the gang.
Rosary-wearing gangs would not have created a stir had not Raymond Hosier of Oneida Middle School in Schenectady, New York, been suspended for wearing his rosary-like crucifix to school. Civil rights groups rushed to his defense, claiming the school had violated his constitutional rights. Other states---including California, Oregon, Texas, and Virginia---have a no-rosary rule, the object being to protect other students from gangs.
This is by no means the first time people have used religious symbols and paraphernalia for purposes other than that for which they were first intended. Adolph Hitler, for example, restored the use of the Iron Cross, which had been used by the Prussian army as a military decoration, to prominence. He issued it for military valor and even designed another cross, the War Merit Cross, for non-combatant military recognition. The War Merit Cross appeared on certain Nazi flags. The cross, signifying freedom in Christ’s death and resurrection, was momentarily captive to a political regime, in this case Nazism.
And, equally bizarre, Nazario Moreno Gonzalez, head of a Mexican drug cartel, La Familia Michocana, known for gunning down police and beheading and dismembering its opponents, has penned a book, filled with images of the cross and replete with admonitions to pray the rosary and read the Bible.
This should serve to remind us that what symbolizes exclusion, racism, violence, hate, and even murder to some may connote love, peace, freedom, and spirituality to others. One person wears rosary beads to identify rank and order within a certain gang; another wears them as a reminder of a spiritual presence. One person lifts the cross to condemn; another raises it for freedom. The purpose for which religious symbols are used has everything to do with the behavior that follows. As Christian author Jon M. Sweeney says, in explaining why rosary beads are part of his daily attire, “I carry the prayer beads with me every day in my pocket along with wallet, business cards, and Palm Pilot. I don’t carry them as a talisman to ward off evil or as a good luck charm. But I do keep them in my pocket precisely so that I will be reminded of them, of my prayers, and of Christ throughout the day.”
Now the question: why did Raymond Hosier wear rosary beads to school? He says he wears them in memory of his brother who died in a car accident: “When I wear the rosary beads, my brother's memory is alive." His brother, Joey Hosier, was holding the rosary when he died.
So, this has become a civil rights issue and should be considered as such by public institutions, including schools. While schools do have a right and responsibility to protect students from gangs, the best means of evaluating how religious emblems are being used is to look at the behavior of those who claim them. It’s the behavior that should be examined, not the wearing of religious pendants themselves. To do otherwise may prohibit the expression of free speech, guaranteed by the first amendment, and prevent forms of authentic prayer or at least the admirable devotion to someone or something.
What kind of personal behavior the wearing of or adherence to religious regalia produces will reveal the intent--- good or bad--- and the devotion, sacred or secular. When praying the rosary results in a spiritual person and when cherishing the old rugged cross produces love for others, the meaning behind the symbol is revealed. As Christians like to sing, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” In the meantime, let the rogue rosaries be and the captive crosses stay.
They only serve to underscore the authenticity of the real thing.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, in Campbellsville, KY. You can visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Your Retirement Day May be Nearer than You Think
“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.
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 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.
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