In Over Our Heads

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2024Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Over the course of my lifetime, I have been accused of many things, but I can unequivocally affirm that not once have I been accused of being a wiz with finances. That I have made it through this many years of life and still remain solvent is a mystery unlikely to be solved by dozens of forensic accountants working round the clock for years on end. And yet the fact remains: In spite of a long history of dubious choices over the course of many years, I have somehow, some way, managed to reach my 64th year debt-free. In December we even paid off our house.

That was no small feat considering that when we bought the place we had no clear understanding of how mortgages work. We refinanced this house a number of times, sometimes withdrawing some equity to pay off other things along the way, before fully realizing that we were dialing our 30-year mortgage back to the beginning each time—and meanwhile, what we owed was growing, not shrinking. (Seems obvious enough, but, well, see paragraph one.) Once we made the shocking discovery that we were kind of moving backwards, we were forced to convert to a 15-year loan in order to get ourselves more or less back on track. We were perhaps the only kids in the neighborhood who more than once managed to secure a lower interest rate and still end up with a higher monthly payment. Dumb. 

My latest genius move came a couple of years ago when we installed solar panels on top of a 35-year-old roof.  Any B-average fifth-grader could have anticipated the problem with that choice, but since I didn’t have one handy to advise me, I went on ahead with the plan. The panels have worked out great, but the atmospheric rivers of 2024 have revealed that our original-equipment roof is finally kaput. Which of course will require that the panels be removed ($) and then reinstalled ($) on top of an all-new rooftop ($$$$). Really dumb.

How is it, then, that my manifest incompetence notwithstanding, I own a reasonably nice home in a very nice neighborhood in Southern California? That I’m bumbling toward retirement with a decent balance in my 401(k) plan and some additional investments besides? How is that even possible? I was born with a tailwind, of course. Heritage and opportunity (and whole lot of dumb luck) have been major contributors, but there are a couple of other factors that I must acknowledge as well:

1) Dana and I have gotten some assistance from our parents from time to time along the way. They have helped bridge some tough circumstances in our early years (unemployment: not recommended, FYI) and in later years have bolstered our savings as well. We are quick to acknowledge that not everyone has that kind of generous, loving backup system.

2) We have always—even in the down times—faithfully paid tithes and offerings, gratefully giving while embracing with faith the promises laid out by both Isaiah and Malachi. Those promises do not give us any assurance of wealth, prosperity—or even solvency—but we have always believed that if we willingly give back, sharing whatever bounty we may have, everything is going to work out in the end. 

In the most recent General Conference for our church, Elder Gerrit W. Gong gave an address that captures what I’m feeling even as I await the roofer’s estimate. He shared a Chinese story about a man whose son finds a beautiful horse:

“How fortunate,” the neighbors say. “We’ll see,” says the man.

Then the son falls off the horse and is permanently injured. “How unfortunate,” the neighbors say. “We’ll see,” says the man.

A conscripting army comes but doesn’t take the injured son. “How fortunate,” the neighbors say. “We’ll see,” says the man.

Elder Gong then gave this important reminder: “This fickle world often feels tempest tossed, uncertain, sometimes fortunate, and—too often—unfortunate. Yet, in this world of tribulation, ‘we know that all things work together for good to them that love God’ (Romans 8:28).”

Our race is not yet run. Dana and I could live another 30 years, and who knows what potholes and pitfalls may await us in the road ahead? Will our savings be enough to get us from here to there? We shall see. But we have already been blessed far beyond our merits. And we live with the ongoing assurance that, come what may, all things will work together for our good.

Our leaky roof notwithstanding.

PW

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Contemplating My Navel

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20241 Comment

Dear Will:

I wouldn’t be the man I am today were it not for the navel orange. Or should I say, one navel orange in particular.

As a nineteen-year-old, I moved to Uruguay to begin a two-year stint as a full-time missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was ill-prepared but full of youthful swagger—quite literally, as it turns out, because the locals told me they could tell I was an American simply by the way I walked. When I first heard this (and I heard it more than once), I found it kind of funny, failing to see the caution in the commentary.

I began my assignment in the capital city of Montevideo, home to about half of the nation’s three million citizens at the time. I lived in the historic Ciudad Vieja with another missionary, Elder Carlos Vaz, an uruguayo with whom I did not get along. He was a decent fellow, but I found him wholly inadequate to the job. I should emphasize here that as a brand new missionary in an unfamiliar land, I had no clue what I was doing. Nevertheless, in my view Vaz worked neither hard enough nor smart enough for my taste. Consequently, I often found myself “following from in front” (as I called it) in order to try to get him to pick up the pace. (Feel free to cringe with me for a moment.) Needless to say, I sometimes found myself halfway down the block before realizing that I was supposed to have turned at the previous intersection. 

Isn’t it great when life gives you metaphors? But I digress. . . .

Elder Vaz and I took our midday meals in the home of Roque Vega and his wife, who lived in a small apartment just up the street from ours. One day, Hermana Vega served oranges alongside our mondongo, and I (literally) dug right in, jabbing my thumbs into the rind and tearing the outer flesh of the fruit into large chunks of broken skin. Elder Vaz watched with concern, finally informing me that I was doing it wrong. As he took out his knife and meticulously pared away the peel to demonstrate, I responded with condescension and defiance. I’m certain I did not yet have the Spanish vocabulary to fully express my feelings, but I can tell you for sure what I thought and wanted to say: “Hey, pal. I grew up in California surrounded by orange groves. I’ve eaten more of these things in my life than you have ever seen. Don’t tell me how to peel an orange!”

A more circumspect individual—one with just trace amounts of humility—might have paused in that moment to consider Elder Vaz’s alternative point of view. But at nineteen, I was certainly not that guy. It was only much later that it occurred to me—in one of those “how did I miss that?” moments of clarity—that during lunch that day, maybe what Elder Vaz was trying to say was that tearing apart an orange with your bare hands in Uruguay is inappropriate or maybe even rude. In language I could barely understand (both literally and figuratively), perhaps he was trying to let me know that while seated at the table in someone else’s home, I was behaving like a barbarian. 

That would not be the last time during my two years in South America that I displayed a barbaric lack of cultural sensitivity and awareness. But fortunately, over time I came to learn the truly powerful lesson that as a fresh-off-the-boat American was then beyond my comprehension: MY way of doing things is merely ONE way of doing things. One way out of many, you could say. Not necessarily better or worse—just different. 

There’s no question that these things become easier to see and feel when you venture out from your own neighborhood and take a look at how other people live. If the only point-of-view you know is your own, how can you possibly see things differently? Or to put it another way, if you are determined to “follow from in front,” how can anyone else possibly show you the way? Different is OK, is what I’m saying, even if you ultimately decide never to serve mondongo to your own children. There is, after all, more than one way to peel an orange, even if these days I do prefer to peel mine with a knife.

It’s true. How’s the saying go? “When life gives you oranges, make . . . (um) . . . metaphors.”

PW

The Big Picture Requires Lots of Dots

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20245 Comments

Dear Will:

The world is kind of a mess. Perhaps you’ve noticed. Public discourse has never been more vile, with so-called leaders modeling and encouraging the basest human behavior. The weather report seems to feature one cataclysm after the other, with record-setting heat in one place challenged by record-setting cold in another only to be interrupted by yet another Storm of the Century. The war in Ukraine seems unsolvable, but it’s easy to forget it’s even happening given the growing, unsolvable conflict in the Middle East. Meanwhile, the Central Valley of California is sinking, the Great Salt Lake is drying up, and day after day we pull more water out than nature can put back in. I could go on. And on.

As I watch what’s happening it’s tempting to just throw up my hands and give up altogether. It seems like my best option might be to just hope—somehow—to survive the coming Apocalypse and hang on until the Second Coming, when Jesus will return to make things right again. (You know: “paradisiacal glory” and all that.) But as a “What Would Jesus Do?” sort of guy, I know in my heart that waiting around for someone else to solve the problem is not exactly the Jesus Way.

The other day I was reading my Bible (like you do) and the Jesus Way just leapt out of the Book of Matthew and kicked me right in the diaphragm. You remember from Sunday School the Parable of the Talents—that simple allegory about responsibility, effort, and expectations?  Jesus told of a rich man who traveled to a far country, leaving some of his fortune in the care of three servants, giving “to every man according to his several ability.” When finally he returned from his journey, the wealthy lord called his servants to give an account of what had taken place in his absence. Two “good and faithful” servants did wisely, investing what had been placed in their charge and returning to their boss double what they started with. The third servant, he who had been given least, was not so wise. He basically did nothing, returning to his lord the single coin he had been given without even a modicum of interest earned in the interim. His boss was so disappointed that he called him “wicked and slothful” and threw him out on the spot. Ouch.

I reflect on that passage in the New Testament and it becomes pretty clear—to me, anyway—that Jesus would not be cool with me just sitting around waiting for the world to implode so he can come clean up the mess. At the same time, I can sense that He doesn’t have huge, unreasonable expectations—of me, or of anyone, for that matter. What He does expect is that I’ll do what I can—even if the impact of my little acts is relatively insignificant. 

For instance: I cannot possibly reverse the effects of climate change, but I certainly can try to minimize the negative impact of how I live my life. That much I can do. I can’t bring peace to Gaza, but I can choose not to turn the next School Board meeting into some kind of warzone. And while I certainly can’t refill the Great Salt Lake or restore the Central Valley aquifer, as a homeowner I can at least stop watering the sidewalk (my sprinklers are blasting at full-spray even as I write this). And maybe—someday when I am ready—I might consider replacing my beautiful green lawn with something less thirsty. Every little bit helps, and lots of little bits help a lot. By small and simple things are great things brought to pass, as the saying goes. And even if my small and simple contributions are little more than a single violet dot within a massive pointillist landscape, in the big picture I will have made my contribution.

What about you? Perhaps you can do much more than I—perhaps much less—but everyone according to their several ability, as Jesus said. What do you touch? What can you say or do to lift others and make an impact for good? What can you influence to improve our community, to counteract the negative with something wonderful? I might ask the same thing of any student, mother, farmer, or legislator who is part of that community: Think about how you use land and resources, how you interact with those you disagree with. Think about what you prioritize, about how you cast your votes. Ask yourself if there isn’t something small that you could do to make your own small difference. Or something truly grand and consequential, for that matter. Regardless of your circumstances and your sphere of influence, doing the same old thing—whatever that might be—is probably not the best choice available.

Like you, I yearn for a better tomorrow. In the face of the many challenges before us, by all means we should continue to hope and pray for some divine intervention; but after all the hoping and praying, we have to get up and do something. That is the Jesus Way. None of us should be asked to run faster than we have strength, but at the same time it’s not too much to ask each of us to pick up the pace a little, to find ways each day to make our own corner of the world just a bit better—that is, before Jesus comes back to ask us what we did with what we have been given. 

PW

Image: Detail from Georges Seurat’s La Parade de Cirque courtesy of Principle Gallery