Great Expectations
- I turn fifty this week. The big 5 – 0. It also heralds what I've been denying for several years now: middle age. I can no longer skirt this reality because one of my expectations is to live to be 100. Some days tht doesn't seem like such a good plan. On those days, all I can hold onto is that I read on a fifty-four year old level. But I'm sticking with the plan for triple digits anyway.
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- But rather than wait until I get closer to a century, I thought I would take some stock of my life thus far. That way I can do it – theoretically half as much – twice. Once now and then again at the end of the second half. And if you think for one second that I am going to turn this article into some sort of confessional, you've got another thing coming. Over the years, I've set some goals and expectations for myself.
- Take for instance basketball season. I've been coaching children's basketball for over twenty-five years. One year we had a father-son game at the end of the season. As the season drew to a close a couple of the seniors came up to me to “talk a little trash” about the upcoming game.
- “Mr. Hirsh,” they said, “we can't wait for the father/son game this year.”
- Seeing mischief in their eyes, I bit. “Why's that?”
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- “We're going to run you ragged.” they boasted.
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- “You boys had physics yet?” I asked.
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- “They were a little surprised by the question, then answered, “No. Why?”
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- “Because if you guys think I am going to try and outrun you, you are out of your minds. But when you bring your skinny little 175 pound rear ends in this blue part under the basket and it collides with my not-so-skinny 260 pound one . . . it's just not going to be pretty.”
- Age and treachery triumphs over youth and vitality.
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- This year it was just a coaches game. My only expectation was to walk off the court under my own power. While I hurt in places I didn't even know I had just a couple of years ago, my expectations were met. As I walked off the court patting myself on the back, I dislocated my shoulder.
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- Basketball has always been a passion for me. I wanted to play well. Badly. I ran, I dribbled. I shot. For hours. No one worked harder to achieve mediocrity. Those were great expectations (long sigh).
- The older I get, though, the better I was.
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- When I allow my mind to wander to less mundane matters, there have been some triumphs as well as some great expectations not met. Not met yet, anyway. Gone are the days when all my life – job, family, faith – was one big, simplistic algebra problem. That sound I thought was thunder must have been God laughing. At me.
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- When I got married several decades ago, I had every expectation of being a great husband. I missed that mark more than I care to think about. And when our thirteen children started coming along, I knew I was going to be the perfect parent, tending to look down my bony nose at those pathetic know-nothings who were struggling with one thing or another. Then I had teen-agers. Sometimes we have five teen-agers at a time. Thirteen children; seventeen personalities. The Bible doesn't say how old Satan was when he rebelled against God. My guess is fifteen.
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- It's kind of hard to know when to sit and watch; when to just give advice; and when to intervene. Every parent has great expectations for their children. We want them to be more successful than we were in their vocation, in their families, and in their lives. I've tried to describe life to them as a mine field. They can go through it by themselves. I can tell them where the mines are. Or, I can walk through it with them, pointing out the mines as we go. Since mine are direct descendants of – well – me, some of them prefer the hard way. Sometimes they bet double-or-nothing on the instant replay.
- It's hard to watch. But it gives me a glimpse of God the Father's view of me.
- I had expectations that I would be more successful in business, lived a more holy life, loved more, been loved more, hugged and kissed my Dad more than I did. I wish I had died on more hills – or at least different ones, been a better example to my children and told my wife I loved her more often. I hoped, by now, that abortion would have been relegated to the back alley where it belongs.
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- So I stand on the threshold of fifty and I am confronted by a culture that is obsessed with “O”. That tells me my success and my happiness is based on simply adding the suffix of my choice to the letter “O”.
- Obama. And I am overcome with a sense of entitlement and its twin sister no accountability. I deserve things I haven't worked for without regard for whose property it is. I am not responsible for the bad decisions that I may have made. My predicaments are caused by evil lenders who lent me money so I could buy a house as long as I promised to pay it back.
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- Oprah. I don't need God. I don't need church. I just need a daily dose of feel good. I just need to wrap my arms around myself and give me a great big hug. And as I approach the epicenter of human existence – getting in touch with my feminine side – I can cry a lot as I hug myself.
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- I'm O.K.; you're O.K. This is great. No sin. No repentance. No Savior. And none of that pesky guilt.
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- But that's not the right way to see it. I'm lousy and you're no better. God has a different “O”:
- O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord"
- I just got done reading the book of Job. After all that Job went through, he “sinned not.” I get ticked off in traffic. He lost his children. I often lose it with mine. And then at the end of the book when God finally shows Himself, Job does what we all should do:
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I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee. Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.
- So compared to someone else, I might actually be O.K. Unfortunately for me, that's not the standard. When we see ourselves next to the Divine, we can't stand the sight. Which is why it's probably a good idea to focus on the Divine. Unlike my inauspicious basketball career, the older I get, the more wretched I was. The more history I have, the more I abhor myself.
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- But I take a great deal of encouragement when I read the account of eighty-five year old Caleb having as much strength as when he was forty. He had watched all his friends die over the forty years in the wilderness. Yet he was still interested in kicking butt and taking names for God. He was full of faith. He was still radically vital. Though stuck in the wilderness for four decades. He knew the best was yet to come. At eight-five, he still had that warrior's gleam in his eye. He still knew the best was yet to come. For the Christian, we can say that for all eternity.
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- And you don't have to read on a fifty-four year old level to know that.
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Posted by Michael Hirsh at 4/27/2009 6:31 PM 
Categories: Barack Obama,Abortion,Humor,Fatherhood,Civil Rights,Roman Catholic,Marriage
Categories: Barack Obama,Abortion,Humor,Fatherhood,Civil Rights,Roman Catholic,Marriage
Happy Birthday Michael -- and welcome to the 50's. I'm in my second year and it's well.....O-kay!
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You gonna drink the rest of that Geritol?
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Psalms 92:14 They shall still bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing . . . Happy Birthday, Michael!
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Did you just call me fat?
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Well thought out. Well written. I allways say (to myself and any one that will listen to my advice) that self-inspection is a good thing. But, that inspection should always be based on God's standard. Not ours or others.
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Michael,
Bravo, bravo, bravo and BTW, Happy Birthday to you also. Not to worry, 50 is not old if you are an oak tree, but I digress
The cheering is for your Great Expectation article, conveniently located on this site in case you want to reread it. I say this because I will do so more than a couple of times as I ponder which friends of mine are dear enough to forward this to because I care about them so much.
Another good friend who has long since retired as a Captain from Delta Air Lines, was one who took the time and effort to stand up for what he thought was
right and could also put a pen to paper. For years, I told him how I loved the way he waxed and waned when he wrote. You are a man who also stands for the principals that are dear to you and yes, I love the way you "wax and wane".
Like Captain Roscoe, I am humbled to call you my friend and proud to have you think of me as a friend of yours.
Sincerely,
Ron Baker
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Thanks for the kind words my friend.
By the way, I used to think I was an oak tree. Now I'm just stumped.
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Hey, great article! Here's another "O" - (as in "go look for the O" ads) - a place to feed my appetite to buy more stuff I don't need, with money I don't have that takes precious time to maintain ("O" logo from an online outlet catering to America's massive shopping habit.) Thanks for the Godly insights!
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