258 miles

Going to a financial planner is kind of like going to a new doctor for the first time.  Gotta get naked, can't evade the truth.  This is what I earn (too much).  This is what I have saved over the last 25 years (not enough).  This is my plan for the future (too vague).  These are my fears (too many).  

Just like the first time I saw Dr DeJoseph and she graciously gave me a 2 hour physical, I cried with Wade, my new guy.  There is such vulnerability in these situations of exposure, such unspoken -- maybe even unrealized -- worry. 

I liked Wade's look his easy smile and small glasses.  I liked his golf shirt, the friendliness of the people around him.  I liked what Wade explained to me about investments and Roth IRAs.  I liked that his eyes lit up when he saw the potential to take a PLOP.  (Only Ohio teachers would know what that is).  I liked his manner -- the way he drew pictures and used his hands to explain financial concepts.  He spoke to me in a way that I could understand.  Yes, it was some kind of pentecostal moment.  

But the moment I knew I could work with him was when he said, "I have twin three years olds.  Don't worry, every one in my family cries at least once a day."  Perfect, right?  He was saying You are human, I am human.  Then he followed it with this, "It's only math."  Don't make this more complicated than it is.  Then to round out the trifecta, "That's what we are doing here, trying to lay it out so that you will be rid of that anxiety and relax into your future.  It will be just like getting a paycheck but in a different way." I "get" you, Jean.  It'll be okay. 

It made me wish that everyone in every capacity approached everyone that way.  Imagine if that were your experience with the person fixing your plumbing, your child's seventh grade teacher, the oncologist, your minister, the clerk in the plus sized clothing store.  How much better would life be if we could acknowledge and soften anxiety? 

The drive to and from Pittsburgh was astonishing lovely as well, and I thoroughly enjoyed my time with my father.  We laughed, we shared a meal (gotta love that Bang Bang Shrimp at Bonefish Grill!), he taught me something about spreadsheets, he told me a funny story about my mother.  It was a good, good day. 

On the way back to Cleveland, I listened to a fascinating interview with a man named Donald Miller, author of A MILLION MILES IN A THOUSAND YEARS and BLUE LIKE JAZZ, who writes spiritual essays, which, for a lack of better terms, is what I hope I write and what I'd like to get published.  He's been rabidly successful.  I'd like the same to be true for me. 

It was an odd confluence.  Having this day thinking about retirement planning and then listening to a man who does what I want my second career to be: writing and talking about the sacred ordinary.  

Sometimes, I look for signs -- it's magical thinking, I know.  The time 11:11. A message on a bumper sticker. There's another one I rely on too: streetlights popping on or off when I drive under them.  It's happened to me hundreds of times.  Popping off is commonplace, popping on is harder to come by.  I always take that as a nod, a wink perhaps.  The acknowledgment of passing a landmark from a larger guiding force.  

When I was in the last leg of trip home, driving past Hathaway Brown School, I was reviewing the day -- the greater calm I have having met with Wade and the story of this man who is doing what I hope to be heading towards. I thought, 'Boy, this all feel right.'  And, as soon as that idea passed through my head, pop, a streetlight came on.  Maybe it's nothing.  Or maybe it's something. 

All I know is that I drove 258 miles to day, and everything about the day seemed to be assuring me.  Kind of like the feeling I had from Wade, the whole world seemed to be saying  I am like you, it can be simple, I will help you.  Thank you Wade, thank you dad, thank you world.  The day was just right.