On the Divinity of Second Chances Read Online Free PDF Page A

quiet about that which others did not understand.
    When I was even younger, some members of my old congregation from a previous lifetime used to show up and play chase with me. They would run through walls, though, and I would smack right into them. I’m pretty sure my parents thought something was wrong with me then, too.
    I had called my congregation “ghosts,” but Grace corrected me. “They aren’t ghosts! They are spirits! Nothing offends a spirit worse than being called a ghost! A ghost is a soul that is too confused to leave the Earth dimension and go to Heaven just yet. A spirit is a soul that has gone to Heaven, but has come back for a quick visit to check on you. You see the difference?”
    Today I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t look much different than I did in my second grade self-portrait. Like Grace, I still have cornrows, but now I wear them in a ponytail to keep them out of my face. My skin is not as fuchsia now. I couldn’t get waterproof SPF 40 in the seventies. Even though I can get it now, I’d rather just have my old skin back, my beautiful dark African skin.

Phil on Being Benched
(May 18)
    The BMW had an oil change a thousand miles ago, and the Mercedes fewer than three hundred miles ago. Neither needs new oil. I study the spiral notebooks I keep in each car where I record every maintenance and repair, every oil change, every fill-up. I calculate the mileage to make sure the cars are still running efficiently. The mileage shows no change. The cars are spotless. This task did not take up much time. I take out my daily list of goals and cross off “Check cars for anything.”
    I look around for something to do. I rummage through immaculate cupboards for something to organize better. Garden tools. I can put nails in the cupboard on which to hang each tool in alphabetical order. Shovel comes before spade. Then comes trowel. Rake comes before shovel. But what do you do with tools that have a modifier? Should the bamboo rake be under B , or should I phrase it “rake, bamboo,” which would precede “rake, metal”? And should the flathead shovel be under F or “shovel, flathead,” which would come before “shovel, spade”? I decide to go with the latter system. I know, though, that it really doesn’t matter much.
    I used to be an investing genius. Yes, genius. How do I know? Millions and millions of dollars—that’s how I know. Do I flaunt it? No. Sure, I have a BMW and a Mercedes (parked in alphabetical order), but that’s because they’re the best-made cars in the world. Heck, I’ve had the BMW since 1978 and the Mercedes since 1972. They’re still going strong. They were sound investments.
    My family doesn’t know exactly how much money I’ve made. Best that they not. They know I’ve done well, but they don’t know the details. I’m very protective of my wealth. Wealth is like a delicate orchid few know how to keep alive and healthy. I, for one, never want to be poor again. I grew up poor, and hated it. Times were always tough, but when I was in high school they got tougher and my parents lost their farm. At first they moved to town and lived off welfare. I’ll never forget the humiliation of being sent to the store with food stamps to pick up milk and flour. Eventually, they moved to Bridge-port, Nebraska, where my dad worked in the oilfields and my mom got a job in a diner. They both started drinking a lot. I watched them change from people I knew into people I didn’t know, all because of a lack of money.
    I like nice things, and I like to share them with Anna, sure, but I don’t like waste. I don’t like the feeling of my wealth slipping away. Plus, I want my kids to find their own way in this world. It’s important to a person’s character to overcome obstacles. It’s also important to learn the value of a dollar. Yes, some could argue that I hoard my wealth, but from my perspective, money in the bank is simply a report card, something to prove that my judgment