I’m not talking about money. In fact, I didn’t learn anything about
finance from my dad—he avoided big purchases with the fervor of Ebenezer
Scrooge, though he’d spend that much (and more) on small things (mostly
books). Like many in his generation, my dad wanted to hold the
checkbook, but it was Mom who always made sure that there was money in
the account. Dad tithed “biblically,” but Mom was the one who started
setting aside money from her paycheck in her 403(b) plan at work—and
continued to do so, even when my father was convinced they couldn’t
afford it—and made no secret of that opinion. Or did until he got a
glimpse of the statement that showed Mom’s retirement account growth—and
then, inspired by that example—he began setting money aside for
retirement as well.My dad was a man of few words—spoken words, anyway. At 6’ 5” he was an imposing figure, all the more from the pulpit from which he did speak. He was a good speaker, but not a natural one. He worked hard at it, studied his subject matter, practiced his presentation relentlessly, each and every week. I always thought it amazing that such a quiet, introverted man would choose that career—but it was something he felt called to do at an early age, though it can’t have been easy. He had opinions, but didn’t impose them on others. Indeed, it was difficult (and sometimes frustrating) to wrest opinions from him. Significantly, he walked his “talk”—his faith, his love and respect for all people, even those with whom he disagreed—and those were attributes in short supply, even then.
Though I talked about my work any number of times over the years, for much of my working life, I don’t think my dad ever really understood what I “did.” Oh, he knew I worked for banks (when I did), figured that being a “senior vice president” had to be a good thing, knew that I had something to do with pensions, and (eventually) grasped that it also had something to do with something called a 401(k). But as for understanding what I actually did every day—well, he cared mostly that I enjoyed the work, that I found meaning in my chosen field, that I was able—or felt I was able—to make a difference.
While Dad touched a lot of people with his ministry, he touched thousands more with what was a random, almost accidental opportunity. Back in 1972 he was asked by a friend to take on the writing of 13 guest columns in a denominational paper—an “opportunity” that went on for more than three decades (alongside his “day job”). In fact, one of the great joys of my life was when, 20 years into this retirement industry career, I was also presented an “opportunity” to begin writing for a living—and my dad, though he didn’t always understand what I was writing about, could appreciate that I was—eventually—following in his (writing) footsteps.
His impact on me, and my life notwithstanding, I’m a different person than my dad, though his example is never very far from my thoughts. As a parent, I’ve tried to share with my kids the lessons I’ve learned (and continue to learn), tried to spare them the pain that came with many of those, but also tried to give them the room they need—and deserve—to learn their own on the life path(s) they chose, though that’s a life lesson of its own, and one with which I still sometimes struggle.
Along the way, I’ve tried to make a point to tell them—regularly—how proud I am of them. But mostly I try not only to tell—but to show them—how much I love them—and to do so as often as I can.
Because while there’s a lot we can leave behind—there’s nothing like a living legacy.
- Nevin E. Adams, JD
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