Reminders and Remberances

As we headed to San Diego last week, two things were uppermost in my mind.

The Summit, of course — you don’t spend 10 months of your life focused on pulling together (and executing) the nation’s largest (and for my money, best) retirement plan advisor conference without running through your mind a constant list of things to be done, things that you think were done, but you’re not sure, and, of course — the things you COMPLETELY forgot about until the day before you fly out.

The other thing was my father. See, April 1 was the anniversary of my father’s passing, and while it’s been 17 years, I still remember that day. It was unexpected — on a Saturday morning when such calls are inevitably good or awful news. I had just wrapped up my weekly column when I got that call — from my sister. My father, who had been battling cancer for several years now, had suffered a series of heart attacks. By the end of the day and, sadly, several hundred miles away from our home — he had passed.

He had, by then, had nearly a decade’s worth of retirement — not as long as most hope for, but to that point he had outlived any of the men in his family line — and he was, as they say, prepared to meet his Maker. There’s a great peace with knowing such things amidst the sorrow and heartache, and I was grateful for it, and the comfort it gave my mother.

We know that, as ironic as it sounds, death is a part of life. Thoughtful individuals prepare for the possibility of death — through faith and, with luck, sound financial planning. Most don’t dwell on those realities on a daily basis, and that’s doubtless a good thing. In my Dad’s case, he — thanks to my mother’s example — had done what they needed to do to sustain their then-current, albeit modest, lifestyle in retirement — in no small part a result of the sacrifices they made during their working lives.

In this business, we spend a lot of time worrying about the risks of outliving our retirement savings. Participants increasingly seem to rely on an assumption that they will work longer, or save more later, to make up for their current shortfalls. Seventeen years later my Mom continues to benefit from those earlier decisions. Don’t bother telling me that those of modest incomes can’t or won’t save.  

As we leave San Diego this week — chock full of inspiring keynotes, insightful content, and amazing networking experiences — I’ve been reminded, anew and afresh, of just how important what WE do, and how we do it — as individuals, and as industry professionals, is in terms of helping provide a sustaining post-career lifestyle. And how lucky I am to be part of that effort.

To this day my parents’ example reminds me that those results come from decisions — big ones, and a zillion small daily ones — to set aside for the post-career life we hope to have. It is a decision, a choice.

Here’s hoping more of us make the right one — while we can — so that those we leave behind will have better, easier ones.

- Nevin E. Adams, JD

Leaving a Legacy

As Father’s Day approaches, I’ve been thinking about my dad, the life he led, the choices he made, and the legacy he left behind.

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

The Choices of a Lifetime

It was 10 years ago today – a Saturday morning as I recall.  I had just wrapped up my weekly column when I got a call from my sister. My father, who had been battling cancer for several years now, had suffered a series of heart attacks. By the end of the day, he had passed.

As the family converged, my siblings and I tried as best as we could, together with Mom, to deal with the tasks that required our attention, and divvied up the ones that seemed to call out for individual attention. Having spent my entire professional career in financial services, and having picked up a law degree along the way, my “job” was to organize the will and assets.

The estate wasn’t complicated.  My parents each chose careers of service to others; Dad as a minister, and then a director of missions where he helped other ministers until his “official” retirement several years ago (far as I could tell, Dad’s only retirement was from the receipt of a regular paycheck), while Mom was a school teacher – a teacher who took a fairly significant (and unpaid) “sabbatical” so that she could stay at home with her four kids until the youngest was ready to head off to school. They both loved what they did, but those aren’t professions that tend to make one wealthy (in a monetary sense, anyway).

Despite that, my Depression-era reared parents saved what they could. On top of the expenses of rearing four kids, Dad, considered self-employed for most of his working life, funded both the employer and employee portions of Social Security withholding and still found a way to set aside money in a tax-sheltered account (he also tithed “biblically,” for those who can appreciate that financial impact). Mom, covered by a state pension plan, saved diligently to buy back the service credits she had forgone during the years she worked in our home without a paycheck, and also set aside money in her 403(b) account. Somehow, despite all those draws on their modest incomes, they managed to accumulate a respectable nest egg (don’t tell me those of modest incomes can’t and won’t save).

Today, ten years later, and cruising toward 86, Mom is still self-sufficient (though nervous about what the politicians in her state may yet do to her pension, into which she, as many teachers do, contributed mightily over the years), thanks to the choices they made along the way over the course of a lifetime. 

I’ve always been proud of my parents, who sacrificed so much along the way to give us the best they could. I’m also proud – and more than a little impressed – of how committed they were to saving what they could, when they could, and the results of that commitment. So often – perhaps too often, IMHO - I think we are inclined to excuse inadequate savings rates as the product of strained finances, a tight economy, or the simple human inclination to indulge in short-term pleasures.

On this, the anniversary of my Dad’s passing, my parents’ example reminds me – and hopefully you – that the decision to save is just that – a decision, a choice.

Here’s hoping more of us make the right one - while we still can.

 

- Nevin E. Adams, JD