Category: discipline

Money and the Shape of Life.

Lately I’ve been returning to and thinking about topics I hadn’t examined in a while, and one of them is money, how it shaped my choices, how it ordered my days, and how quietly it became a measure of my worth without my ever intending it.

There was a long stretch when money and job position sat at the center of my work life.  I was always looking toward the next promotion, the next pay step increase, the bonus, the next annual bump in my grade level, the next cost‑of‑living increase.  Each milestone felt like progress, like proof that I was moving forward and being successful (whatever that was).  And overtime?  I never turned it down.  It was money in my pocket, yes, but it was also work experience to add another line on the résumé, another rung on the ladder of upward mobility in middle management.

And then came the question of retirement.  The more I earned and the higher I climbed, the more secure my future seemed.  I’ve always belonged to the “Waste Not, Want Not” tribe, careful, frugal, planning.  I was planning my retirement since my first full-time job after graduating from school.  It felt responsible to think about the long game, to build a cushion, to prepare for the day when work would no longer be on my daily schedule.

By most measures, I did well in the career jungle.  I worked hard, advanced steadily, and positioned myself for a sensible retirement.  But to what end, really?  Some of what I gained came at the cost of things I didn’t even realize I was losing.  I missed moments that could have enriched my life in ways no paycheck ever could.  My eyes were fixed on the horizon with an early retirement, a new chapter, a better future, while the present quietly slipped by.

Money is necessary, of course, since it keeps the lights on and the pantry stocked.  But it was never meant to be the focus; it sort of turned out that way without me paying close attention.  You see, when it becomes the center, even subtly, it distorts the way we see our days and the way we measure our worth.  Looking back, I can see how easily the pursuit of “enough” becomes the pursuit of “more, more, more!” and how quietly that pursuit can crowd out the very things that make a life well lived.

Would a very fat bank account make my life easier?  I’m sure it would, but to what extent?  Yet in the reality of life, I have just what I need to live.  Much more, and it would be living an unnecessarily extravagant and artificial life.

In the end, money can support a life and our Earthly needs, but it cannot give one satisfactory meaning.  What endures is the virtue we cultivate, the charity we extend, the relationships we tend, and the gratitude we carry for the gifts already placed in our hands.  When we let money take up more space than it deserves, the spiritual cost is subtle but real: our attention drifts, our desires narrow, and our hearts grow less free.  But when we return to gratitude and right order, we remember that a well‑lived life is measured not by how much money we have in the bank, but by what we become.

When we allow money to become our quiet master, the emotional cost is real: our hearts grow divided, we become conceited, our freedom narrows, and we begin to measure ourselves by standards that have nothing to do with building positive relationships or redemption.  Yet when we push away secularism and return to true gratitude, humility, and order, we remember that a life well lived is judged not by earnings or advancement, but by a fidelity to what matters for all of eternity.

 

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The Age of Adonis (Part 3).

Part 3 of 3:  The Middle Distance.

There is a peculiar vantage point one gains simply by living in close proximity to other human beings.  Not close enough to know their secrets, but close enough to witness their habits; their triumphs, their peculiarities, their kindness, their small vanities, their authenticity, and quieter graces.  It is the view from the middle distance, where comedy and clarity often arrive hand‑in‑hand.

From this vantage point, I have watched our neighborhood Adonis swell into his mythic proportions, strutting through the hallways and on the neighborhood sidewalks like a man auditioning for a protein‑powder commercial.  His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.  He found the easy way in life to make a dollar, becoming a grifter front and center on the unholy stage of a community fellowship group, sermonizing under the guise of praises and blessings peppered within his readings of scripture verses found in a distorted Bible.  He is the sort of person who seems to believe that if he flexes hard enough – whether it is flexing by quoting scripture or flexing muscles – the world will mistake it for virtue.  At the same time, he soaks in the adulation and attention as one would with water from the River Jordan.

And then, from the same vantage point, I have watched the quiet ones; the door‑holders, the plant‑waterers, the hallway‑softeners moving through the building with a gentleness that neither asks nor demands anything in return.  Their lives are lived in gentle lowercase letters, steady and unadorned.  They are not trying to be noticed, which is precisely why they are.

Modern life, for all its noise, has a way of revealing character in the smallest of moments.  The man who performs goodness loudly often performs it only for the applause and attention.  The man who waters the begonias when no one is looking is not performing at all.  He is simply and unobtrusively being who he is.

Discernment, I’ve learned, is not about judging people harshly.  It’s about seeing clearly and recognizing the difference between shine and substance, between the man who builds his body like an Old Testament golden monument and the neighbor who quietly builds a life of decency.  Humility, too, is not a grand gesture.  It is the quiet refusal to make oneself the center of every hallway and fellowship stage.  To learn what not to become is one of the great lessons of life.

And what about the comedy of modernity?  It’s everywhere.  It’s in the man who cannot lower his arms because his torso has become a personal billboard.  It’s in the fluorescent lights catching a thousand sequins on Cowgirl Betty’s jacket in the middle of a sunny day.  It’s in the way we all, at one point or another, take ourselves far too seriously.

But the deeper comedy is the one that makes you smile long after the moment has passed.  It is this: the people who most want to be admired rarely are, and the people who never think about admiration often end up holding the whole place together.

In the middle distance, the truth becomes clear.  Strength is not measured in inches of bicep or the girth of one’s chest.  Beauty is not measured in lumens of sparkle.  Virtue, the real kind, is almost always quiet enough to miss if you’re not paying attention.

But once you see it, you start noticing it everywhere.

This is the final chapter of three parts.

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Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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