I am, I said

I am, I said

You may recognize the above title from Neil Diamond who penned a song by the same name.  “L.A.’s fine, the sun shines most the time, and the feeling is lay back.”  I always liked that song, but then I like Neil Diamond’s music anyway.  I rented a car with XM stereo recently while I was in Houston and I found a radio station that played nothing but Neil Diamond music.  “Did you ever read about a frog who dreamed of being a king, and then became one?” I was in heaven.  He once turned the words around to that song and sang, “Did you ever read about a king that dreamed of being a frog, and then became one?”  That was when I realized that the next verse applied directly to me.  “Well, except for the names and a few other changes, if you talk about me and the story’s the same one.”

I always detested filling out job applications and résumés.  The expectation is that you are supposed to reduce the sum total of your life to a page or two.  I’m glad I don’t have to do that anymore.

I also hated the “who are you” question.  So much of who we are is based upon the path we have taken in life that I think it is fair game to identify the who we are by what we are and have been and done in life as part of our genetic makeup.  In fact, a person recently told me of recent research that indicates that our life’s experiences are genetically passed on to our descendants.  I don’t know how that is possible and I’m not sure I buy into it, but I’d certainly like to review the research.

During the past several weeks I penned a series of short essays as part of an “I am, I was” collection.  You may remember some of them if you caught them at all.  I said that I was a janitor, a teenage mutant musician, a Mormon, a retired police officer, a retired educator, a Cub Scout, a daydreamer, etc.  Perhaps you remember them.  There were 14 short essays in all.  If you missed them you can check them out on my timeline or they may be easier to find on my blog (gregorybtalley.BlogSpot.com).  I had hoped to add one more “I am” to the list.  I wanted to add “I am an Author” to the list, but having sold fewer than 40 copies of a really, really dirt cheap novel that I wrote (Desperado), I don’t think that one is going to work out for me.  (By the way, you can still buy the e-book at Amazon.com for $2.99 or go to the website created for the book at http://www.DesperadoBook.wix.com/desperado and connect to the link there to Amazon to purchase the book.  I digress).  Anyway, I don’t think that being an author is going to work out for me even though I have a couple more books in progress.

I had an identity crisis a few years ago.  As I neared retirement a few parties were held in my honor over the course of a few days.  I guess it was in my honor.  Either that or people were looking for an excuse to party.  Maybe they were celebrating the fact that I was finally going to retire?  I don’t know.  People said some very nice things to me and about me.  Nice notes were written and beautiful gifts were given to me.  A colleague and friend even hired a bag piper to come and play at one of my retirement parties.  I still have every one of those notes and gifts and I will treasure them for the rest of my life.  There were hugs and handshakes and even a few tears and then on the last day of work I was not only “off the clock” I was off the payroll.

I walked to my car from my office feeling a little lighter than I did when I walked in that morning and a whole lot lighter than I did when I assumed the responsibility for two academic divisions of the College.  It felt absolutely fantastic knowing that I would not have to return on the following Monday morning and sink into my office chair and wade through the challenges and meetings of the day.  It felt great for about 18 hours, and then reality sank in.

Susan had gone to Utah about a week ahead of me.  I drove out to pick her up and the two of us would take a leisurely ride back to New York.  I hadn’t driven very far when the reality of what I had just done and the consequences of what I had done began to sink in.  A mere 24 hours earlier I had been the dean of two academic divisions and an associate vice president at the College.  I made decisions concerning students’ futures by approving their continued enrollment in classes.  I had made decisions concerning academic appeals and resolved disputes between faculty and students.  I approved teaching assignments and payroll.  I wrote policy.  I served on and chaired fairly important committees on campus.  I wrote and controlled a very substantial portion of the College’s budget.  I made decisions that affected thousands of college students and well over half of the teaching faculty.  As I sat behind the wheel of my car driving west I realized that now I was none of that.

Not only had I left those responsibilities and authority behind, but I had left behind another profession with substantial authority and responsibility.  As a police officer I had authority over arrest.  I could determine if the person before me would be placed under arrest or walk free.  In the early part of my career as I worked “on the streets” there were occasions when I literally had power over life and death.  Later as an administrator I made decisions concerning who would be hired and who would be disciplined or even dismissed.  I wrote policy.  I was responsible for the department’s budget.  On occasion I represented the police department to other county departments and to the county administrator and to the elected governing body of the county.  I served on various not-for-profit boards and often worked with state and federal officials.  I had sat in meetings with United States Senators and Representatives. 

During the span of two careers I had held positions of substantial responsibility in two small spheres of the world and now I was nothing.  As I contemplated my “professional” status, it occurred to me that I had also lost some ecclesiastical status a couple of years earlier.  Over a period of 20 years I had served as a bishop in my church (twice) and had served in three stake presidencies.  (A bishop is the leader of a Mormon congregation and a stake presidency oversees the membership of several congregations.)  There had been substantial responsibilities with those church assignments as well, but now somebody else was the bishop or in the stake presidency.  No longer were people coming to me for counsel.  No longer was I instructing in spiritual matters with any authority.

I literally felt naked and vulnerable and useless.  Everything that I had been; everything that I had prepared for and had worked for was now wrapped up and gone.  Done.  Finished.  I was nothing and I was nobody.  That was quite a fall into my little pity party as I drove further and further west.

As I continued to contemplate my worthlessness and nothingness a thought came to my mind.  It came to me as clear as a bell and as though somebody had been sitting in the car seat next to me and had shaken me and yelled at me.  “You are a child of God!  You are the son of Richard Eugene Talley and Vivian Jeanne Goodman Talley.  You are the husband to Susan Schofield Talley and the father to Benjamin Andrew Talley, Gregory Scott Talley, Nanon Patrice Talley, Justin Mark Talley, and Megan Denise (Talley) Tilton.  You are an older brother to Richard Mark Talley and Kimberly Jeanne Talley.  You are a grandson and a great-grandson and you are a grandfather and someday will be a great-grandfather.  Nothing you can do will change that.  You will always be a father, a son, and a husband.  You have always been and always will be a child of God!  Nobody can take that away from you!  What else matters?”

It was as though another weight had been lifted from my mind.  Academicians and police officers come and go.  So do janitors and bishops and authors.  But children of God and family?  Both are forever.

Who am I?  I am, I said.