FROM TOOLBOXES TO TOENAILS

From Toolboxes to Toenails

Once I built with hands of steel,
A hammer, saw, a turning wheel.
I climbed on roofs, I dug in dirt,
I fixed what broke, I mended hurt.

Some taught children how to read,
Some planted every hopeful seed.
Some ran businesses large and small,
Some answered every urgent call.

We balanced budgets, fixed the leaks,
Worked through weekends, months, and weeks.
Raised our children, paid our dues,
Won some battles, took some bruises.

Our toolboxes were full of pride,
The proof of lives well occupied.
The world looked up, and so did we...
At least until we turned eighty-three!

For now the strangest thing has come,
A problem that has left us numb.
The knees won't bend, the back says, "No,"
The feet are farther than they look below.

I've conquered deadlines by the score,
Negotiated peace and war.
I've built a life from dreams and sweat...
But I can't reach my own darn feet!

There lies the joke both sad and grand,
A pair of clippers in my hand.
The mission's clear. The goal's in sight...
The target's somewhere out of reach tonight.

It's not the mountain I must climb.
It's just ten toenails; one at a time.
How strange that all I've done before
Comes down to reaching for the floor.

And here's the twist that makes me grin,
The kids we raised, the kith and kin,
The ones we taught to dream and care...
Sometimes forget we're sitting there.

We taught them kindness.
We taught them grace.
We taught them every human place.
Yet somehow bending to assist
Can disappear upon the list.

Now don't mistake what I am saying.
This is not begging. This is paying.
For every generation knows
It reaps the seeds another sows.

The worth of people isn't found
In how they stand when life is sound.
It's measured best by those who bend
To help a neighbor, parent, friend.

And when your toolbox gathers dust,
As someday every toolbox must,
You'll learn what every elder knows:
Life finally humbles us... head to toes.

So bend a little.
Take the time.
Perform one small act, so sublime.
For dignity is never frail
When love can trim a simple nail.

Remember us.

From toolboxes...
to toenails.

WJS

THERE IS NO TOMORROW

There Is No Tomorrow

There is no tomorrow.
Not for me.
Not for you.
Only the comforting illusion
that dawn has signed another contract
with our names.

When we are young,
tomorrow is an endless promise.
We borrow against it,
spend it recklessly,
waste it on trifles,
certain another sunrise
will refill the account.

Age teaches otherwise.

One morning
you awaken to discover
that tomorrow is no longer a certainty.
It has become a question,
then a possibility,
and finally,
a privilege.

The calendar grows thin.
The seasons shorten.
Each goodbye
lingers a little longer.

And yet,
this is not the end of hope.

For though there may be
no tomorrow for us,
there may still be
a tomorrow for what we leave behind.

A book
that outlives its author.
An idea
that finds another mind.
A melody
that another voice will sing.
A lesson
that becomes someone else's wisdom.
A kindness
that echoes through generations
without ever knowing your name.

This is the project.

Find something
that deserves tomorrow.
Build something
that will not need your heartbeat.
Plant a tree
whose shade you will never know.
Write the sentence
you will never live to read again.
Light a candle
whose flame another hand will carry.

Death cannot negotiate
with unfinished time,
but it has no claim
upon the work
that continues without us.

There is no tomorrow
for the body.

But there can be
a thousand tomorrows
for the gift we leave behind.

So choose your project well.

For in the end,
our greatest ambition
is not to live forever.

It is to create something
that does.

WJS 

CAPITALISM CAPTURED CHRISTIANITY

When Capitalism Captured Christianity

If an observer were to read the New Testament without any knowledge of modern America, they would almost certainly conclude that Jesus was deeply suspicious of wealth and power. He blessed the poor, warned that the rich faced extraordinary moral dangers, instructed his followers to care for "the least of these," and declared that one cannot serve both God and money.

Yet much of American Christianity appears to have reached nearly the opposite conclusion.

The dominant message heard in many churches is not one of economic humility but of individual success. Wealth is often treated as evidence of virtue, business success as evidence of God's favor, and free-market capitalism as if it were a sacred institution. In some circles, the so-called "prosperity gospel" explicitly teaches that faithfulness will be rewarded with financial prosperity.

This represents, in my view, one of the great ironies of American history.

In their purest forms, Christianity and capitalism begin with very different moral priorities.

Capitalism is an economic system. Its primary engine is private ownership, competition, investment, and the pursuit of profit. Properly regulated, it can generate innovation, productivity, and wealth. Left unchecked, however, it naturally rewards accumulation, concentrates economic power, and encourages the pursuit of self-interest.

Christianity, by contrast, is fundamentally a moral system. Its central teachings emphasize compassion, generosity, forgiveness, humility, and concern for the poor. The New Testament repeatedly warns against the corrupting influence of wealth. Jesus told a rich young ruler to sell his possessions and give the proceeds to the poor. He overturned the tables of money changers in the Temple. He observed that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.

Those teachings sit uneasily beside a culture that celebrates wealth as the highest achievement.

The tension between these two systems has existed for centuries. But in the United States, the tension has often been resolved not by changing capitalism, but by changing Christianity.

Over time, many churches came to identify free-market capitalism with God's will. Political conservatism, economic individualism, and religious identity increasingly became intertwined. Rather than challenging concentrations of wealth or questioning economic inequality, many religious institutions came to defend the existing economic order.

The result is a version of Christianity that often appears more comfortable defending wealth than questioning it.

This transformation has profound political consequences.

When Christianity becomes closely identified with a particular economic ideology, it risks losing its ability to criticize injustice wherever it appears. If protecting wealth becomes a religious duty, then concern for the poor, workers, the marginalized, and the vulnerable can become secondary. The prophetic voice of religion gives way to the defense of established power.

The irony is striking. The figure who preached that the first shall be last and the last shall be first is invoked in support of systems that often reward those already possessing the greatest wealth and influence.

This is not to say that every American church fits this description. Many congregations devote themselves to serving the poor, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, and advocating for justice. Their work reflects longstanding Christian commitments to charity and compassion.

My criticism is directed instead at the broader cultural alliance between segments of American Christianity and economic power. When religious language is used to sanctify wealth, defend privilege, or equate financial success with moral worth, Christianity risks becoming something other than what its founder taught.

The same concern applies to the modern movement for Christian nationalism.

If Christianity is transformed into a political identity whose primary purpose is defending national power, economic privilege, or partisan goals, then religion ceases to be a moral check on society and instead becomes one of its instruments. At that point, faith no longer challenges power;Christianity it legitimizes it.

History offers many examples of governments and economic elites using religion to reinforce their authority. When this occurs, believers may sincerely think they are serving God while also advancing the interests of those who benefit from the existing distribution of wealth and power.

Whether one is religious or not, this possibility deserves careful scrutiny.

A religion that consistently comforts the powerful while placing little burden upon them bears little resemblance to the teachings attributed to Jesus in the New Testament. If Christianity is to retain moral credibility, it must be willing to speak uncomfortable truths to wealth and power rather than merely bless them.

The enduring question is not whether capitalism and Christianity can coexist. They clearly have.

The deeper question is whether Christianity can preserve its moral independence when it becomes too closely allied with economic and political power.

That question remains as urgent today as ever.

William James Spriggs

POSTERITY?

Posterity: The People We Will Never Meet

"Do it for posterity."

It is a phrase that once carried enormous moral weight. Politicians invoked it when building bridges and universities. Scientists used it to justify years of painstaking research. Parents planted trees they would never sit beneath. Soldiers fought believing they were preserving a better future. The phrase assumed that our lives were part of a much longer story.

But what, exactly, is posterity?

Posterity is simply all the people who come after us. They are our children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and eventually millions of strangers who will inherit the world we leave behind. We will never know their names. They will never know ours. Yet our lives may shape theirs in ways neither they nor we can imagine.

Posterity is unique because it is invisible. We cannot vote with it, argue with it, or receive gratitude from it. It has no voice in today's debates. It cannot protest when we damage the environment, squander public wealth, destroy democratic institutions, or neglect education. Future generations are entirely dependent upon the wisdom, or the foolishness, of those alive today.

Doing something for posterity means making decisions whose benefits will be enjoyed primarily by people other than ourselves.

Civilization itself is built on acts of posterity.

Every library, museum, university, national park, constitution, vaccine, and scientific discovery represents people working for a future they would never live to see. We enjoy electricity because earlier generations invested in power systems. We enjoy medicine because researchers devoted their lives to discoveries whose full benefits came long after they were gone. We drive on roads built before we were born and drink water from systems constructed by people whose names we have forgotten

The uncomfortable truth is that we are also capable of the opposite.

We can leave mountains of debt, polluted rivers, weakened democracies, neglected schools, broken institutions, and endless wars. These, too, become the inheritance of future generations. Posterity receives both our wisdom and our mistakes.

Every generation decides whether it will be remembered as a builder or a destroyer.

There is another, more personal form of posterity.

Most people will not become famous. Their names will disappear within a generation or two. Yet they leave behind something equally important: influence.

A parent's kindness becomes a child's character.

A mentor's encouragement becomes another person's confidence.

An honest judge strengthens respect for justice.

A compassionate nurse teaches dignity.

A friend demonstrates loyalty that echoes through another life.

Character travels farther than reputation.

Even memories become part of posterity. Long after someone dies, their words, humor, courage, or generosity continue shaping the lives of those who remember them. In that sense, every life leaves ripples extending beyond its own existence.

As we grow older, posterity becomes increasingly meaningful.

What will remain because I was here?

It is not a question of monuments or wealth. Very few people are remembered because they accumulated money. Many are remembered for improving another person's life.

Perhaps the greatest gift we can leave posterity is truth.

Truth survives longer than propaganda.

Knowledge survives longer than ignorance.

Compassion survives longer than hatred.

Justice survives longer than oppression.

The future depends upon people who are willing to act today without expecting applause tomorrow.

Whether one believes in God or not, this remains true. Our lives are brief. We arrive unexpectedly and depart inevitably. Between those two mysteries lies a remarkable opportunity: to leave the world slightly wiser, kinder, freer, healthier, or more beautiful than we found it.

That is what it means to do something for posterity.

It is every book yet to be written, every discovery yet to be made, every symphony yet to be composed, every injustice yet to be corrected.

William James Spriggs

 

LOSING THINGS

Losing Things, Finding Things

As we grow older, we lose something almost every day.

It starts with the little things. Our glasses disappear. The keys are nowhere to be found. We forget an appointment. We leave the laundry in the washer overnight or can't remember whether we put it in the dryer. We walk into a room and wonder why we went there in the first place.

It can be frustrating, even amusing. We joke about it because, most of the time, we eventually find what we lost. The glasses were on our head all along. The keys were in yesterday's jacket. If we never find them, we buy another pair or discover we didn't really need the missing item after all. Life compensates. We adapt. Somehow, we get around the loss.

The small losses teach us an important lesson: life has a remarkable ability to restore its balance.

Then, as the years pass, the losses become much larger.

We lose friends. We lose brothers and sisters. We lose husbands and wives. We lose neighbors, classmates, and companions. Every year the list grows longer. Illness and death become unwelcome but familiar visitors. Unlike misplaced glasses, these are losses that cannot be undone.

Or can they?

A person dies, but something unexpected happens. A memory, long buried, suddenly surfaces. You remember the way your father laughed at his own jokes. You hear your mother's voice telling you something you did not appreciate until decades later. You recall a friend's kindness on an ordinary afternoon that seemed insignificant at the time but now means everything.

The person is gone, but the memory is alive.

In fact, death often uncovers memories that had been hidden beneath the routines of daily life. It is almost as though the mind, faced with unbearable absence, searches through its vast library and brings forward exactly what we need. Not every memory, just the right one. A smile. A phrase. A habit. A lesson. A moment of grace.

We discover that we have not lost everything.

The memories become companions. They comfort us. They remind us who we are, because so much of who we are was shaped by those who walked beside us. Their influence survives in our choices, our values, our humor, our compassion, and even in the stories we tell.

Perhaps that is why grief and gratitude often arrive together. We grieve because someone is gone. We are grateful because they were here at all.

As we age, life becomes a continual exchange. We lose the tangible and discover the intangible. We lose possessions but gain perspective. We lose people but find memories we had forgotten we possessed. We lose certainty but gain appreciation.

Loss, then, is not always the end of something. Sometimes it is the beginning of remembering.

I have come to believe that every loss asks us to find something in return. Sometimes it is a replacement. Sometimes it is resilience. And sometimes it is a precious memory that had been waiting patiently to be found.

That does not erase the pain of loss. Nothing can.

But it reminds us that love leaves traces. The people who mattered most are never reduced to a name on a gravestone. They continue to live in the stories we remember, the lessons we carry, and the quiet moments when, without warning, they return to us.

Perhaps that is one of the hidden gifts of growing old.

We spend our later years losing many things. Yet, if we pay attention, we also spend them finding what matters most.

William James Spriggs

MY CONTRIBUTION

My Contribution

As I have grown older, I have become less interested in accumulating possessions or accomplishments and more interested in leaving behind ideas. If I have any legacy to offer, it is not wealth or fame but a way of thinking about the human condition.

We are the products of billions of years of cosmic and biological evolution. The universe is unimaginably vast, and our individual lives are astonishingly brief. Before we were born, we did not exist. After we die, we will again return to nonexistence. Against the backdrop of cosmic time, the fact that any of us exists at all is extraordinary.

That realization has shaped my philosophy.

I see no convincing evidence for a supernatural realm or a personal God directing human affairs. The universe appears to operate according to natural laws that science gradually uncovers, even if our understanding remains incomplete. For me, that means we are responsible for making sense of our own existence. We cannot depend on divine intervention to solve our problems or dictate our morality.

Far from making life meaningless, this places meaning squarely in our own hands. We create meaning through our relationships, our curiosity, our compassion, our work, and our willingness to leave the world a little better than we found it.

One of my lifelong concerns has been morality. Too often, societies proclaim moral principles while failing to live by them. I have become convinced that humanity needs a universal moral framework rooted not in religious doctrine but in our shared humanity. Such a framework should emphasize empathy, honesty, fairness, personal responsibility, respect for evidence, and, above all, a commitment to minimizing unnecessary harm.

Whether people are religious or not, none of us is exempt from the obligation to treat others with dignity. Moral conduct should be measured by its effects on human well-being, not merely by declarations of belief or membership in a particular faith.

I have also come to believe that many of our social institutions deserve closer examination. Marriage, for example, has provided stability, companionship, and family for countless people. Yet it is also an institution that can struggle under the weight of changing expectations, individual differences, and the realities of human nature. Rather than accepting inherited assumptions without question, we should be willing to ask whether our institutions continue to serve the purposes for which they were created.

Above all, I believe that the examined life is the only life worth living. We should question our beliefs, test our assumptions, follow evidence wherever it leads, and remain willing to change our minds when better evidence appears.

I do not claim to possess final answers. I have spent a lifetime searching, reading, observing, and thinking, and I suspect the search itself is more important than any particular conclusion. The pursuit of truth, imperfect though it may be, is among humanity's noblest endeavors.

If I have one message to leave behind, it is this: think for yourself. Be skeptical of certainty, whether it comes from politicians, philosophers, scientists, or religious leaders. Cherish reason, value evidence, practice empathy, and never stop asking questions.

We did not choose to be here. But while we are here, we have the opportunity, and the responsibility, to contribute to help one another navigate this brief and remarkable existence.

If that is my contribution, it is enough.

William James Spriggs

SAY THAT AGAIN?

You Can Say That Again…Only Don't

One of the first rules of growing older, according to popular wisdom, is this:

"Don't tell the same story twice."

Unfortunately, that's impossible.

By the time we reach our eighties, we've accumulated thousands of stories, but only a few dozen have risen to the level of greatness. Those are the ones we've polished over the years. We've trimmed the unnecessary parts, improved the punchlines, and, if we're honest, added just enough embellishment to make them even better than they were the first time.

They're classics.

The trouble is, our audience has often heard them before.

You can almost see the look of recognition spread across the room.

"Oh no," they're thinking. "This is the fishing story."

Or...

"Here comes the one about the Marine Corps."

Or...

"This is the story about the first date with his wife."

If they're especially experienced, they can probably mouth the next sentence before we say it.

We've all been there, both as the storyteller and as the captive audience.

The usual advice is simple: Stop repeating yourself.

But I wonder if that's really good advice.

After all, those stories are not just entertainment. They are our history.

Every repeated story exercises memory. It organizes thoughts. It keeps names, places, and events alive. It reminds us not only of what happened but of who we were.

Perhaps telling stories is less about informing the listener than reminding ourselves that our lives have been rich, funny, adventurous, and worth remembering.

And what about the listener?

Listening is a skill too.

Instead of thinking, I've heard this before, perhaps we could ask a question.

"What happened after that?"

"How old were you?"

"What was your father like?"

"What made you decide to do that?"

Suddenly, the old story isn't quite the same anymore.

New details emerge.

Different memories surface.

Sometimes the storyteller remembers something that had been forgotten for years.

The story grows richer, not because it has changed, but because it has deepened.

At Merrill Gardens, we are surrounded by extraordinary lives. Veterans, teachers, nurses, business owners, parents, artists, mechanics, farmers, musicians each of us carries a lifetime of experiences that no history book can fully capture.

It would be a shame if those stories disappeared simply because someone worried about repeating them.

So perhaps we should relax the unwritten rule.

Tell the story.

Tell it with enthusiasm.

Tell it with feeling.

If you've told it before, that's all right. Maybe your listener needs to hear it again. Maybe someone new has never heard it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll remember one more wonderful detail that makes it even better.

Besides, every family has stories that become legends precisely because they're told over and over again.

The next time you hear someone begin with, "Did I ever tell you about...?" don't be too quick to interrupt.

Smile.

Pull up a chair.

You might be hearing history.

Or, at the very least, a really good story...again.

William James Spriggs