Read the full text of the Baccalaureate Address given by Greg Griffeth on May 16:
To the faculty, parents, friends of Darlington, and - most importantly - the Class of 2009, I cannot describe to you what an honor it was to receive a phone call from Mr. Milford telling me that the seniors wanted me to come back here today. About an hour ago, my wife Susan and I drove through the Hight gates for the first time since we left last June. To say that we were overcome with nostalgia as we arrived on campus would not be doing the experience justice. This is, in so many ways, returning home. All three of our wonderful sons, Larsen, Cole and Brolan, were born here (not actually here in the Morris Chapel, but you know what I mean). We have many lifelong friends here; our roots are here.
In preparation for tonight’s speech, I have done extensive research on the history of the Baccalaureate ceremony. Extensive meaning that I logged onto Wikipedia, the Web site most plagiarized by high school freshmen. According to Wikipedia, “The Baccalaureate Service (usually a religious service) is believed to have originated at Oxford University in 1432 when each bachelor was required to deliver a sermon in Latin as part of his academic requirements.” I imagine we would be graduating quite a few less of you if this were still the case. I cherish tradition, but I will not be delivering a sermon and certainly will not be speaking in Latin.
Also, sometime during the hours of preparing this speech, I came to the realization that most of you in the Class of 2009 will not remember a single thing I say. Well that certainly takes the pressure off, doesn’t it? Truth be told, it was quite therapeutic to write down these thoughts, these things I think are worthy enough to share with you. So even if you don’t get anything out of it, just know that I am enjoying myself immensely.
I know that there is too much excitement for you to completely focus on anything too deep. Right now, seniors, I imagine you are having feelings of joy and happiness. Those are two different things. This is, I believe, something Mr. Inman spoke about last year at Baccalaureate. At least from what little I remember of it. I think it was Mr. Inman. I think it was last year. You see what I mean? And it was a really good speech!
How do happiness and joy differ? Happiness is a fleeting emotion, while joy is more permanent. Happiness comes from extrinsic means, and joy comes from deeper parts of your soul. The happiness of this weekend is because you have reached a goal, a milestone. You are the center of attention. You are being recognized, and you are receiving approval from those around you. That is happiness. The joy you are experiencing comes from the gathering of family and friends, from the bonds you have with your classmates.
But there is another source of joy that you may not recognize. Many of you are feeling somewhat suspended between the past and the future. Am I right? The past you know so well has ended and will not be back. You have let the past go. The future offers something so different that you have a hard time really grasping what it is going to be like. You are not too worried about the future because we all know that college is fun, right? So here you are, very much in the present. You are acutely aware that high school graduation only happens once in your lifetime, so you are paying attention. You are appreciating the nuances of each interaction with those around you. The birds are singing, the grass is green, and life is beautiful. You are soaking up every minute of it. Can every day be like this?
On that note, I want to share some of my experiences this past year. I realize this speech is not about me. However, my first year away from Darlington provided great material for my message. There were a few times I got it right and frankly, some darker times when I got it wrong. This past year has been challenging, emotionally draining, deflating, inspiring, joyful and very rewarding. It has been a defining year for me as a husband, a father and a human being. Change and newness are invigorating.
The adventure began last June as we left our house here, six weeks before our new home would be available. That meant that we were suddenly dependent on my in-laws and my parents. That was very nice for about 12 hours. As nomads, we made the best of our situation. We visited everyone with a spare bedroom. With three weeks of homelessness left, we loaded up the car and left my parents house in Franklin, Tenn., for the 10-hour drive to Kansas City. The roof top carrier was bulging, and Brolan, our youngest son, shared very close quarters on the third-row seat with our wonderful but smelly dog, Jake.
You do remember Jake, don’t you? Our Sheppard/Collie mix, more than any of us, called Darlington, all 500+ acres, his home. He knew every building, was a frequent visitor to my office, and was never quite comfortable unless he knew where I was. More than once, I would exit the restroom on the main hallway of Wilcox Hall with Jake sitting there, staring at the door, letting everyone know where I was. He found comfort during thunderstorms at the McCann’s front door, never caught a squirrel, and once lifted his leg on the nice hallway chair near Sam Moss’ office. Sam is a great friend and a good neighbor, but I still made Ms. Francis, the only witness, promise me that she wouldn’t tell him.
So we, the modern day Griswalds, finally arrived at the rental house in Kansas City. My new job would begin on Monday. The rental house was, shall we say, “very affordable." This family of six (of course, I am including Jake), found our new abode to be about 1,000 square feet, consisting of three small bedrooms and one miniature pink bathroom. This rental property belonged to the adjacent White Haven Motor Lodge, a fixture in the Kansas City scene since 1950. I was relieved to learn that the White Haven Motor Lodge was actually named for a family whose last name was White. The décor of our rental house would have made Elvis feel at home, with shag carpet and fake jewels dangling from the lamp shades. I took a walk around the outside of the house looking for its wheels. I didn’t find any, but I am convinced that is how the house arrived at its present location.
After Susan’s emotional breakdown, we regrouped and survived by focusing on the family. Susan and I knew that if we let our surroundings and our life situation dictate our moods that a visit from the Department of Family Services would be in our near future. We were forced to make the experience of living in that environment something positive for our children. And we did it. We acted like the pool with the brown water was a novelty. The people that hung out there with us certainly were. We went for desserts at the Sonic next door. We made everything we did a family adventure. We accepted the situation we were in and focused on the important things. I can honestly say that the boys have nothing but fond memories of the White Haven Motor Lodge, and because of that, I can say that the overall experience was a positive one. It was kind of like boot camp. You don’t want to do it again, but you appreciate the end result. We now look back on this experience as blessing.
Three days before the school year started, we moved into our new home. Leaving the motor lodge and moving into our home was, I’m sure, what the Beverly Hillbillies must have felt as they found themselves in a new-and-improved life situation. I now had my own sink. I could shave whenever I wanted.
After a rather smooth start, we were confronted with our first bump in the road. Susan is a nurse practitioner, and her new job at a local hospital - which seemed so promising in the early months - turned into misery. Two words accurately describe the working of that particular medical practice: pure dysfunction. Have you ever watched a loved one suffer while you are helpless to make it better? It is very tough. Through a few more emotional breakdowns (recurring theme), Susan continued to stick it out, sacrificing for the mortgage payment. I told her that if we moved back to the White Haven Motor Lodge, she wouldn’t have to work at all. She stuck it out and honestly maintained hope 'til the very end that she could help improve things at what she came to refer to as “dysfunction junction.”
In early February, I received news that a high school friend of mine named Kenny was nearing the end of his battle with cancer. Kenny was the most gifted of scholars, with a perfect score on the SAT, impressive degrees from UVA, Yale Law School and Princeton. He had a wonderful wife and a cute 2-year-old son. He also had not one ounce of arrogance. Upon hearing the news, I had a passing thought that it would be meaningful to go see visit him. My mind rationalized away the thought for many reasons - I had not seen him in nearly 20 years, I didn’t want to intrude on his remaining time, and the trip would certainly cost hundreds of dollars. I really didn’t want to leave Susan behind on a busy weekend with three wild and crazy boys. Besides, I had not kept in touch with him over the years, and there were closer friends who would be there with him. He certainly wasn’t expecting anything from me. I shared the news with Susan that he wasn’t doing well. It took her about a second and a half to say, “Don’t you think you should go see him?” I am thankful Susan keeps me grounded. She was absolutely right. Visiting Kenny was the right thing to do.
So I flew to Connecticut and checked in for the night. My mind, my ego, was pulling me into a feeling of discomfort. What would I say? How would I act? This visit was going to be really strange and awkward. But something else was fighting through those ego-centric thoughts. On a more spiritual level, a voice told me that this trip was not about me, that my visit was for him, and that I should trust that all would go well. It was amazing how taking myself out of the center of my thinking changed my outlook. When I saw my old friend, I didn’t recognize him. His face was swollen and his hair was short and gray following the recent rounds of chemotherapy. His jaw was dislocated from a growing tumor, pulling his head downward with his neck at a near 90-degree angle. He couldn’t speak, so he relied on a white board and dry erase marker. The conversation was awkward because of the delay needed to allow him to write followed by my voice being the only one to pierce the quiet. It was awkward, yet beautiful at the same time. The quiet that was a necessary part of our communication was very peaceful. There was no pressure to speak through it. I was allowed, or rather forced, to embrace the stillness, and in those still moments there was nothing but our presence together. There was nothing occupying my mind, no mental noise to take away from the moment. After a few minutes of this communication, it became so amazingly clear to me that though his physical body was deteriorating, his spirit was strong, unchanged, not going away. It reminded me of something I read that stated we should all act like spiritual beings having a human experience rather than human beings who occasionally have a spiritual experience.
Leaving Kenny that night was difficult. I knew I wouldn’t see him again. The last thing we discussed was the fact that he would be absorbing and appreciating every moment he had left. I felt the weight of his eyes as I walked away from his door. At the end of the sidewalk, I turned around and gave an awkward wave before getting into the rental car. I had mixed emotions. On a shallow level, I was scared and angry at the unfairness of the situation, and perhaps a little guilty that I am healthy. On a deeper level, I was grateful for observing such a strong spirit in Kenny, the confirmation that there is more to this world then our eyes can see.
I returned home to the news that Jake, my companion of 12 years, was not able to keep his food down. He had been sick all weekend. Some people do not understand how a dog can be your best friend. Well, for those cat people in the audience, let me say that someone who is always glad to see you, who never holds a grudge, who lets go of the past and truly enjoys every present moment with you, and someone who is never too stressed to give you attention IS your best friend. There is a great quote that says something to the effect of “my goal is to be half the man my dog thinks I am.” I like that quote.
An x-ray revealed a large, cancerous tumor in Jake’s abdomen. My heart has never broken quite like it did when telling the boys about Jake’s terminal illness. Yet in their painful, raw, emotional responses, there was beauty like I have never seen. I was so proud of our children and the way they rallied around Jake in his final days. We managed to keep him spoon fed for the next few days, though his quality of life lessened with each day. We enjoyed every remaining moment we had with him. I took him to the veterinarian to put him down the following Wednesday while the boys were at school. I did my duty. I then went to pick Susan up from her miserable job. She was delayed in coming out to the car. The situation of having just lost Jake and now waiting for Susan (which is something that I have done in the past) caused me to start to get a little frustrated. She finally came to the car. I was expecting to receive some comfort from her because of what I had just been through, but to my surprise, I could see that she was in the middle of an emotional breakdown. However, there is a twist. This was an angry breakdown, not a hurt feeling kind of breakdown. In between sobs and a few expletives she managed to say, “I just resigned!”
My first thoughts were born of fear, such as, “Well that’s just great, Susan, should we sell the house this weekend or next?” But these thoughts were quickly covered up by the realization that Susan is not a quitter, and that she had been sticking it out so long. I realized that this was right. So my thoughts became, “Cool. You just quit. You’ll show them that they can’t treat you like that anymore.” Not being an overly emotional guy, I said something really stoic like, “Don’t worry, Susan, everything will be OK. You will find another job.” Inside, I grew increasing comfortable with the fact that this was the right thing to do, and accepted the situation for what it was. I willingly embraced the fact that credit cards with 22 percent interest rates were in our immediate future.
So with my dog dead and my wife out of work, we went to pick the boys up from school. There is a country song in here somewhere. We went out to dinner, but not because it was a great day to eat out. We were both exhausted, but there was no way we wanted to return home to a house without Jake. Our plan was to get home late enough so the boys would have to go straight up to bed and would not notice the emptiness caused by Jake’s absence. For me, not hearing his claws click along the hardwood floor when we opened the door was the most painful silence I have ever experienced. This was not a banner day in the Griffeth household. I was sad, of course, but the more stoic side of me dug in and prepared for the challenges that lay ahead. These challenges never materialized. On Monday, Susan had a job offer. Two days later, she began her new job as a nurse practitioner in a wonderful hospital, known throughout the metro area for being at the top in employee satisfaction. She’s being paid more to work a day less per week. It is very humbling to receive a blessing at a time when you are expecting quite the opposite.
Just when we were able to enjoy some positive news, word came that my friend Kenny had passed. It had only been 11 days since my visit. Also on this day, Susan purchased a new Cocker Spaniel puppy we named Emma. I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of a puppy, but we brought Emma into our lives to curb Susan’s motherly instinct (she’s always wanted a girl), and we missed the presence of a pet in our house. It was an “emotional purchase” and things have been emotional since the purchase. At this point, Emma is the opposite of Jake. Jake was intelligent, calm and house broken. Jake also recognized me as master and he lived to please me. Emma doesn’t care who the master is, she’s just happy. She is happy in an ignorant, “I’m just here for a good time” kind of way. She also came home from the pet store with an intestinal parasite. Need I say more? I highly suspect that Emma is inbred. Susan read up on the puppy training manual and informed me that Emma had to eat at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m., that we should chart her poop routine and take her out accordingly, and let her go pee 10 minutes after she drinks water. Well, who’s training whom? This is not puppy training; its people training. To give you an idea of how bad this episode was for me, for the very first time in my life I contemplated the positive attributes of owning a cat. My frustrations with Emma lessened when I created a cute little nickname for her that endeared her to me. A little nickname that helps me accept her for who she is. I call her Pita. P-I-T-A. Emma is my cute little Pita. The nickname has nothing to do with the pocketed flatbread used to make fancy sandwiches. Rather, Pita is an acronym ... Pain In The Ass. I am ashamed at how this life situation caused me such grief and general unhappiness. I was out of control of my moods and attitude, and I had no patience. Only now can I look back with humor. I assure you at the time I found no humor in the situation. I was in a fog.
To add darkness to the fog I was in, we encountered a dreadful week in April when a doctor discovered a lump in one of Susan’s breasts. This was, of course, totally unexpected. You can imagine the bad vibe that came along with this news, especially since her grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 39, only one year older than Susan is now. Working at a hospital has its advantages, and Susan was able to schedule a quick ultrasound during her work day on Friday. The doctor looked at the ultrasound results and stated that the lump looked suspicious — it had characteristics of malignancy as well as a common fibrous benign tumor. He just didn’t know for sure. His body language was more negative than positive. A consulation with a surgeon was scheduled for Monday. Susan called me at work and shared the news. I highly recommend that if you are going to have a doctor tell you that you have a suspicious lump, don’t do it on a Friday. We were in for a long weekend.
I returned home from school with the boys, and waited for Susan to get home from work. We did not share with our boys what was on our minds, nor did Susan and I immediately have any deep discussion about it, though it weighed heavily on both our minds. Instead we found ourselves having the most joyful moments together with our children. It was as if a powerful spirit had overridden the burden of our mind and caused us to be totally engaged with the present moment, soaking up every laugh and every smile. I wish the rest of the weekend could have been like that. I believe the first breakdown (there’s that word again) happened on Saturday because I opted for the bottled salad dressing instead of her homemade vinaigrette mix. At first I thought, “Geez, it’s only salad dressing,” but then, being the astute husband I am, I realized after about 10 minutes there was some other reason she was crying. Many tears were shed over the remainder of the weekend.
For me personally and I think Susan as well, I expected the worse news possible on Monday. I just knew that God was using my experiences with Kenny and Jake to prepare me for a greater battle. I felt that perhaps He had given me a couple of warm-up rounds before the real game started. Also, my mom always states that bad things happen in threes, so I tend to get a little on edge whenever a couple of bad things happen close together.
I cleared my schedule on Monday afternoon to be with Susan on her visit with the surgeon, but life had other plans for me. Our oldest son, Larsen, received a hit in the head in P.E. that morning and began vomiting an hour later. The recent death of the actress on the ski slopes because of a minor head bump did not help matters so much. I realized, though, that there was absolutely nothing I could do. Accept it and deal with it. So my son and I took a trip to the urgent care, our fifth trip since arriving in Kansas City, and Susan faced the surgeon alone. Test results on Larsen were normal, so no bad news there. As far as Susan’s visit was concerned, the surgeon was more positive than the doctor on Friday. He in fact thought that there was an 80 percent chance the tumor was benign. Initially, the surgeon wanted to schedule surgery for the next week, because he was leaving town on Wednesday. I wish I could have seen the poor guy’s face when another “Susan breakdown” commenced. Amazingly, he found time to squeeze in a surgery the very next day. After 20 minutes of surgery, the doctor came out to tell me that the surgery went well, and that he was confident that the tumor was benign. By the time we left recovery, the pathologist had confirmed it was benign. I did not expect this good news and certainly not so quickly. I think he probably feared another “Susan breakdown.” As I mentioned before, I had rationalized in my mind that we were heading into battle with cancer. Instead, we were handed a bit of grace, an underserved gift.
Susan felt like she had been pardoned, for she had in her mind that she was on her way out and I was going to spend the rest of my life with a cute brunette who was a master chef, enjoyed cleaning, and loved to watch college football. She wasn’t worried about dying so much; she was worried about a cute brunette. It was difficult in the days that followed to hear about the regrets Susan had from the past, about how she wanted to keep a cleaner house and plan better meals; little things that do not matter. But there were other things. She wanted to be more patient with the boys, more loving and giving of her time. Her regrets became my own. Had I been the best husband and father I could be? Had I enjoyed the moments that we had. The moments in the past suddenly turned into missed opportunities, and the present moments, we realized, are very precious.
The months following Kenny and Jake’s passing were months where I was easily frustrated, often unhappy with certain situations at home. It took a PITA puppy to show me that I am not in control and that I shouldn’t fight situations I cannot change. It took a cancer scare to show me that I am not living as fully as I would like.
We have heard Tim McGraw sing, “To live like you are dying” about enjoying the moment and making the most of it. Even Miley Cyrus has something to say (and I apologize for using Miley Cyrus; I hope I don’t lose credibility with everyone over the age of 14). She sings that it’s not about what’s on other side, it’s about the climb. That there will always be another mountain, so enjoy the climb. We’ve heard from countless other sources about enjoying each step of the journey. We obviously aren’t getting it or Miley’s song wouldn’t be such a hit song. The fact is, we often fail to find the joy we are seeking. We set goals for ourselves. We envision a life situation in the future that is better than our current situation, and we expect to get there and find joy. When we get to the top of our mountain, at most all we find is fleeting happiness, and then what do we do? We come up with another goal. We set our sights on another mountain. We create another life situation to pursue. It seems that these goals we constantly chase are just something to occupy our minds.
Goals and dreams are not bad, for the person who has none is lost, indeed. What is bad is expecting more from a goal than it can deliver. Why is it so hard to find our joy within the journey rather than looking for it at the end of the journey? From my experiences of the past year, you can see how I was successful at times, but many times failed to enjoy the moments. It took difficult experiences for me to realize that I was missing the climb because I was focusing only on the top of the mountain.
I want to share with you a different angle which may help you find it easier to enjoy the journey. I came across a book that gave me new perspective. Back in the summer when we were trying to escape our life situation at the White Haven Motor Lodge, we took a family walk over to the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market. Musicians were playing, farmers were selling their produce, and local artists were displaying their art. We walked by an older gentleman who was selling newspaper subscriptions to the Kansas City Star. He sat under a large umbrella and looked like he was enjoying the coming and going of the market patrons. My children were first to strike a connection with him. For me, the adult, I had my blinders on. I wasn’t exactly present, in the moment. I was eventually taken in by his genuineness. He asked courteous questions, but not with a salesman pitch. He was very engaging, and I felt that he was most definitely a kind, caring soul. A book on his table caught my eye. It was titled “The Power of Now” by Eckerd Tolle. I asked him if he was enjoying the book, and he look at me and very seriously said, “This book has changed my life.” So the next time I was in Barnes and Noble, I bought a copy. I had to get some of that.
“The Power of Now” is a spiritual book, though not necessarily religious, and it is definitely a different read than most. I found myself picking up this book twice during the year. The first time I made it through Chapter 3. The second time was more meaningful and I started to absorb some of the main points. In his book, Tolle maintains that too often we identify who we are through complete association with our mind, our ego. We are not our mind. Instead, our sense of self should be derived from a deeper and truer place within our selves, not from the mind. We should feel and recognize the deeper self, and use the deeper self to observe the workings of the mind. Our deeper self would observe the ego at work. The ego identifies with success at work, recognitions, physical appearance and approval of others, among other egocentric things. The ego’s needs are endless. It feels vulnerable and threatened, so lives in a state of fear and want. The ego is forever connected to the measure of time. The past gives us our identity, and the future holds the promise of salvation from the past.
Sounds crazy, or does it? Have you ever observed your mind at work? It thinks about the past, and it worries about the future. If it isn’t doing one of those things, then it fills in the gap with either some fantasy or meaningless mental noise. From the past, we harbor resentments toward our enemies or - more damagingly - toward our loved ones. We keep score, we remember painful experiences, we dread the future, we stress and we worry. We label our life situations as acceptable or not acceptable, but mostly our present life situation is not good enough. So we plan for the future, creating an ideal situation where we hope to find joy and peace.
The only way to diminish the impact of the ego is to deprive it of its energy source, the past and the future. Don’t let your mind be consumed by what was or by what you fear or hope will be. For you have no control over either. Instead, let your spirit feel life in the present, as it is happening. Look for the sense of wonder and beauty in each moment that God has given. Joy and enlightenment, Tolle claims, is in the present. We have all had the fleeting experience of being totally present, in the now. These moments often catch us off guard; the laughter of a child, the beauty of a sunset, a puppy’s lick on your face, a graduation ceremony. These moments are easily missed when your ego is running the show. Let us recognize that our mind is a tool and we must know its limitations in order to use it accordingly. Do not be a slave to the mind, but to the spirit. We must accept situations as is, for what they are, rather than demand they be some other way for happiness to be.
In closing, I have a short story to share. I want to share a quick lessen with the seniors that I hope will have more direct influence on them for their college years. This came to me in an email several years ago from my friend, Mr. Zimmer. A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was. So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was. The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous "yes." The professor then produced two cans of beer from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.
"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things - your family, your children, your health, your friends, your favorite passions - things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else - the small stuff. If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to experiencing joy. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house, and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."
One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the beer represented. The professor smiled. "I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of beers."
Now then, before I anger anyone, I want to make it clear that your former dean of students is not encouraging you to drink. We all know how old you are and we certainly do not need to drink to enjoy life. But let’s talk about what a couple of beers represent in this story. For a responsible, mature adult, a couple of beers represents slowing down, taking a break, celebrating life and enjoying friends. It is about appreciating and enjoying others. Notice that the professor after filling the jar with sand did not produce 10 shots of tequila. He did not say, “There is always room for 10 shots of tequila.” For 10 shots of tequila has nothing to do with taking a break, enjoying life, building relationships with others. Ten shots of tequila are very self-centered. It is very ego-centric. It is approval-seeking behavior. You miss the party after 10 shots of tequila and people laugh at you, not with you. You miss the moment. I am certain that in college many of your peers will be the “tequila seekers." If you choose to drink in the years ahead, realize that you should do so responsibly, for the right reasons, and with the right attitude.
So here you are on the eve of your high school graduation. It is a milestone for all of you and a worthy achievement - more for some than others. The happiness is in the event itself. Enjoy it. You deserve it. Enjoy the happiness for what it is worth for it will dissipate into a memory. The joy of the weekend is because you are present and aware of the beautiful things happening around you. Joy is from within your deeper self, the deeper self that God created, perfect in His eyes. Don’t let your ego tell you differently.
