THERE ARE FEW certainties in life, but December always brings a few. Our neighbors will decorate their houses with bright lights, our mailbox will be stuffed with letters asking for charitable donations and the financial pundits will speculate whether there’ll be a Santa Claus rally this year. If you’re a regular reader of HumbleDollar, you know that a Santa Claus rally has the potential to fill our portfolios with extra dollars via higher stock and mutual fund prices. But the Santa Claus rally I want to share has been much more valuable to me than a few extra percentage points added to my net worth. I was in my early 20s and slowly putting my life back together after bankrupting myself with my compulsive gambling addiction. As the holidays came around, I began feeling lonely and even more depressed than usual. I had lost my money, my girlfriend and most of my self-esteem. A friend suggested I spend Thanksgiving delivering meals to seniors who couldn’t get out of the house. For at least one day, I forgot myself and felt good because of the smiles and joy my deliveries had brought. The Christmas season was going to be even harder. I’m the kind of guy who watches all the holiday movies and cartoons and can’t get enough of the spirit of giving. I decided to leverage my Thanksgiving learnings. I went to the costume shop and bought the most expensive Santa suit I could find. If I had a financial advisor back then, she would have warned against adding the equivalent of a week’s pay to my credit card debt. But more than 35 years later, I can say it was one of the best purchases I ever made. I soon became a volunteer in the Santa Claus helper patrol. I dressed up for parties and for friends. On Christmas Day, a friend dressed up as an elf and we drove around the Bay Area bringing good will and joy to friends and strangers along the way. It’s hard to describe the look in children’s and even adults’ eyes when they look into Santa’s eyes. Twinkling and shining are apt adjectives. The joy in my heart was even bigger. While Christmas Day was fun, my biggest learning and memory came the following year. That year, the office where I worked hosted a Christmas party for a group of 20 children who had been orphaned and were awaiting placement in foster homes. These kids ranged in age from six months to 12 or 13. Some were disfigured or had fresh scars from recent beatings. A few were disabled and needed assistance. My job at the party was to hand out presents that the people in our office had purchased for each kid. As I—Santa—made my entrance, I hugged as many kids as I could find, while giving a hearty “ho ho ho” and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. One little boy, who was probably five or six years old and who, believe it or not, was named Don, gave Santa the biggest and strongest hug he had ever felt, and then said, “Santa, I love you.” Everywhere Santa went, little Don followed. He hung on Santa’s leg and tugged on Santa’s pants. Frankly, the kid started to annoy me. When Santa sat down to hand out the gifts, little Don ran to the front of the line to sit on Santa’s knee first and to get his presents. “Ah ha,” the man behind the beard thought, “now he’ll go and play with his presents and leave me alone.” But when Santa gave Don his gifts, Don ran over to a little boy who was in a wheelchair and couldn’t make it to Santa’s lap. Don gave the boy the presents, ran back to Santa’s lap, hugged him hard, told him he loved him again and never asked for another gift. Behind my beard and makeup were tears that, luckily, little Don couldn’t see. I had thought that he was only interested in presents, not Santa or the other kids. Although I gave out the presents that day, little Don showed and gave big Don the greatest gift of all—the gift of love. I, of course, hope our finances enjoy a Santa Claus rally this year. But there’s a bigger Santa rally that I wish for you, no matter what winter holiday you do or don’t celebrate. I’m talking about the rally—the inspiration—that comes from sharing your time and your love. I can’t promise your portfolio will get bigger in the next few days. But I can guarantee that, if you remember to give some love, your heart will grow larger.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” — Howard Thurman When I last checked in with you we were waiting to move to California to be closer to our, now, 18-month granddaughter. I shared the wisdom I had gotten from a six-day silent retreat. As Paul Harvey used to say, “now for the rest of the story”. I broke my silence at the retreat to interview for my dream retirement job - being an usher for the San Francisco Giants. Despite the fact my wife told me when I applied “they aren’t going to hire a 67-year old with two replacement hips,” they did. I accepted the offer of a part-time, minimum-wage job and the opportunity to commute from North Carolina to California to do it.  Another consequence of the good luck and timing of saving/investing over the years.  I had been a bit lost and depressed since November. The election results and our inability to find a place to live in California had been getting me down. The new job, and the Howard Thurman quote above, inspired me to move towards what makes me come alive. I decided to start working on my long-planned memoir with baseball as its main theme. I fell in love with baseball (and Willie Mays) in 1965 when I was seven and my family was falling apart.  Perhaps it could help save me again when the country seems to be falling apart.  I started writing during spring training and started the new job in April. It’s been a whirlwind. I’ve been interviewing baseball fanatics like myself. Current and former writers, announcers, players and fans - including members of the HumbleDollar community. (If you are one please let me know!) Baseball gives them and me joy - and joy always makes me come alive. The faith of taking a job without a place to live paid off - we are closing on a new house in two weeks and the cross-country move will begin when we sell our house in North Carolina. We face many challenges as we age and prepare for, or enter into, retirement. HumbleDollar helps us with the financial challenges but just as important can be finding and/or remembering what makes us come alive. The twinkling in my granddaughter’s eyes as she remembers my face, the smiles of six-year and sixty-six year olds as they walk into the ballpark and the conversations with people I never dreamed I would meet to talk about the memories and heartbreaks of baseball give me joy these days. And I feel more alive. I know that’s what I need now, I hope and pray it is what the world needs now too.

ON NEW YEAR’S DAY 1994, life was looking pretty good. I was age 35 and, despite not having a college degree, was slowly climbing the corporate ladder. I’d just finished the most lucrative year of my career, and a semi-promotion promised to increase my income by 50% to 100%. My wife Kathleen was happily home-schooling our six- and 13-year-old boys, and we were thinking about buying a bigger house. Then life happened. On Jan. 4, my wife got the call from her doctor that her recent medical tests hadn’t turned out well. She had early stage breast cancer. That night, as we lay in bed, I blurted out something I probably shouldn’t have. But I believed it to be true. “This is going to be one of the best things that ever happened to us.” My terrified wife didn’t yell at me or punch me out. Instead, we held each other, and hoped and prayed that something good might come from our fear that she had a potentially terminal disease. The next few weeks would change our lives. My company was supportive of me taking time off to be with Kathleen during her treatments, but that time wasn’t enough. The company was downsizing and, although I wasn’t in the demographic they were targeting, I decided to take early retirement so I could be with my family fulltime. As Kathleen completed her radiation treatments, I told her we should follow one of our dreams and use most of my severance package to buy a used RV and take a trip around the country with our boys. At first, she thought I was insane. I had no job, she was recovering from cancer and we had never driven an RV before. Her friends, however, convinced her it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. On April 9, we set off to see the country. We were on the road for almost three months, traveling 10,000 miles and making memories that have never left us. My wife healed. I visited a seminary for the first time and began thinking about becoming a minister one day. When we returned home, we decided to move to a slower-paced life in Pacific Grove, California, where I got a new job. Kathleen found her perfect job driving the local library’s bookmobile—three months behind the wheel of a 27-foot RV was good experience—and I found a new religious tradition. I started seminary less than two years later. Those of us who dabble in financial advice and counseling like to talk about financial security. "If a person has had the sense of the Call—the feeling that there’s an adventure for one—and if one doesn’t follow that, but remains in the society because it is safe and secure, then life dries up," wrote Joseph Campbell. [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] I remember reading those words when I was in my 20s. Safety and security, or the illusion of them, have their place in life. But if we have heard the whispers or shouts of a call—of something we know in our hearts we must do—safety and security can and will never take its place. Unexpected events in life, whether they be getting cancer, changing careers or suffering financial hardship, have a way of forcing us to look in the mirror and take stock of our life. Every spring, I think back to 1994 and all that unexpectedly happened—not only the memories of seeing much of the country for the first time, being locked up with four other people (we took our nephew, too) in a cozy RV, and reconnecting with who and what was most important in my life, but also of the urge and the deep knowing that leaving my job and being with my family was the only thing I could do. I had the faith that doing the “right” thing and taking the adventure of our lifetimes would lead to peace and joy. Looking back, it was a risky move. It would be more than 20 years before I would make as much money as I did in 1993. My financial advisor wasn’t a fan of me leaving my job, and he certainly wasn’t a fan of me leaving the workforce and entering a seminary two years later. I remember how many people told us that they too dreamed of quitting their jobs and seeing the country through an RV windshield. But they didn’t think they could do it. Most of those people had bigger houses than us, and probably a bigger net worth, as well. I learned that we can follow all the expert guidance in the world about money and financial planning and financial security, but sometimes that won’t be enough. I’ve seen life dry up for people, no matter whether they’re rich or poor. When we say “no” to our dreams, to the adventures of spirit and life that often unexpectedly beckon to us, a little bit dies inside. Answer the call, trust the inner wisdom that whispers to you and say “yes” to your next adventure. A different—and perhaps even more meaningful—safety and security await. I’ll be eternally grateful that two scared people listened to that whisper in January 1994. And I hope you do, too. Don Southworth is a semi-retired minister, consultant and tax preparer living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He recently completed his Certified Financial Planner education. Don is passionate about the intersection between spirituality and money, and he encourages people to follow their callings wherever they lead. Follow Don on Twitter @calltrepreneur. His previous article was Twin Certainties. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I FELL IN LOVE with baseball in 1965. My parents were in the midst of divorcing. I found sanctuary listening to San Francisco Giants’ games on the radio. I put on my batting helmet and pretended I was Willie Mays swinging at every pitch or diving on my bed catching imaginary lines drives. Willie had a magical year and, although the hated Dodgers nosed us out in the end, a lifelong passion was born. I preached on miracles when I applied for fellowship as a minister. Jesus’ acts were nowhere to be found in baseball. Still, the story of the 1969 “miracle” New York Mets—and this 11-year-old’s awe—were central to my message. Baseball was an annual sermon then because, for fans like me, it is a magical, mystical game that has meaning far beyond runs, errors and base hits. The 1989 film Field of Dreams, a story about fathers, sons, baseball heroes and ghosts coming out of a cornfield in Iowa, highlighted the spirituality of the game. Major League Baseball recently played its first game at the Iowa cornfield where the movie was made. The Yankees and White Sox entered the field through the corn and played before an intimate crowd of 8,000. Millions more watched on television. It was the highest-rated regular season game in years. The game ended dramatically when Tim Anderson of the White Sox hit a walk-off home run into the cornfield to win the game. Ironically, Anderson has never seen Field of Dreams. He was born after the movie was made. Like many young ballplayers, especially those of color, the storyline of old-time white baseball players coming back to life doesn’t really resonate. Baseball has become too slow and too boring for more and more people. It’s become an old man’s game. Players like Anderson and others are bringing a new swagger and excitement to baseball. Bat flips, trash talking and strutting after home runs are becoming more popular. Perhaps this new way of playing will bring more people back to baseball and especially those much younger than me. As I watch these changes, I fight the curmudgeon in me who misses the old days. It reminds me of those in the financial world who complain about the “gamification” of investing and the changes that come with it. Bitcoin, Robinhood, short-selling and margin calls for average investors? To some, it’s blasphemy. But the only constant in baseball, investing and life is change. How well we cope with it has a lot to do with our ability to adapt and succeed. IRAs and 401(k)s weren’t around 50 years ago, and neither were video replays nor launch angles. We have survived. So I’m struggling to understand WAR in baseball and ESG in investing. But don’t ever expect me to accept the designated hitter.

WHEN PEOPLE DISCUSS financial matters or take the “A Year to Live” class that I lead, there’s a common refrain: They don’t want to be a burden to their loved ones. They’re concerned about having enough money to take care of themselves when they’re older. But even if we have plenty of money, we can still end up being a burden. How so? Our kids and other loved ones don’t want the stuff we’ve gathered over the years. I was reminded of this recently when talking with some older friends about downsizing. For some, getting rid of beloved books, albums and paper records is like saying goodbye to long-held friendships. When we moved four years ago, we gave away more than 10 boxes of books. We still have too many. I always ask people in my class what their five most precious possessions are, and what they plan to do with them when they’re gone. The good news: People typically hold memories much tighter than material things. The bad news: They usually have no idea who, if anyone, will want the material objects they love. I’ve seen this up close. I was challenged and fortunate to take care of my dad when he went into home hospice care. The six weeks he thought he’d live turned into one year. I spent much of the year dealing with stuff that he and his late wife had accumulated. She was a collector, and had so many teddy bears and dolls that it was hard to get rid of them all. When my dad died, I was grateful that the company that bought his mobile home promised to dispose of any items that remained. I have no idea where they donated the furniture and boxes of china I left behind, but I was relieved that I didn’t have to deal with them. On the small altar in my office, there’s a handful of special keepsakes that have belonged to those I have loved. A ceramic Santa Claus my grandmother took out every year. The International House of Pancakes mug that we used to scatter most of my mom’s ashes, and which now contains eight ounces of her remains. My favorite keepsake from my dad? A small coffee scoop I used to make his coffee each day when I took care of him during the last year of his life. When I use it each morning to make my coffee, I smile and remember that final year, and how lucky I was to share it with him so intimately. I’m trying to dispose of as much of my stuff as I can, so my kids and other loved ones don’t have to do it when I’m gone. I hope my legacy can be a memory or a coffee scoop, not several trips to the dump.

“A YEAR TO LIVE.” That’s the name of a class I’ve been teaching on and off for the past 20 years. My hope: Participants will gain more understanding, acceptance and peace about one of life’s few guarantees—death. This year’s class members have a little over five months left to live. Every group is a little different. Some people resist the practicalities of preparing for death: putting things in writing, making medical and funeral arrangements, and divvying up their possessions. Others struggle with the spiritual and emotional preparations, such as making amends, letting go of control and telling those close to them how much they’ve meant. Last month’s homework included visiting a local cemetery to reflect on how we’re doing. Less than half of this year’s class made time for the cemetery visit. Those who did reported little impact, saying that—since they plan on being cremated—the cemetery didn’t mean much to them. I visited our local historical cemetery for the first time. I’ve loved cemeteries for as long as I can remember. I make a point of visiting them whenever I can. They’re one of the few public places where we acknowledge death. Normally, I start by finding famous people’s plots, which are often a pilgrimage site. But this time, I couldn’t find the famous politicians’ or national championship coach’s resting places. I decided to find a shady spot, sit on a bench dedicated in memory to a loved one, and meditate. I was surrounded by the graves of Edward who died in 2017 at the age of 86, Nancy who died in 2013 at 77, and Titus Elijah who died at seven. Ken was born in 1942 and Jacqueline was born in 1947. No dates of death yet. I was reminded, once again, that the rich and famous—like the rest of us—all end up in the same place. Some of us will have fresh flowers placed next to us once a year, some will have plastic year-round, and some will be strewn in a forest, an ocean or amongst the stars for eternity. I also thought about how much time and energy we spend making sure that our portfolios are just right, or that we have the best guaranteed rates on our annuities and certificates of deposit (CDs). [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] Planning and preparing for our financial future, and ensuring we have as much security as we can for ourselves and our loved ones, is a good thing. But so too is planning for, preparing for and, dare I say, embracing the one ultimate guarantee that comes with life—our death. We didn’t have much to do with how we came into this world. But we have a lot to do with how well we leave it—and how well we say goodbye to others. If you haven’t visited a cemetery lately, I encourage you to do so. Fall is a lovely time to be outside and contemplate where we’re headed and will end up one day. Imagine the lives of those around you and think about what you have left to do before you say your last goodbyes. Maybe you have wills and medical directives to complete. Maybe you have some things to check off your ultimate to-do list. Maybe you have amends to make to yourself and to others. Spending a day remembering what ultimately awaits all of us has a way of clarifying our priorities and providing a sense of urgency for what we know we need to do. Nobody can really predict where interest rates are going, or how much income our next CD ladder or dividend fund will produce. But we do our best to learn and study, so we achieve the best that we can get. By contrast, everybody can predict where our life’s journey will end. Hopefully, we can all do our best to learn and study, so we get there with as much peace and preparation as possible. Don Southworth is a semi-retired minister, consultant and tax preparer living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He recently completed his Certified Financial Planner education. Don is passionate about the intersection between spirituality and money, and he encourages people to follow their callings wherever they lead. Follow Don on Twitter @Calltrepreneur and check out his earlier articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]