When I graduated from law school more than two decades ago, I could have done just about anything with my life. But the glamour and riches that Wall Street appeared to offer young lawyers who were smart and willing to work hard were difficult to resist, especially for someone who had never been economically well off. While I did not completely abandon my better instincts and values in deciding on such a career path, I definitely subordinated them to the prospect of material gain.
Being a young associate in a big-city law practice involves committing most of one's waking hours to the needs of the firm, and the principal need is the accumulation of "billable hours." The more billable hours -- that is, time spent on work that can be charged to the firm's clients at absurdly high hourly rates -- the greater the profits for the firm's partners and the bigger the salaries and bonuses for its associates. In law firm terminology, associates are typically younger lawyers who are employees, while partners are more senior lawyers who divide up the profits remaining after expenses, such as associates' salaries and bonuses, are paid. The goal of most associates is to make partner. The goal of most partners is to maximize profits.
I worked in this world as an associate for eight years, logging long hours and never feeling that I was contributing to any greater good. During this period, I was largely consumed with grabbing the brass, or I should say golden, ring of partnership, to the exclusion of just about everything else. However, even before I was elected to partnership in 1987, I had started to have doubts about my career path. It took another 14 years and some pretty powerful outside influences before I was able to confront those doubts head-on. Among those influences were this church and some of the people connected with it.
I came to the Unitarian Church in Summit, and to Unitarian Universalism, seven years ago in order to facilitate my son's rise to the rank of Eagle Scout, which is ironic given the rocky relationship between the UUA and the Boy Scouts of America. One of the Eagle Scout requirements was, and still is, to have a religious leader attest to the candidate's good moral character. Neither Susan nor I had been at all "religious" during our adult lives, and we had never attempted to imbue our three children with any religious, as distinct from moral and ethical, values. After checking out several of the area churches, we settled on this one as being most compatible with our own philosophy and values.
By now, I felt thoroughly adrift in my career, finding no satisfaction in the endless quest for ever-greater profits. My original law firm had collapsed a couple of years earlier, partly as a result of endless squabbles among partners over money, and at that time I had moved to another New York firm as a partner. Looking back, this would have been the perfect time to rethink my career choices, but it was too easy to simply transfer to a similar, yet more stable, situation. We tend to become fixed in our economic expectations, and law firm partnerships still beat just about everything else in that respect. The prospect of college tuition for my two elder children also loomed on the not- too-distant horizon.
After joining this church, I quickly discovered that it filled a void in my life, and I wholeheartedly threw myself into it. I had been a member only six months when I was asked to chair the Social Action Committee. I had been here just over two years when I was asked to become president of the Board of Trustees. You may sense here a dangerous combination of an intense personal need to do something and an eager gullibility. I can assure you that I have now learned how to say "no."
Throughout the three years that I served as board president, which encompassed the entire transition period between the Bumbaughs' retirement and Vanessa's call, I was amazed at how satisfying I found the work, despite its many aggravations. For the first time, I really started to think seriously about doing something else for a living. Susan was very supportive of me in this, even though it was apparent that it would involve significant economic sacrifices. The fact that I was about to turn 50 also probably contributed to my sense of "now or never," as did turmoil that arose at my law firm following a merger with another firm. In the spring of 2001, I retained the services of a career change counselor, who put me through a series of psychological tests to determine what types of work I might be suited for. A month later, I was stunned when the executive committee of my firm told me, along with several other partners, to be out by the end of the summer.
Even though I wanted to leave, not doing it on my own terms was a significant blow to my pride. I doubted that I would be able to make the kind of radical career transition I contemplated in such a short time. I was right about that, and in September 2001, I joined the ranks of the unemployed.
My initial reaction to my new status was to be embarrassed. I didn't want people to know, and I waited six months before telling my parents, not because I feared they would be disappointed or unsupportive, but because I had always been the "golden son" who succeeded at everything he tried. At times, even coming to church became a challenge. As my situation became generally known here, invariably the first thing a friend would say to me, with all good intentions, was: "How is the job hunt going?" I felt I was becoming defined by joblessness, and I was not happy about it.
I have always had a tendency to internalize problems, and that can be self-defeating. Both Carol and Vanessa seemed to sense this early on. Carol approached me to help set up the Transitions Group here at the church. A few months later, when I was increasingly keeping to myself, Vanessa practically slapped me out of a blue funk. Many of you were very supportive and made helpful suggestions. However, time has a way of passing quickly when one is looking for work, and as the months passed by without solid prospects, I became increasingly dispirited.
One of the ways I sought to fill my time besides looking for a job was to find other volunteer opportunities. I became a member of the board of trustees of Summit Helping Its People after having arranged for our Coming of Age class, of which my younger daughter, Nancy, was a member, to prepare and serve Sunday afternoon meals there. I also took the opportunity to write and deliver a sermon about my experiences as an AIDS Rider and to chaperone the Coming of Age class on its "roots trip" to Boston. However, by far the greatest portion of my time was spent trying to network my way around the not-for-profit community in New York City and New Jersey.
I was gratified by how willing most people in the not-for-profit world were to share their time with me, giving me pointers and further leads. However, measurable progress was minimal. Uncertainty about the economy and the shock of the September 11th attacks had led to a near-standstill in hiring at many organizations. By last spring, partly as a defensive measure against growing frustration and loss of confidence, I decided to do another AIDS Ride, this one a six-day, 500-mile ride from Minneapolis to Chicago. Besides being a positive, life-affirming goal that I was certain I could achieve, this had the added advantage of enabling me to ride again with my HIV-positive friend, Gary Mazzone, whose life was the centerpiece of my AIDS Ride sermon. I was already in excellent physical shape, since one of the benefits of unemployment is the extra hours one can spend at the gym. I did not expect any serious difficulty in raising the necessary donations to enter the Ride, since many friends, including many of you, had given generously in the past. The main thing that I needed to do was put in lots of training miles on my bike in a relatively short time, since the Ride was to take place in July.
The first weekend in June, our son, Charlie, graduated from Swarthmore College. That event was a source of great pride, but as I watched so many incredibly bright and idealistic young people setting out on life's journey, it underscored for me the consequences of lost opportunities and made me feel even more that my own best years might be behind me.
Almost immediately after graduation, Charlie and Susan drove to North Carolina to spend a week looking for an apartment for him to occupy when he began his graduate studies at Duke in the fall. I remained home with Emily, our elder daughter, who had just completed her first year of college, and Nancy.
Saturday, June 8, began as a warm, sunny day. I got up early and left Emily and Nancy asleep, setting out alone on an expected 60-mile training ride. I left a note for them on the kitchen counter that read: "Gone for bike ride, back around noon." About an hour later, things took an unexpected turn.
I have no memory of the accident, or of anything else that happened after it on that day, and my memory of the events of the next few days is hazy and fragmented, due partly to head trauma and partly to large doses of morphine. According to the police report, I had just passed through Martinsville, about 15 miles from home, and was riding on the shoulder of a wide, straight road when a car came up from behind, veered off the road onto the shoulder without warning, hit me squarely and threw me forward about 25 feet into a telephone pole. The driver of the car crashed into a mailbox, paused for a moment and drove off. Fortunately, three other motorists saw what happened and stopped to summon help.
I was taken by ambulance to the trauma center at Morristown Memorial Hospital. The police, meanwhile, set off after the hit-and-run driver. I later learned that a patrol car followed him for several miles while he drove along with a smashed windshield, as if nothing had happened. Despite their efforts, they were unable to get him to pull over, until he suddenly came to a stop in the middle of a busy intersection. When they approached his car, they discovered that he was in some sort of shock and took him to a local hospital, where doctors determined that he had suffered a diabetic seizure.
I always kept an index card with my name, address and telephone number on it in the small bag that fit underneath my bike saddle, and with this information, the hospital reached Emily and Nancy at home. Although I have no memory of seeing my daughters at the hospital, they tell me that I was conscious when they got there, and that I told them to try to get in touch with Vanessa or Carol. The hospital sent them home when I was taken to surgery a little later, after assuring them that my injuries were not life- threatening. Carol came to our house that evening and stayed with them for a while, and she later told me that Emily's first words upon seeing her at the door were: "Thank goodness a grownup is here." Susan and Charlie came to the hospital later that night when they got home from North Carolina, but I have no memory of seeing them, either.
Although not life-threatening, my injuries were extensive. The humerus, or upper bone, in my left arm had been shattered, and significant reconstructive surgery would be needed after a few days had passed. I also suffered a fractured pelvis, multiple broken ribs and a bruise to my brain. The blow to my arm also had caused nerve damage, leaving my left wrist and hand partially paralyzed. The surgeon who later repaired my arm by inserting a stainless steel plate and a bone graft from my pelvis estimated that I had hit the telephone pole at 60 miles per hour. Yet I somehow had escaped with relatively minor head injuries, even though I later learned that my helmet had broken off in the impact.
I mentioned that I have little memory of the first few days following the accident, but I do have a lingering recollection of being given a very thorough sponge bath by three young women. This apparently was not some fantasy that I dreamed up later, because Vanessa tells me I mentioned it when she and Carol came to see me at the hospital the day after the accident. I also remember that my neighbor, Dennis, came to the hospital the night after the accident and turned on the Lakers-Nets playoff game in my room. I guess these memories serve to confirm what many women have always suspected: Even in extreme circumstances, the male mind will focus on two things -- sex and sports.
One has no idea how many friends he has until something like this happens. Your cards, flowers, fruit baskets, books, toys, visits and telephone calls during the week I spent in the hospital and after I went home really helped.
The accident itself relieved me of the immediate need to find a job, since I was going to be recovering for some time. The prospects for success in that arena were still uncertain anyway, and the slow summer season had arrived. Two months before the accident, I had been interviewed for what looked like an interesting position at the ACLU national headquarters in New York. A month later, I had been interviewed for the job a second time. Having heard nothing since then, I assumed that it was probably another of many dead ends. However, about six weeks after the accident, the ACLU called me and asked me to come in for a third interview. The third time proved to be the charm. I got the job, and was even told I could wait until September, after further convalescence, to start. I have since learned that the ACLU is notoriously slow about making personnel decisions, partly due to bureaucratic inertia and partly because the organization is very conscientious about promoting diversity in the workplace. You may wonder, then, why they hired me. I have two theories. One is that they needed a middle-aged, white, heterosexual male to have a diverse workplace. Alternatively, when I hobbled into New York for my third interview, I had become a middle-aged, white, heterosexual male with a physical disability, and that had put me over the top.
All kidding aside, it now appears that in a few more months, I will have a near-complete recovery. I consider myself extremely fortunate just to be here, and I have frequently wondered why I was spared when every day good people are killed or maimed in tragic accidents. I do not subscribe to any belief that there is a reason, far less a plan, underlying such unfairness. But at the same time, mere capriciousness may not quite work for me, either. Ultimately, as human beings, we can never determine why such things happen. But we can, precisely because we are human beings, seek to deal with and learn from their consequences.
The readings by Max Coots and A. Powell Davies that I shared with you this morning are calls to fight on in the face of the personal adversity that is part and parcel of life. They appeal to inner strength and character, and that is fine when those qualities are present in sufficient quantity. Whenever we can, we certainly must focus on the opportunities and possibilities that our lives place before us, rather than the limitations. But that is not always possible, even for the strongest of us. Despite our amazing resilience, we are fragile creatures, both physically and spiritually. While a damaged body can sometimes be made whole through the wonders of modern medicine and its own miraculous powers of regeneration, the healing of a damaged spirit often requires something more.
It is for this reason that I included in this morning's program the selection from The Grapes of Wrath and the responsive reading based on Emerson's essay The Oversoul. Although they express themselves in very different ways, Steinbeck's wandering, unschooled Oklahoma preacher and the erudite, eloquent Emerson are saying much the same thing. There is a higher power that can provide each of us with the will to face life's disappointments and adversities. That power is manifest in a community of caring, loving people. Such a community can be as tiny as a family like the Joads, sharing a meal -- the "holiness of breakfast," in Steinbeck's memorable phrase -- before setting out on an uncertain journey. It can be as great as a nation that collectively decides that it will not allow any of its inhabitants to go ill-clothed, unsheltered, undernourished or poorly educated. It can be any of countless "in-betweens" where love and compassion are present, the community of this church being but one example. Each of them is special; each of them is holy.
The sermon in a Unitarian Universalist setting is never the last word on any subject, but rather an invitation to further dialog.
You may want to read other visitors' comments on Jerry Muntz's "Bumps in the Road" .
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