DO YOU LIKE DAY-BRIGHTENERS?

BLOG #23, SERIES 6
WEDNESDAYS WITH DR. JOE
DO YOU LIKE DAY-BRIGHTENERS?
June 10, 2015

Well I do. I’m referring to a staple in my life for a very long time, a daily quotation to set my sails for the day. Over the years, I’ve gathered together well over a million of them to draw from. During my 34 years in the classroom, it was what I’d do: first thing of every day, write a day-brightening quotation on the blackboard. I put a lot of thought into them because I knew it was the first thing my students looked at when they came to class. And it was because so many wrote down their favorite ones and kept them down through the years, that I responded to their pleas to “Please, do it again! I miss them,” and began tweeting a quotation each day back in 2011.

Remembering how boring quotes can become if they are too similar to each other, too saccharine, too same ol’ same ol’, too pious, too preachy, too serious, too light, too old, too new, I’ve always done my best to mix them so that those who read them each day will know there’s no sameness; and that I mix in humor with the thought-provoking; and that my personal reading mixes in the contemporary with the old.

Several days ago, my agent, Greg Johnson, checked up on me, asking me how many people read our tweets each day and blogs each week. I didn’t know—in fact, it had been years since I’d last checked on such numbers. Mainly because I felt that if I did my utmost to make each entry the very best I could, a Higher Power would take care of the numbers. Furthermore, that if bloggers and tweeters felt blessed, informed, entertained, enlightened, etc., by them, they’d share them with their friends and relatives and suggest to them that they also become regulars. I just assumed the numbers would be somewhat similar; thus imagine my surprise to discover that there were almost nine times more blog-readers than tweet-readers! I’d mistakenly assumed that most people would want to read both.

I’ve now been tweeting quotations for 1350 days as of today; and have a request to make of all you bloggers who haven’t yet checked out the daily tweets. It would mean a great deal to me if you’d just give it a try for a week or so, and let me know whether or not you like them. I’m making this request not because my ego needs such affirmation, but because I so much would like to share them with you each day.

Just to give you a feel for what they’re like, I’m attaching all of the May 2015 tweets. I do hope you like them. And if you already read them each day—thank you for being part of my life! On the other hand, if you have not,  just go to http://www.twitter.com/JoeWheelerBooks.com – and sign up – and enjoy!

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Barely Begun at Seventy – Part One

BLOG #28, SERIES #5
WEDNESDAYS WITH DR. JOE
BARELY BEGUN AT SEVENTY – Part One
July 9, 2014

It was a glorious spring morning in California’s verdant Napa Valley. And the alumni were coming home from all across the nation to their alma mater, Pacific Union College, judged by the likes of Newsweek and U.S. News to feature the most beautiful college campus in America.

I was privileged to be one of six alumni to be honored that weekend. But for us it was a two-way street: we were expected to give as well as take. Each of us was given around eight minutes to share with the audience the most significant distilled wisdom life had brought us. If you don’t think that would be a tough challenge, just put yourself in our places: how would you have responded to such an assignment?

For me, the question had profound implications, convicted as I am that all true wisdom comes from God. And since I’ve tweeted nuggets of wisdom every day now for almost three years, I had a lot of distilled wisdom to access. But the core of my response to this assignment was a no-brainer: There was for me only one possible quote that would satisfy. Especially, given the makeup of this particular audience. This is it:

A life may be over at sixteen
or barely begun at
seventy;
it is the aim
that determines its completeness.

That well-over-a-hundred-year-old-quotation came to me just when I needed it most: during the countdown decade leading up to the biblical “threescore and ten” that symbolizes a lifetime. At least that used to be true. In America, prior to the twentieth century, the norm was only forty-five years. Today, we’re back to the biblical seventy. I discovered that seminal quotation in a very old issue of that great magazine for young people: The Youth’s Instructor.

I needed it because as each of us approaches this time-period in life, one’s seventieth birthday can be almost terrifying: You mean my life is almost over? I don’t have any more time left? Will it be all downhill for me now? Will I be living on borrowed time? Is my productive lifetime over? Will it all be just a waiting game–waiting to die? All these questions swirled around in my head.

Also part of this ferment was a long-time metaphor for the perceived terminus of one’s productive lifetime: the proverbial Gold Watch. When or if one lived to be 65 years of age, one’s employer presented you with a gold watch. From that day forward, you were no longer a worker bee. You were now officially old. But not to worry: the benevolent government would now take care of you in the short time-frame you had left. Blessed be Social Security.

You see, when Social Security was born during the traumatic FDR era, no one expected Americans to live much longer than 65: many would die before they reached 65. This is why it seemed such a safe life raft for our government to offer its citizens. No one then even dreamed that more and more Americans would be living into their seventies, eighties, nineties, and, gasp! hundreds! Prime reason why the Social Security program is today threatening the fiscal stability of our nation.

The mind-set back then was this: You have exceeded expectations: You have reached 65. This gold watch means you’re done. We’re putting you out to pasture. We expect no more work out of you. Rock away on your front porch until you have the good sense to die. Always remember that Social Security is short-term: we can’t afford to pay you for living much longer. Most certainly we don’t expect you to live past seventy! Goodness! Do you think you’re immortal!

This was the mind-set of my grandparents’ generation.

But the problem today is this: We have never developed a template for vibrant productive living beyond the Gold Watch.

I see this reality at every alumni weekend I attend. Classmates who have given up on productive living now that they’ve entered the Gold Watch period. They don’t admit this in words, but they most certainly articulate it in their actions! They’ve traded their heretofore active lifestyle for a meaningless sedentary one. They’ve given up on goals. You ask them what they’re doing these days, and they sigh, “Not much…. Watch TV, putter around, play a few holes of golf, babysit the grandkids–you know: the usual.”

You can tell they’re telling you the truth because physically and mentally they are rapidly falling apart.

Each of them is indeed just waiting to die!

Next week, July 16, we shall continue on this topic: BARELY BEGUN AT SEVENTY.
Copyright© 2014

 

THE CLOCK OF LIFE

“The clock of life is wound but once
And no one can tell you when the hands will stop
At late or early hour;
Now is the only time you have;
Live, love, toil with a will;
Place no confidence in tomorrow
For the clock may then be still.”

Author Unknown

This powerful little poem I positioned at both the beginning and ending of my most recent Christmas story, “The Clock of Life” in Christmas in My Heart 18 (Pacific Press, 2009); in that story, I fictionalized my own recent close call. Over an 18-month period, my body began shutting down on me. Finally, my doctor took one look at my yellow skin and gave me two hours’ notice before checking in at a hospital E.R, Then it was a race against time to find out what was wrong before it was too late.

During those long days and much longer nights, when the clock on the wall above my bed seemed to take forever to indicate one lone minute had passed, I had plenty of opportunities to Monday-morning quarterback my life: Was my life over, my race done? Had I accomplished all I had hoped to in this short soap opera we label “life”? Was I at peace with God? Had I told my wife and children often enough how very much I loved and cherished them? Was my house in order (ready for an exhaustive audit)? If my body continued to close shop on me, was I ready to tie up all the loose ends of my life? Was my wife Connie prepared to shoulder the entire burden of life alone? What could she do with the massive library that has made our 71 books possible? Did I have fences I needed to mend before it was too late? How was I doing on my Bucket List? Did I have any major regrets? Most important of all . . . was I ready to meet my Maker?

After much prayer, I was convicted that I should pour all these variables into my 18th Christmas story. And “The Clock of Life” proved to be the perfect catalyst.

* * * * *

Several days ago, I was debriefing by phone with Tim Kubrock (principal of Monterey Bay Academy) over the alumni breakfast the week before; more specifically, my remarks to the alumni.

Because of all I have gone through during the last couple of years, I was especially conscious of just how fragile is our hold on life—and, by extension, how little time we have in which to accomplish our goals. I used to take all this for granted. I most certainly do not any more.

And so I urged my fellow alumni to not delay in their giving to this school that contributed so much to us in the morning of our lives. I was painfully blunt: “You know, each year we lose more of our beloved classmates—most likely, never on earth will all of us in this room assemble together again. So please don’t delay in your support of our alma mater.”

All this the principal and I referenced in our chat.

Then he told me, “I’ve got to tell you about an experience I had in my office about 5 p.m. Saturday afternoon. A 50th anniversary alum walked in (I could tell by the honor ribbon on his shirt). Well, he just wanted to talk about the academy, life in general, his own children (who’d also attended the academy), and some painful things I can’t share. Before he left, I felt impressed to offer prayer for him and his family: that the Lord would help to heal the brokenness in his family. When he got up to leave, there was a softness and peace in his face that had not been there when he came in.

There was then a long silence. . .

Followed by a sigh . . . and

“He died last Friday.”

THE OTHER SIDE OF “POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE”

            All across America right now a rite of passage: Graduation, is taking place.  For the 34 years of my teaching career, every spring, as a member of the faculty I’d have a ring-side seat when the long black line solemnly came down the aisle.  “Solemn” at the beginning —“euphoric” at the end.  “Solemn” because instinctively each graduate sensed that when the ceremony was over a door would be closing on that portion of their life story.  Ironically, in ancient Rome, especially in the decedent late period, unwanted children were routinely booted out of their homes into the streets to survive as best they could—and they called them “alumni.”

            Just so today, in these recessionary times, I’d guess many of the graduates we see march down the aisle in May and June, without solid job prospects, the very thought of being cast out into a cold world makes them shudder.

* * * * *

            When I took early retirement in order to write full-time, I didn’t realize what it would feel like to not be there at the front of the auditorium in my doctoral robe every spring.  I’ve always reveled in medieval pageantry and, let’s face it, our graduation ceremonies re-immerse us into medieval pageantry every spring.

            To tell the truth, I really miss not being there—far more than I would have believed possible.  Every spring, to see each of those now beloved students I’d taught and associated with for four long years come down the aisle toward me, would bring a catch to my throat.  For my in-loco-parentis rights ceased when they marched back out: my children were about to leave home.  Of course they’d come back on alumni weekends—but it would never never never be the same.

            Perhaps that’s why I wrote these words on April 5, 1991 when I was professor of English at Columbia Union College (now Washington Adventist University) in Takoma Park, Maryland.  I am hereby setting these lines loose into the world:

“THE OTHER SIDE OF
‘POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE’”

The years. . .they flow by like rivers,
     Every one bridged by a song;
Every spring that I can remember
     Haunted by that Elgar tune.

Oh incongruous sight:
     That long black line,
     In the morning of their lives.

I don’t know why this sentimental heart of mine
     Never seems to learn:
          All it takes is that first chord of “Pomp and Circumstance”
          And chills go up my spine;

          All it takes is that long black line flowing down the long aisle
          And tears—I can hardly see.

Why does my heart catch in my throat
     When these eagles of the morning
     Fly down to me?
          Could it be because there is yet no rank
          And only God knows who will storm the peaks,
          Who will merely circle above the valley,
          And who will cease to fly at all?

 * * * * * * * *

You are so solemn, caught up in the pageantry of it all,
     Only now realizing that the Camelot you thought
          Rose dimly in the mists ahead
          Is now only organ notes from being behind. 

Occasionally you will look up, see me, and shyly smile;
     I smile back . . . signaling it’s all right.  I’ve been where you’re going
          Too.
     But deep down, I know I haven’t:
          The other side of “Pomp and Circumstance”
               Is always new.

Our eyes, our eyes remember
     The thousand days we’ve spent together
           The long stretches of sea and sand,
           The rugged peaks spearing the azure;
               Together we viewed the edges of the world;
               Together we climbed celestial stairs to God.

And now it’s time for you to go,
     And we must stay behind,
          For 8760 hours from now
               Another long black line . . .
               Will complete its circle too. 

But never again will there be another just like you,
     And part of us will have left with you:
          For your success will be our success
          And your failure ours as well;
               Laughter and tears,
               Sunlight and shadow
          The part of us that is now you . . . we’ll share. 

* * * * *

Oh Lord . . . the only thing which brings solace
     To my already lonesome heart . . . is the thought . . .
          That in Thy celestial city
          Once again we’ll hear those haunting strains
               Of “Pomp and Circumstance” . . .

                And all of our college children . . .
               Will come home to Thee.

               —Joseph Leininger Wheeler (© 1991)

SEA AND SAND, LEAVING OUR HEARTS ON LA SELVA BEACH

One mile of beachfront.  How many high school graduates can claim such a thing? Yet ‘tis true: Connie and I were both lucky enough to graduate from a parochial high school, Monterey Bay Academy, that owns one mile of beachfront on one of America’s most beautiful—and expensive—stretches of real estate.

Not that we valued it much half a century ago: “So the place has a beach—ho hum.”  Of course teenagers, in any age, have little concept of value, for perceived value is a by-product of time and the battering of the years.

Connie and I have just returned from another alumni weekend.  They say that wherever it is you grow up becomes part of your DNA: if it be mountains, always mountains will call to you; if it be plains, always plains will call to you; if it be the desert, always deserts will call to you; and if it be a coast—always the sea will summon you home.

A fifth generation Californian on both sides of my family, I cannot be very long absent from it without saying to Connie (also California-born), “Honey, I need an ocean-fix—I’m hungry for the sea.”  And we go.  In this case, make that “went.”  And we stayed at one of our favorite cliff-dwellings: Santa Cruz’s Sea and Sand Inn, so that every night we could listen to the waves thunder up the beach, accompanied by the inimitable croaking bark of seals. 

Alumni weekend just gave us an excuse for going.  Those classmates of long ago—it hurts to see them; but it hurts more not to.  Every year that passes, there are more who’ll never come again.  And those who are still with us walk slower than they used to.  But Time can sometimes be kind, gifting alumni with a second set of lens: they see through the wrinkles and stooped shoulders to the still vibrant spirit within.  To them, by some inexplicable miracle, the campus hunk is the campus hunk still, the campus clown is funnier than ever, and the campus dreamgirl is the campus dreamgirl still.

I can never be more than minutes on the MBA campus without responding to tidal suction: I have to wend my way down to the beach, ditch my shoes, roll up my pantlegs, and immerse myself in my personal paradise-regained.  And there, as always, time telescopes for me, the past seamlessly merging with the present.

We also go back to our alma mater because of music.  And this year’s music could happen but once, for Arladell Nelson-Speyer was “coming home” after a twelve-year hiatus.  Arladell, who’d directed the academy’s legendary touring choral group, the Oceanaires, for thirty long years (half the entire history of the school).  Arladell, who’d during those twelve intervening years endured enough heartbreak for three lifetimes—and our own hearts vicariously broke for her.  Since we couldn’t take away her anguish, we settled for second best: being there for her.

So—shades of Mr. Holland’s Opus (a 1965 Disney tearjerker chronicling the thirty-year career of a beloved mentor and teacher of music)—out went a call: “Oceanaires—all Oceanaires—come home!”  And they came, from all over the nation.  About a quarter of the thousand or so Oceanaires who have ever been—answered that call.  On that memorable Saturday afternoon, they packed the stage.  Connie (one of those precious few original Oceanaires) joined them, standing side by side with Muffy Lindgren Ramsland, another member of a trio that performed for all four years in academy.

Arladell had practiced with them, and wielded the whip as in days gone by; so they were ready to sing their hearts out.  The sound was the same, yet richer because of their cumulative size; the bass section sending chills up our spines with a deep rumble never evidenced when they were young.

Oh we never wanted it to end!  For it was life—all of our lives—that we were hearing and seeing.  Since the old familiar songs appeared in our printed programs: “The Morning Trumpet,” “E’en So Lord Jesus, Quickly Come,” “I Will Give You Thanks, Oh Lord,” “Children of the Heavenly Father,” “Soon-ah Will Be Done,” “Honor and Glory,” and “I want to Walk as a Child of the Light,” each of us (listeners as well as singers) inwardly checked them off on our personal bucket lists.  And we mourned because the last number was that much closer.

But all too soon, it had to end: It was time for the Oceanaires’ signature piece, “Ride the Chariot in the Mornin’, Lord.”  As it progressed to its inevitable conclusion, I wept—we all wept—instinctively recognizing that we’d never experience the likes of it again, for no recording could possibly ever recapture that magical moment.  So we stood, clapping and cheering and weeping until our hands were sore and our voices were hoarse.  Connie later testified that the emotional overload among the singers was even greater—if that could even be possible—than ours. For older singers, that is: none of the 2010 Oceanaires could possibly understand the thoughts swirling in the minds of those whose life journey was nearing its terminus.

* * * * *

Monterey Bay Academy.  I’m reminded of a remark attributed to Daniel Webster, who when asked where he graduated from, responded with, “Oh, sir, it is but a small school—but there are those of us who love it.”  Just so, our beloved academy.  One of the unsung, virtually unknown little coeducational Christian academies, where boys and girls still come from all over the world, where close to 70% work part of their way, where 90% go on to college—and the friendships born in dormitories here last for life.  Indeed, no other friendships ever formed in later years can possibly compare to these, forged in life’s morning years on La Selva Beach.

So, if you have a son, daughter, niece, nephew, or grandchild you covet such a launching pad for, as this, delay not a moment, but e-mail the Principal, Tim Kubrock, and enroll that lucky teenager immediately at Monterey Bay Academy.

DRILL SERGEANT MOTHER HENS

Without a doubt, those four words describe her perfectly. More on her later.

* * * * *

Most of the truly important lessons I’ve learned in life, I’ve learned the hard way. Unquestionably, my most significant growth occurred after I was fired . . . twice. Everyone ought to get fired at least once in life, just for the learning that follows.

It was at a book-signing that she came up to me, introducing herself with these trenchant words: “You don’t know me, but you ought to: Years ago, at ______, you fired me before you took over as Vice President. That was a big mistake, because I could have made you a success, so you wouldn’t have lost your job.” Turns out, she was right: upon the advice of my predecessor, I had fired the one person who could have saved me. In those days, I was incredibly naive about the real world outside cloistered academia. My relevant epiphany had not yet taken place.

That was the slow slogging result of years of door-to-door book sales and fund-raising. Can’t remember the breakthrough moment, only that my life has never been the same since. That’s one thing that really amazes me about life: the greatest truths are known and internalized by so few.

Here it is:     Every organization has two chains of command: de facto and de jure. The truly successful people know which is which, and act accordingly.

One of them, the de jure, everybody knows about instinctively–the logical one. The one on letterheads and power-flow charts. The person on top (usually a man) is the boss. The next one down is next in importance, and so on, each one proportionally less important, until you get to the bottom. These are the ones most everyone goes to when they need something. But is it valid? Ostensibly, yes. If you ask the person at the bottom for something, you go through your entire spiel, and chances are the answer will be, “Terribly sorry, but you’ll have to talk to _______ [the next person up]; and so it is that you keep getting bumped up to the top. Almost to the top, because the boss is always too busy to talk to you. Same with phone queries.

The other one, the de-facto, almost nobody knows about, because it’s not on letterhead or power flow charts. The only ones who know about it are insiders, and they won’t talk about it. Why? Because it’s too precious, coming under the abstract heading: “Knowledge is power.”

It works this way: in each department, there is a go-to person (usually a woman). There has to be, or the entire organization will collapse, for somebody has to be in charge, know how to negotiate the system. Combined in that one person are two oxymoronic qualities: being both a drill-sergeant and a mother hen. Externally no nonsense and hard as nails; deep down, loving, kind, caring, appreciative, tender, empathetic, and supportive.

What is really intriguing is that these de facto go-to people each report to another, higher up, just like them. Up and up and up till you get to the very top. That’s why, when I want to get or learn something, I by-pass the letterhead people and start with the top. Not the CEO, of course, but most likely his personal secretary (usually a woman); I call on her because she runs the entire organization. It would disintegrate without her.

Even her supposed boss trembles in her presence because he is powerless without her. Alienate her at your own risk because if she loses faith in you, you are history. All she has to do is cash in enough of the thousands of chips (“I owe you’s”) she has in her arsenal, and you walk. Since she alone has in her mental lock box all the corporate memory (also all the skeletons, and she knows in which closets they can be found), she cannot possibly be defeated. Not only is she a king-maker, she is also a king-unmaker.

I’m guessing the reason it’s usually a woman is that women (down through history generally being considered of less value than men) have learned to rule by networking among themselves and through empathetic men. They laugh at letterheads and power flow charts. They let those on them strut and preen their feathers as they grandstand on talk shows and to talking-heads. They laugh because they know where the real power is, how to use it, how to get things done—and how to stop everything in its tracks.

* * * * *

Now back to Sacramento two and a half weeks ago. On Friday evening, when we entered the restaurant meeting room, no one greeted us. We had to introduce ourselves to each one. Clearly, no one was in charge. All we had were middle-aged alumni who’d been told to show up; well, they had, but without a shepherd they were as clueless as milling sheep. Then suddenly, there was a shout: “She’s here!” “Debbie’s here!” It was almost spontaneous combustion in the room. Debbie Bighaus had finally arrived from the northwest. The one person, the Facebook Wagonmaster, who was single-handedly responsible for our all being there, had arrived—our de facto drill sergeant-mother hen.

Let the party begin!

ALUMNI WEEKEND TIME

Yep, it’s spring, so it must be alumni weekend time.  I’m certain of it, for we just returned from one in California.

By now, I’ve accumulated enough years on my vintage [in mercy, we won’t say how old] life odometer, to be a veteran of these springtime rites of passage we call alumni weekends.  In our case, they are inescapable because not only do my wife and I have collectively nine alma maters to keep track of, I’ve also taught at five educational institutions (three universities, one high school, and one junior high), over a period of 34 years.   Each of these can be counted on to schedule an alumni weekend each spring.  Translated: it means that rare is a spring when a particular alumni weekend fails to belt out an irresistible siren call.  And it’s all because of numerology.  Actually it’s an insidious attempt by society to keep us broke by reminding us (by snail mail, e-mails, telephone, Facebook, blogs, Twitter, et al) that somewhere, every year of our lives, a five-year-multiple of some sort has reared its ugly head.  And rejecting such a summons is almost a sacrilegious act: akin to burning a Bible—or a National Geographic magazine.

Well, as I said, we’ve just returned from another one.  And this one was impossible to resist: a West Coast high school class was circling its wagons for their big 4 0 reunion.  And I received an invitation that—oh, let me tell you how diabolically wicked it was!  One of those long-ago students e-mailed me, informing me that way back when we were both young and foolish, I’d been one of her favorite teachers, and she’d never been back to an alumni reunion because I wasn’t there and that if I didn’t show up for this one she’d boycott that one too—Did I really want to have such a dastardly crime on my conscience?  And she called in reinforcements for added insurance.  “Trip insurance,” I believe they call it in the cruise industry.

So, of course, we packed up our bags and went.  And it was worth many times over what we paid for it.  I must confess to you that, in life, I’ve had more than my fair share of honors and degrees, but none of them can compare to this tender-hearted former student of mine, who after agreeing to introduce me to the alumni crowd, sat there with me on the front row racked with anguish and embarrassment, declaring over and over in a shaking voice, “I just can’t go through with this, Dr. Wheeler!  I just can’t!”  And the closer we got to our place in the program, the more she shook.  Almost, I thought we’d lose her.

But of course we didn’t: the most moving heart-felt tribute a teacher could ever receive.  Complete with a conch shell in which she had somehow some way, I don’t know how! beautifully inscribed these words inside: “Dear Dr. Wheeler, you will always remain in our hearts”—words no one but me could see.

Of course I hugged her!  Indeed, for a time, I could not speak.  Not until afterwards did we discover she’d been given a standing ovation.  Because, in the brief terrestrial passage of this thing called “life,” rarely are we moved to such an extent that we’re incapable of speech.  All the way back, on our return flight to Denver, I dissected that precious moment to find out why.  The closest I can get to an articulate explanation is this: If we are lucky enough to live a rich full life and be the recipient of honors, the ones that mean the most come from the lips of those who have known us the longest, and say, in essence:

I knew you when—.  I knew you when you were young and crazy like us.  When you loved us unreservedly even when we were most unlovable.  There were times when you lost your temper, when you did and said stupid, even inexcusable things, just like some of us did—but we loved you all the more because we knew the love you had for us was Velveteen Rabbit real.  And it’s because of all that, that we haven’t been able to forget you—that we can’t even imagine not having you with us when we celebrate our 40th alumni weekend.

This is what alumni weekends are really all about.  For we are unreservedly vulnerable only once in life—when we are young.  And though we may be considered successful by the great world later on, if our long-ago peers don’t consider us to be successful (with qualities that really matter, that stand the test of time), when we go back to the old campus on alumni weekend, when we pick up where we left off all those years ago—then we are not really successful at all, no matter what the world might say.  And this is the reason that, if I should somehow live a thousand years, never could I imagine so undeserving, so heartbreakingly beautiful, a tribute as the one I just received.

May God bless her!  And bless all those others who shakily stand up in front of their long-ago-but-forever classmates, to express that rare kind of love that comes—if it comes at all in life—but once.