Finishing the Course by C h arle s R . Sw i ndol l
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ot enough is said or written today about finishing well. A tremendous amount of material is available on motivation to get started and creative ways to spark initiative. Plenty of advice is floating around on setting goals and establishing priorities and developing a game plan. All of it is insightful and needed. Getting off the dime is often a Herculean task, for sure. Starting well is Plan A, no doubt about it. But let’s hear it for the opposite end, for a change. Let’s extol the virtues of sticking with something until it is done. Of hanging tough when the excitement and fun fade into discipline and guts. You know, being just as determined eight minutes into the fourth quarter as at the kickoff. Not losing heart even though the project has lost its appeal. I fear our generation has come dangerously near the “I’m getting tired so let’s just quit” mentality. And not just in the spiritual realm. Dieting is a discipline, so we stay fat. Finishing school is a hassle, so we bail out. Cultivating a close relationship is painful, so we back off. Getting a book written is demanding, so we stop short. Working through conflicts in a marriage is a tiring struggle, so we walk away. Sticking with an occupation is tough, so we start looking elsewhere. This reminds me of something my sister passed along to me, titled “Six Phases of a Project”: • Enthusiasm • Disillusionment • Panic • Search for the guilty • Punishment of the innocent • Praise and honours for the nonparticipants
By the time a project has run its crazy course, confusion has replaced accomplishment. Participants have changed to spectators. The “let’s just quit” mentality is upon us. Ignace Jan Paderewski, the famous composerpianist, was scheduled to perform at a great concert hall in America. It was an evening to remember—black tuxes and long evening dresses, a high-society extravaganza full bore. Present in the audience that evening was a mother with her fidgety nine-year-old son. Weary of waiting, he squirmed constantly in his seat. His mother was in hopes that her boy would be encouraged to practice the piano if he could just hear the immortal Paderewski at the keyboard. So—against his wishes—he had come. As she turned to talk with friends, her son could stay seated no longer. He slipped away from her side, strangely drawn to the ebony concert grand Steinway and its leather tufted stool on the huge stage flooded with blinding lights. Without much notice from the sophisticated audience, the boy sat down at the stool, staring wide-eyed at the black and white keys. He placed his small, trembling fingers in the right location and began to play Chop Sticks. The roar of the crowd was hushed as hundreds of frowning faces turned in his direction. Irritated and embarrassed, they began to shout: “Hey, get that boy away from there!” “Who’d bring a kid that young in here?” “Where’s his mother?” “Somebody stop him!” Backstage, the master overheard the sounds out front and quickly put together in his mind what was happening. Hurriedly, he grabbed his coat and rushed toward the stage. Without one word of announcement he stooped over behind
