Knowing When To Quit

First, an important NEWS FLASH:

Last night the tv news anchor said, “Early this morning police arrested 28-year-old ———— ——— for the stabbing death of his 11-year-old twin brother”.

That’s what she said.

I didn’t know pregnancies lasted that long.

Now, back to our regular programming:

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I never know when to quit.

At breakfast this morning, Ginny pointed that out by reminding me about my younger days back in the 1960s when I was a member of a local archaeological society excavating Indian burial mounds and other sites.

We worked in loose affiliation with the Florida State Museum in Tallahassee, but we were at best enthusiastic amateurs engaged in salvage work ahead of housing developments.

We worked against the time the bulldozers would arrive and plow a site under.

Each day we would excavate till it got too dark to see.

And always, the lingering feeling that I was on the verge of a major discovery haunted me.

One more trowel of earth, one more stroke of the brush, one more shovel of dirt might uncover an effigy pot, a Spanish doubloon, a copper amulet, a perfectly flaked arrowhead — some great treasure.

If I dug just a little more. If I searched a little harder. If I dove deeper in the spring I would find something that would change my life forever.

I’d hate to quit.

I always wanted more.

Am I the only person to be so demon-hounded, driven, and obsessed by wanting more?

Apparently not.

St. Paul advised his young friend Timothy, “Godliness with contentment is great gain.

“For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing our. And having food and raiment, let us therewith be content”.

In the 1920s a newspaper reporter asked a billionaire robber baron — I forget which one, Morgan? DuPonte? Doesn’t matter — asked the wealthy man, “How much money is enough?”.

The billionaire replied, “Just a little bit more than you have”.

How much of anything is enough?

As a kid I loved the banana splits concocted at the corner soda fountain. The soda jerk scooped generous dollops of chocolate, strawberry and vanilla icecream into a long narrow dish with a banana split lengthways on either side. He topped this with strawberry preserves, pineapple goo and chocolate syrup. Then came a ladle of walnuts saturated in maple syrup. Then he mounded whipped cream on top. Then added three cherries with red juice flowing over the mountains of whipped cream.

I ate one.

It was good.

So good, in fact that I ordered another one.

Not a good choice.

I should have known when to quit.

I’ve never known when to quit. When to say enough. When to stop.

After a particularly satisfying enjoyment of sex, even though we’re totally satiated, I’ll want to try again. Ginny says I’m a glutton for punishment and that I've watched too many James Bond movies.

But I'll have this firm resolve to try again.

Alas, my resolve is the only thing that's firm.

And pushing on and forcing performance never works. It turns a satisfying experience into laborious frustrating work and nullifies the satisfaction we’d enjoyed moments before.

It’s that second banana split all over again.

My e-friend Eric, a police dispatcher in Alaska, writes about a Suicide, Self Mutilation and Compassion Fatigue seminar he attended. It was a class for professionals involved in helping people through crisis situations. I think the class was designed to help Helpers stay sane themselves.

Many helping people feel driven to do a little more, to never give up — and then to berate themselves and second-guess when they are forced to say, “Enough”.

A mantra Eric realized in that seminar was:

All I can do is all I can do.

He says he found that powerful statement liberating.

What brought all this up for me?

Well, before breakfast with Ginny, I’d started this Google image search.

I wanted public domain images of highways signs to use as separators between essays in Barbara’s four Along The Way books.

I googled Road Signs (33,800,000 sites) and Traffic Signs (only 23,100,000 sites). Mostly I looked at drivers’ license handbooks and manuals from various countries.

I kept searching.

I kept clicking.

I feared missing something important.

I did.

I missed breakfast.

I wanted more. If I click on the next ten images. If I check out one more site. If I look one more place…

I made us very, very late for breakfast.

Ginny — who is the most content, serene person I have ever met — said I should learn a computer prayer and trust God to tell me when to quit.

She said I should pray, “Dear Lord, please tell me when to stop clicking”.