Elder Words by Phillip Hoyle

I read this somewhere:

When I turned forty I knew a lot about life.

When I turned fifty every new experience reminded me of a story from the past.

When I turned sixty I thought I was supposed to tell the stories.


Now at sixty-four with croaky voice I say:
Bah humbug.
The next generation is going to the dogs. (Quoting Ovid)
I’m feeling passé.
Moan, groan.
Youth is wasted on the young.
The food here used to be better.
Today I feel like Grandpa Grunt.
Their prices sure have gone up.
I really miss the good old days when things made sense.

Elder words are not new to me. Any number of times I heard them proffering advice, insight, and hope. My folks wanted me to have a good life and somehow to learn from their experience, so I ask you to listen while I tell you their good words.

Words my elders said to me:

Earl Hoyle, my dad: A kind man who wanted his children to have meaningful lives helping other people, Dad was spare in his advice giving. He didn’t select any of his children’s life-work or push them towards a specific career. Yet he did give me two words of advice concerning what I might seek for myself. “For a career,” he advised, "do something you really like to do,” and “Don’t be a musician.” My settlement was to work as a minister in churches leading their choirs and music programs.

Professor Joe Secrest: My main music teacher in undergraduate school, Mr. Secrest encouraged me in many ways providing varied musical resources and experiences. He liked my musicality and dedication to music, and he may have seen that my path into pastoral ministry would be wrong for me. He also may have understood more about my personality and potentials than I ever imagined; after all, he was a musician. At the end of my junior year he proposed: “I’ll stay here another year if you’ll change your major to music.” That was all I needed to hear. I changed my major. It cost me an additional year of schooling but was worth every hour, every book, every measure of music, and every dollar spent.

John Conroe: This handsome and kind man worked in the oil business encouraging folk to sign mineral rights leases. He and his wife lived simply although they had loads of resources. At the church where I had my first full-time job, she greeted at the door and he ushered the center aisle for the eleven o’clock service. They accepted Myrna and me and eventually our children into their lives like they were our parents. One fine day John said this to me: “They should never say of either of us: he worked himself to death.” I agreed with the sentiment and have lived into its easing wisdom.

Rev. Ed, mentor: When I began graduate study at Wichita State University and took on a part-time youth ministry at Broadway Christian Church, I shared an office with a retired American Baptist minister. On occasion Ed and I talked. He seemed interested in my ways of thinking. We read and discussed books on theological and psychological themes. I was amazed at his elder mind, for although the conversations sometimes lagged due to his slower come-backs, he several times recalled the outline of books he had studied thirty years before. I learned from him and was acutely aware of the irony of heeding the advice of a Baptist minister who said: “Go to seminary.”

Dr. Beckelheimer, professor of homiletics: In seminary, at the first meeting of a social ethics graduate seminar, “Strategies for Change” (a kind of Saul Alinsky community organizing course), I realized my real motivation for taking the course was my anger—at the church, at the need for credentials, at the whole world, and at the upset I had caused my family by moving to Texas. I was just plain angry and realized I needed to study something harmless, so immediately after that first session, after I had lied about why I was there, I went to the seminary office to drop that course and sign up for “Principles of Preaching.” The class would be my third three-semester-hour course in homiletics. I’d had two as an undergraduate student and already had discovered I’d be happy to live the rest of my life without preaching another sermon. I took Dr. Beckelheimer’s course and was the first student he ever he gave an “A” to on every sermon submitted. I didn’t like his course, but later in my effort to get out of seminary one semester early, I signed up for another one that sounded better to me, “Experimental Preaching,” a two-hour course in summer school. Again I did superior work that deeply impressed my unimpressive instructor. When I was almost done with my seminary education, Dr. Beckelheimer stopped me in the hallway. In his over-serious although sincere manner, he said: “Be sure you preach.” I did preach some for the next twenty years. As an associate minister I covered vacations and other times away for the senior ministers in several churches. I must have preached about one hundred fifty sermons—addresses I made sure my senior ministers understood I didn’t want to deliver. They liked me for that since I seemed no threat to their position.

Dr. James Duke and Dr. Cy Rowell: In seminary two other professors gave me identical advice. Both seemed impressed by my scholarship. Dr. Duke said: “I’d encourage you to do post-graduate work in church history except there won’t be any jobs.” Dr. Rowell said the same about religious education except that he explained, “There won’t be any jobs; too many people are already lined up getting their degrees.” I appreciated their advice that correlated well with the decision that had landed me in seminary anyway. I had chosen seminary when I realized I didn’t want to pursue postgraduate work in music history.

Rev. Kathryn Williams, a regional associate minister, friend, and mentor: I appreciated many things about Kathryn besides her enthusiasm. She had served as a missionary in the then Belgium Congo and from that experience had unusual views on culture and educational process. She helped me gain a particular approach to childhood education in a church setting, one I employed often in planning events and writing curriculum resources. Besides all that, I just liked her, her accessibility, humor, sharp insights, and constant encouragement. Sometime during the last year of my seminary education, Kathryn said to me: “I know a hundred ministers in their fifties and almost every one of them is bitter at the church. I don’t want that for you.” I thanked her for the wise advice and pledged to quit before I grew to hate my work. Eventually her observation led me to leave ministry.

Geraldean McMillin, school teacher, now retired: Geraldean and I started talking years ago. She taught economics to high school students and so her insights often related to her theories about economics. Growing up in the Missouri Ozarks, she also reflected an earthy common sense. We talked and talked and still do. She asserts it’s the job of elders to be wise. Among many wise sayings she has taught me, I most appreciate this one: “You can’t get a job without experience; can’t get experience without making mistakes.” Her practical approach has helped me deal with my own faux pas and snafu’s.

Ronnie Montoya, friend: I learned sage words from the mouth of a younger person, words that reflected his greater experience, talk that always combined humor and wisdom. He served me as a singular friend, a gateway into Hispanic experience, and a sexual playmate. This short, chubby, cute guy entertained me in Albuquerque. I had met him through my wife who worked with him. The three of us started going out to dance. Ronnie and I started doing more together—playing pool, kicking around, driving here and there, and eventually having sex. A few weeks into our affair, Ronnie warned, “If you get enough man-to-man sex, you’ll want a lot more.” Such truth! I became one of his best-ever students and continued my studies after moving to two other cities. I’m still studying.

Winston Weathers, writer, literary agent, and professor of writing: This elder statesman of creative writing invited me to his apartment several afternoons when I lived in Tulsa. With his partner of forty years we shared wine, snacks, and talk of art, literature, and writing. I didn’t know much about Winston except that he was a retired university professor and that his published poetry and short fiction had gained critical attention. He knew writing and one day told me: “Gay fiction needs more than drugs, dancing, and wild sex.” I am seeking to follow his advice.

Words describing an elder ideal:

Wisdom is knowing what to do with knowledge
Adages distill wisdom
Stories tell the truth
Poetry reaches deeper

© 23 November 2012 

About the Author  

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com