Betty Asks About Giving

Dudley and Betty had gotten pretty good at retirement. They had a plan. They knew what they had, what they wanted to spend and roughly how long it would last. More importantly, they were actually living the life they had planned. The money moved when it needed to. The bills got paid. The world had not ended.

One morning, Betty sat at the kitchen table with her coffee. Jingo was beside her, watching with the intense devotion she normally reserved for Betty and anything that might contain chicken. Borris was asleep on a chair.

Betty looked at Dudley.

“How much should we be giving?”

Dudley looked up. This was a financial question. He loved financial questions.

“I don’t know.”

He pulled his laptop toward him. Betty immediately regretted asking.

“We could probably figure out a percentage.”

“No.”

“We could look at what we’ve historically—”

“No.”

“I haven’t even finished.”

“I know.”

Dudley looked at her.

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m asking how much we should be giving.”

“Yes. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“No. You’re trying to make a budget.”

He had absolutely been trying to make a budget.

“Well, we need to put it in the plan.”

“Why?”

“Because if we’re going to give money away, we need to know how much.”

Betty shook her head.

“I’m not just talking about money.”

Dudley closed the laptop halfway.

“What else are you talking about?”

“Helping.”

“Helping who?”

“People.”

Dudley waited for additional requirements. None came.

“Which people?”

“I don’t know. People who need help.”

“That’s a fairly broad category.”

Betty smiled.

“I’m not asking you to solve poverty, Dudley.”

“Good, because I don’t think that’s in the budget.”

Borris opened one eye. Betty looked at him.

“See? Even Borris thinks you’re an idiot.”

“He does not.”

Borris closed his eye.

“He’s staying neutral.”

Jingo climbed onto Betty’s lap.

“That’s two to one.”

“Jingo doesn’t understand the question.”

“Jingo understands everything.”

The vote appeared to be going badly. Betty scratched Jingo under the chin.

“I’m just saying we have more now.”

“More money?”

“More than money.”

Dudley waited.

“We have time.”

For most of their lives, time had been scarce. Work, kids, parents, houses, appointments and everything else competed for it. Helping somebody usually required rearranging something. Now they had Tuesdays.

A few weeks earlier, a neighbor needed a ride to a doctor’s appointment.

Betty had asked Dudley.

“Are you doing anything Tuesday morning?”

Dudley had planned to go to Menards.

“No.”

So Dudley drove their neighbor to the doctor. They stopped for lunch on the way home. It took three hours. Nothing fell behind. Menards remained open.

Dudley had barely thought about it afterward. Now he did. They had been able to help because they had Tuesday.

Betty continued.

“If somebody needs help and we can help, we should help.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes that might be money.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes it might be our time. Or something we know. Maybe somebody just needs us to show up.”

“Okay.”

Betty looked suspicious.

“You keep saying okay.”

“I’m listening.”

Dudley still wanted a number. Numbers were easier. He could model a percentage, project the tax impact and put a green cell on a spreadsheet. Dudley liked green cells.

But Betty wasn’t proposing another spending category. They had spent their lives building money, experience and relationships. Retirement had given them something else: time.

Dudley opened the laptop again.

Betty sighed.

“What are you doing?”

“Adding giving to the plan.”

“I just told you it’s not about the money.”

“I know.”

He typed something and turned the screen toward her. Under the financial section of their retirement plan, he had added a line.

Help when we can.

Betty read it.

“That’s your plan?”

“For now.”

“No spreadsheet?”

“I could make one.”

“No.”

“Pie chart?”

“No.”

“Dashboard?”

“Dudley.”

“Fine.”

Betty smiled. Jingo settled deeper into her lap. Borris stretched, jumped down and walked toward his empty food bowl.

Dudley watched him go.

“Borris would like to point out that giving begins at home.”

Betty laughed. It wasn’t one of Dudley’s better jokes, but she laughed.

Dudley closed the laptop.

For years, he had thought stewardship meant taking care of what they had: saving it, protecting it and making sure it lasted. That still mattered. But so did using it well.

They had money, experience and time. If somebody needed some of it, and they could help, they would.

It wasn’t much of a financial plan, but Dudley was beginning to suspect it might be a pretty good plan for everything else.