I accomplished something I never thought I would. I earned my doctorate. It’s not that I didn’t believe I could. It’s that I never thought I’d possess the time or money.
Technically, I had seven years to do it before requiring an extension. I did it in two. And I maintained a 4.0 GPA, ultimately earning a medal of high distinction and the rank of Summa Cum Laude. As you can see from the image at the end of this jaunt, I elected to display the cords and medallion in a prominent place in my basement.
For the record, I’m not bragging. Well, maybe I am a little. I suppose it is something to be proud of. Conversely, however, the epicentral point is that I maintained an educational pace I would never recommend to anyone. I lived, breathed, and slept my effort’s research and eventual 298-page paper until I finally defended all of it in committee. Along the way, I doubled and tripled up on required cognates, taking full advantage of flat-rate tuition caps only to absolutely bury my life, labors, and family beneath reading, writing papers, more reading, and more papers.
I can assure you, there’s nothing worse than listening to your wife and children frolic about in the pool as you spend most of your vacation days in a kitchen nook swimming in an ocean of reading and writing assignments.
In short, I’m glad it’s done and that the degree has been won and bestowed. Nevertheless, I would never recommend doing what I’ve done. If you have the time, take as much of it as you need. You’ll preserve your sanity’s reserves.
However, I should qualify some of my reasoning. One of the only reasons I managed as I did was because I have a writing disorder. Truly. Beneath this disorder, it’s very likely I read and comprehend at a much slower pace than most. And yet, on the other, once I’ve taken hold of a concept, I can tippity-tap a lot of content in a very short period. A paper, a sermon, a blog post—give me an hour, and I’ll give you ten pages. Will they be good pages? I don’t know. That’s for the professor, parishioners, or readers to decide.
Ultimately, to celebrate the doctoral journey’s completion, only a superb whisky would do. That said, I’d been looking for a reason to open the Ballantine’s 30-year-old edition that’s been sitting on my shelf for many years. Before I tell you about it, there are a few things to keep in mind concerning this celebratory selection.
First, as I mentioned, it’s 30 years old. Second, it is a near-perfectly preserved edition bottled in 1952, meaning it was distilled in 1922. Doing the math, this whisky was first conceived and put into a barrel 102 years before I opened it. What’s more, 1922 is two years after America’s pietistic hijacking, resulting in a nationwide prohibition on alcohol. That is an interesting aspect, too. Third, I’ve been staring at it for over a decade but never had the heart to open it. I’d need a reason that exceeded my ability to resist.
June 6, 2024—the day after a successful thesis defense—I found myself too weak to withstand the temptation. I was joyfully tired and in need of extraordinary rejuvenation. In this weakened state, rather than resisting, I found myself making every excuse to open it.
The first excuse was the occasion itself. Indeed, I deserved a delightful treat, yes? The second excuse noted I’d be 52 years old this year. A whisky bottled in 1952 seemed to be a sign. My third alibi, also a sign, was that I was celebrating my 30th year in ministry.
Three strikes and the bottle was out. Indeed, and amen, the whisky planets were in rare alignment. With that, it was opened, and a two-finger dram was poured.
Before this occurred, I had two concerns. The first was for the cork. I invert my whiskies regularly, at least once a year, hoping for moistened corks among the ones that sit a little longer than most. There’s nothing worse than a cork that crumbles and falls into the whisky when it’s opened. Thankfully, this one gave way with very little fuss. It left behind some residue in the bottle’s mouth, but it was easily wiped clean.
The next concern was for the whisky itself. Before I bought it in 2012, I was assured it had been stored properly. When I received it, indeed, it was well kept. But I could see it had experienced some evaporation. Not much. Still, even a little can alter the whisky entirely.
Thankfully, all was well. The nose was a bit harsh, wafting an initial scent of vinegar. After sitting a few minutes, it became vegetal—or more precisely, it reminded me of freshly cut grain following a rainstorm. This was not horrible. It was a revelation of age.
The palate was a delightful concoction of smoked chocolate, charred cinnamon, and salted butter—an absolutely delicious combination leading to a lengthy cinnamon finish.
In conclusion, to those who wondered if I’d ever arise from higher education’s burial mound, I can confirm I have emerged. I return from the other side with an expensive piece of paper and a fantastic whisky, both being endeavors worth the wait.
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Note: If you’re at all interested in reading my thesis, you may download it here.
