"Have You Planned Well For The Cycles Of Your Life? Or Will You Be Overwhelmed?"

Making Sandcastles
By: Unknown Author

Hot sun. Salty air. Rhythmic waves.

A little boy is on his knees scooping and packing the sand
with plastic shovels into a bright blue bucket. Then he
upends the bucket on the surface and lifts it. And, to the
delight of the little architect, a castle tower is created.
All afternoon he will work. Spooning out the moat. Packing
the walls. Bottle tops will be sentries. Popsicle sticks
will be bridges. A sandcastle will be built.

Big city. Busy streets. Rumbling traffic.

A man is in his office. At his desk he shuffles papers
into stacks and delegates assignments. He cradles the phone
on his shoulder and punches the keyboard with his fingers.
Numbers are juggled and contracts are signed. And much to
the delight of the man, a profit is made. All his life he
will work. Formulating the plans. Forecasting the future.
Annuities will be sentries. Capital gains will be bridges.
An empire will be built.

Two builders of two castles. They have much in common.
They shape granules into grandeurs. They see nothing and
make something. They are diligent and determined. And for
both the tide will rise and the end will come. Yet that is
where the similarities cease. For the boy sees the end
while the man ignores it.

Watch the boy as the dusk approaches. As the waves near,
the wise child jumps to his feet and begins to clap. There
is no sorrow. No fear. No regret. He knew this would
happen. He is not surprised. And when the great breaker
crashes into his castle and his masterpiece is sucked into
the sea, he smiles. He smiles, picks up his tools, takes
his father's hand, and goes home.

The grownup, however, is not so wise. As the wave of years
collapses on his castle, he is terrified. He hovers over
the sandy monument to protect it. He blocks the waves from
the walls he has made. Salt-water soaked and shivering, he
snarls at the incoming tide. "It's my castle," he defies.

The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom the sand
belongs...