Major League Baseball players are among the highest paid athletes in professional sports. Big-time front office contracts usually consist of hundreds of millions of dollars over the course of around ten years for a single player. This type of money places huge expectations on an a person, and if that player can’t live up to the hype immediately, fans are quick to turn on them and demand a trade.

Here is the problem with baseball fans; they quickly forget that there’s nine years left to cash in on the contract.

Too many artists are living like baseball fans rather than front office managers. In the process of creating, whether it is a business or a folk album, most of us are fixated on the quick result. We want the easy fix. We need a fast dollar. Much like building a ball club though, vital creativity is not a sprint, it’s a marathon.

In order to achieve the success we desire, we need to stop thinking of our art in terms of ten to twenty days from now and start thinking of it in terms of ten to twenty years from now. This takes incredible patience, but yields high rewards.

Manage your art like a baseball team. Invest long term, and don’t listen to everything the fans say.

On my laptop I keep an extensive list of one hundred life goals. This list includes things like graduating college with honors, starring in a Broadway show, writing a New York Times Bestseller, celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary, building my own house, getting courtside season tickets for the Bulls, winning a Pulitzer Prize, meeting my great-grandchildren, and buying an island.

When this list comes up in conversation, people always act very impressed. They’re quick to tell me what a cool idea they think this is. What they don’t realize, is that I actually believe I will accomplish each and every one of these goals. This might sound arrogant, but it’s true.

I’ve often asked myself why I think I can do anything I put my mind to. Why do I try all these crazy things, and why I’m not scared to just go for it? I don’t think it derives from a sense of self-importance, or a desire to establish my worth through my actions. Knowing that my personality type could easily become trapped by these idols, I pray for protection against these things everyday. I believe a positive sense of entitlement was imputed into my DNA by my parents.

I did not grow up in a rich family. I also did not grow up in a poor family. We were distinctly middle class. From as early on as I can remember though, if I wanted to try something, anything, my parents did everything they could to give me the opportunity.

There’s a lot of noise being made about twenty-somethings being entitled. Our parents wanted us to feel like we could do anything, so they brought us up to believe that. Unfortunately, what gets lost in the translation is that there is a distinct difference between, “I believe I can do anything” and “I believe I deserve everything.” This is the difference between where entitlement goes right and wrong.

As I seek to create my own opportunities today, I never hesitate to go for it thanks to my parents. They imputed into my DNA not only a sense that anything is possible, but that it always comes at a price. That price is hard work. As I grew up, they were willing to pay that price for me. Now that I’m grown, I am ready to pay that price myself.

Making it happen comes at a price, but if you pay that price, you really can do anything you set your mind to.

Yesterday we held a memorial service to celebrate the life of my grandmother, Lois Brown, who passed away on Monday from complications with Alzheimer’s. The day was filled with sadness and tears, but also many fond memories of the amazing woman she was.

Back in January, I spent what ended up being my final weekend Grandma Lois.  During those few days, three small moments stood out as being utterly significant.

We arrived for our stay thirty minutes ahead of my uncle who, for personal reasons, had not seen the family in a few years. Being in the late stages of her disease at the time, it was very rare for my grandmother to recognize anyone, even her own children at times, especially one she hadn’t seen in a few years.

The next day, in the afternoon, my grandmother woke up from a nap. “Hi Mom,” my uncle said with enthusiasm. My grandmother, who almost never spoke audible words at that point responded, “Hello there.” There was something in her tone that left no doubt that she knew exactly who she was looking at in that moment. She was looking at her son.

The second memory came later that day when I was left alone with my grandmother for a few hours. After a flourishing 35-year career in journalism, 13 of which she spent writing a weekly column for the Oxford Press entitled “Lines by Lois,” my grandmother had cultivated a significant body of work. In recent years, my mother and her sisters have compiled hundreds of these columns into three gigantic volumes. As I sat on the couch with her this past January, I began to read through my grandmother's articles chronicling, with great charm, a life that she could no longer recall. She could no longer engage in nostalgic conversations, but her voice was still alive through her writing.

The third moment I actually wasn’t present for. My mom told me the story of how at night, when my grandparents would lay down to go to sleep, they clung to one another like newlyweds. “In the mornings, before we get out of bed,” my grandpa said, “it’s like she’s her old self again. She's always flirting with me."

To me, these three moments are proof that the words of 1 John 4:18 are still true. Perfect love casts out all fear. The love that my grandmother had for her husband, children, and grandchildren, could not be stifled by the fear that comes with disease. In those little moments of recognition, love wins and sickness loses. The love my grandmother poured into each and every article she wrote not only is more powerful than a deteriorating brain, but it is more powerful than the grave as her words will live on forever, even after she is gone.

                                                               In loving memory of Lois Brown (1935-2014) “Say something nice...”