The fourth hole at Chester River Golf Club is a par three over water. Depending on the pin placement, from the regular tees, a successful shot—one that lands safely on the green—requires a carry of somewhere between 130 and 155 yards, and on many days, the wind makes the hole play a bit longer. It’s a lovely hole, but don’t be fooled: it can bite.

A few years ago, I was playing with my friend Key. I stepped onto the fourth tee, addressed the ball, and sent it—plunk!—to a watery grave. At that point, I had two options: I could hit my next shot from the drop area which was considerably closer to the green, or drop another ball on the tee on the line of my previous shot. Both options carried a one-stroke penalty. I’ll admit that I was frustrated so maybe that’s why I selected the second (and riskier) option. I dropped another ball on the tee, swung, and the ball flew up and away. It landed on the green, took a hop or two, and rolled straight into the hole. Later that afternoon, when I told my guru Eggman about what had happened, he yawned and said, “just another ho-hum par.”

Of course, he was right; my score on the hole was just a three that day. But there are threes and then there are threes, and this three was the latter. Keeping score matters.

I find myself keeping score a lot lately. Not as often on the Chester River golf course, but rather on the golf course of my life. I look back and see the error of my ways, and I remember the few times I hit it in the hole. I have no doubt I am many strokes over par on that particular golf course, but the memory of unexpected, even miraculous, recoveries help to soften the blow.

If keeping score matters, so does forgiveness. Here’s an example of what I mean by that: I am twelve years old, in seventh grade. Remarkably, I am in a front-row seat in Forbes Field watching my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates play the vaunted New York Yankees in the first game of the 1960 World Series. Mickey Mantle is at bat. I whisper a little prayer, something along the lines of “God, if You let me get a foul ball, I promise I will become a minister.” On the very next pitch—I swear this is true!—Mantle takes a mighty cut, nicks a piece of the ball, and that ball rolls right toward me. I lean over the railing and pick it up: a foul ball—a World Series foul ball off the bat of Mickey Mantle! I am beyond dizzy with excitement, until it hits me: I just made a promise to God. Now what do I do?

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve told this story to two people: my wife and a kind friend. (He and I happened to be on the Chester River golf course at the time.) I’d been thinking a lot about that day so many years ago, and I’m haunted by the memory because I did not fulfill the promise I made to God. But both my wife and my friend said essentially the same thing to me: look at the scorecard of your life. There are many ways to be a minister, and God is probably not too disappointed in you. Late in the game, that thought comforts me.

There are threes and then there are threes. There are ministers and then there are ways to minister.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

We were in Annapolis last week to celebrate a family milestone. A year ago, my wife’s son and his beloved headed out to Colorado, ostensibly to attend a couple of concerts. But that’s not all they did: they also got married! It was a genius move: they had the wedding of their dreams without all the attendant family hullabaloo— just two people saying “I do” to each other under a sound track provided by a guitarist from one of their favorite bands and a rushing mountain stream. When we got word of their ceremony, we were surprised and maybe even a little stunned, but that quickly turned to elation because we realized that this was exactly the way Marcus and Lauren wanted to begin the rest of their lives together,

While we were in Annapolis, we stayed with family who live on the Eastport side of Spa Creek. From the deck of their comfortable home, the view never gets old. When the weather is right and I have some time on my hands, I’m perfectly content to sit quietly and enjoy the play of light and the passing parade of boats. Like Peter Sellers’ character Chauncey Gardner in “Being There,” I, too, “like to watch.”

I feel the same way about our front porch in Chestertown: that view never gets old either. But views are only the manifestation of our personal perspectives. From one side of our front porch, my view is of the lovely pocket green space across the street. However, if I switch to the other side of the porch—my wife’s preferred side—my perspective changes. I see Jane’s Church and the Wine & Cheese Shop, two of our town’s most important landmarks. I suppose the best view would be from the middle of the porch, but my usual seat is often slightly left of center. Now remember, I’m only talking about where I like to sit on the porch.

Let’s face it: your point of view is critical. It informs your world. It centers you. It’s either the first step of your next journey, or the last step of your previous journey. Maybe it can even make you feel like the Greek philosopher Archimedes when he discerned the principle of the lever: “Give me a place to stand (or in my case, to sit) and I will move the earth.”

But back to that happy day in Annapolis. I was comfortably ensconced on Emme’s and Poppy’s deck in cool, sunny weather, watching the clouds drift over the spire of St. Mary’s church on the Annapolis side of Spa Creek. It was Memorial Day weekend, so there was an endless parade of boats going up and down the creek, most of them bedecked with flags and bunting, the unmistakable signal of oncoming summer. It was a lovely day in the new month of ‘Maycember,’ that deceptively busy time of year marked by celebrations of all kinds of endings and beginnings. Teachers know another school year is almost over. Seniors are being launched into the world with words of varying degrees of wisdom from all those graduation speakers I warned you about a couple of weeks ago. The world is looking rosier by the day. But I’m neither a Pollyanna, nor oblivious to all that is going on in the world, both at home and abroad. I feel the chaos in my bones. Nevertheless, in that brief moment under scudding clouds and despite the chilly breeze, I felt something akin to hope because the best view was just coming into focus: we were finally going to gather and celebrate the next new branch on our family’s tall tree.

Welcome aboard, Lauren, Andrew, and Daniel!

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

’Tis the season of new beginnings. And so we celebrate the completion of one phase of our lives and the commencement of the next by donning all that academic regalia—our caps, gowns, and hoods—and step off into an unknown future with all the pomp and circumstance we can muster. We’ll joyfully move the tassels on our mortarboards from right to left, the traditional signal that tells all the world we are no longer merely undergraduates, but full-fledged GRADUATES! So, Gaudeamus igitur, everybody; Let us rejoice today, for now that we are armed with all this knowledge, we’re ready to take on this brave, new, crazy world, and make it better once and for all! Really?

I have a friend who used to make it his business to annually compile a list of significant commencement speakers and their words of wisdom. I haven’t heard from him for a while, but maybe he was on to something. Surely someone will say something somewhere that will make it all right again. So I’ve decided to explore the universe of this year’s graduation speakers. Who are they ? What words of wisdom will be spoken? Will they be sane or silly? You decide…

I’ll warn you: it’s a long and certainly incomplete list, but don’t worry; I’ve culled it for you. There are, of course, lots of politicians, because what politician worth his or her salt can pass up a chance to step up to the microphone and pontificate? But there are plenty of others on the guest speakers’ list, too: activists, actors, artists, and athletes; business leaders and bureaucrats, professors and philanthropists, scientists and soldiers. A plethora of illustrious alums. Even a Muppet! Ready? Let’s go!

Want to be entertained? Sandra Oh is speaking at Dartmouth while Henry Winkler—the Fonz!—is at Georgetown.  LeVar Burton—aka Kunta Kinte—is the speaker at Howard University and Steve Carrell is on the podium at Northwestern. Snoop Dogg will do his thing at USC. Usher is at Emory University in Atlanta, and Elizabeth Banks (“The Hunger Games”) is at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. And down in Nashville, Gary Sinise, Forrest Gump’s Lieutenant Dan, will be at Vanderbilt

Jerome Powell will deliver Princeton’s commencement speech. Wonder what’s on his mind? Kristi Noem will be keeping the homeland secure at Dakota State. And Donald Trump is on the list—twice: once at West Point and again at the University of Alabama. Hold on to your mortarboards!

Cue the fanfare: Katie Ledecky and her fourteen Olympic medals will be on display at Stanford. Another Olympian, Mia Hamm, is the speaker at the University of North Carolina. Simone Biles will be the speaker at Washington University in St. Louis. Ten!

Derek Jeter is on the dais at the University of Michigan and Orel Hershiser is on the mound at Bowling Green.

The Media is everywhere this spring: Scott Pelley will speak exactly for 60 Minutes at Wake Forest. Jonathan Karl is right here in Chestertown at Washington College. Al Roker is watching the weather at Siena College, and Steve Kornacki will be wearing khakis under his robe at Marist College.

Pope Leo XIV won’t be speaking at Villanova or anywhere else this year, but I wish he were. He’s seems both willing and able to speak truth to power.

My favorite? Kermit the Frog, croaking at the University of Maryland. You heard me: Kermit is coming to College Park! Will Maryland change its colors to green? Will Miss Piggy be in the audience?

So that’s the lineup, or at least some of it. As for any words of wisdom, truth, like beauty, will be in the eyes and ears of the beholders. Let’s just hope there is some humor, creativity, grace, and a sense of hope in the messages delivered. Especially hope; we need hope.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.