Relevance, Retirement, and Hazel the Dog Whisperer

So here I am in "retirement", a man on a noble quest: to remain relevant and engaged. I had big plans—write, paint, mentor, maybe even invent something brilliant. Instead, my days have been hijacked by Hazel. 

Now, "Hazel" isn’t a neighbor or some long-lost aunt. "Hazel" is my wife’s alter ego, the one that came out this morning as she threw her hands in the air and declared:
“I’m Hazel, the maid from the old TV show—doomed to clean up after everyone and everything!”

And honestly? She’s not wrong.

Because our household is currently run by two furry tyrants: a new puppy with zero manners and a Boxer whose appetite rivals a linebacker at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Between chewed shoes, nose prints on everything, and the never-ending hunt for “just one more snack,” "Hazel" has her hands full. Did I mention the geriatric poodle-mix who just paces around looking for things we can't see?  

I’d like to say I help. But truthfully? I'm ashamed, but I mostly laugh. Laugh at the sight of my wife pacing the kitchen like she’s conducting military maneuvers, trying to keep one dog from stealing the other’s food bowl. Laugh at the chorus of whines, barks, and sighs that make up the soundtrack of our so-called “quiet retirement.”

And maybe, just maybe, laughing is my way of staying relevant. Because if I can still find humor in the chaos, if I can still write about "Hazel’s" adventures with her four-legged dependents, then maybe I haven’t aged out of the story just yet. I can still dodge a thrown sofa pillow....but that's another story. 

Besides, somebody has to tell the world that while retirement looks serene on a brochure, in real life it’s more like:

• Wake up.

• Feed the Boxer.

• Clean up after the puppy.

• Repeat every two hours...or thirty minutes

• Watch "Hazel" mutter under her breath like she’s starring in her own sitcom.

• Watch out for incoming sofa pillows. 

As for me? I’ll keep laughing, keep writing, and keep reminding "Hazel" that one day she’ll thank me for documenting her legacy as the sainted dog whisperer of our golden years.

Until then, long live Hazel!   Be blessed! 😂   wcd

New Letters to Add to My Name

Today, I received word that my dissertation has officially been approved by the grading committee—and with that, a new chapter begins. The journey to this moment has been anything but linear and simple. It’s been marked by deep reflection, relentless editing, spiritual wrestling, and the kind of late-night writing sessions that only purpose and strong coffee can sustain.

This isn’t just an academic milestone for me. It’s a soul milestone. A life-long goal. 

The dissertation itself was more than research—it was a reckoning with SO MANY adventures in education and ministry. Every page was a prayer, every citation a conversation with those who’ve gone before me. And now, with this approval, I carry forward not just new letters behind my name, but a renewed commitment to my work ahead.

To those who supported and cheered me on—thank you. To those who challenged me—thank you. And to those who are still in the thick of your own journey: keep going.  I'm 74. The finish line is real, and it’s worth it.

They said, "A very interesting project and a well-written dissertation. This dissertation meets all the requirements set forth for approval.  Your dissertation is approved.  Congratulations!" 

I am beyond thankful. Praise be to God!   Be blessed!    Wendell C Douglas, PhD, DMin, MEd  👏

Book Announcement - It's Ready!

For Those Who Guide Others, The Pastor Trap: Called and Recalled is a raw, redemptive look at the cost of leadership—and the path to reclaiming your soul. Whether you're coaching, counseling, or pastoring, this book offers language for the struggle and hope for the journey.

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#MinistryResilience #CoachingTools #SoulCare #ThePastorTrap #WCDouglas

Thank you!!

wcd

Letting Go, Remembering Well

Downsizing Gracefully: Letting Go, Remembering Well

I stood in the doorway of our Get Away Place—the near-sacred space that held hopes for quiet retreats and bursts of activity—and felt the weight of a thousand memories settle like dust on the boxes and bins stacked around me. The realtor's sign was in the front yard. It was time to downsize. Not out of necessity, but invitation. The kind that whispers, “It’s time." 

As we sifted through things—trinkets from a forgotten celebration, handwritten cards whose events we could no longer recall—I noticed a curious grief. I couldn’t remember the celebrations or the moments these objects claimed to represent. But I remembered the people. Their laughter. Their presence. 

One worn token in particular—a brass tiger—stopped me. I’d saved it from my first classroom desk, and perhaps, only I saw its significance. Maybe no one else even noticed it on the table. But I had held onto it for decades, believing it carried meaning. Now, in this moment of transition, I wondered: was the memory in the object, or had it always been in me?

And that’s the strange miracle of clutter—we gather pieces to preserve what we can’t bear to lose. Yet time has a way of revealing that stories live better in our hearts than in storage bins.

Downsizing isn’t just about space. It’s about releasing ourselves from the need to prove our memories through possessions. The Get Away Place gave me rest. It gave me art. It stored our stuff. And now, letting go of its artifacts feels less like forgetting and more like trusting that nothing sacred is ever truly lost.

So we're choosing to keep the stories. The ones written not in ink or preserved in keepsakes, but carried in the voices and touch of those who shared them. Things can go. The presence remains.  

Be blessed!  wcd

Stay a Little While

 

There should've been a bench in the painting—empty, but not abandoned. It should have been right there under the tree.

So here's the story.... The light falls gently through the branches above, brushing the wood with golden hush. The tree leans slightly, as if listening. The horizon, just beyond, waits in soft silence. No footsteps disturb the soil, yet something stirs.

This is not a scene of absence. It’s a portrait of expectancy.

Maybe someone sat there once, long enough to let stillness teach them something the world couldn’t. Or maybe someone will come—drawn by the hush, the invitation, the space held just for them. Either way, the bench waits without demand. The tree offers shade without urgency. Time pauses, not to punish, but to prepare. That's what the swamp and life around it always meant to me...

We often think action defines life, but sometimes, it’s the moments in between—the breath before the prayer, the silence before the reply—that shape us most.

This painting whispers to me, “Stay a while.”  Be blessed.  wcd

Lessons from the Unintentional Faculty of Life

By W.C. Douglas

As I approach the final editing pass of my dissertation—a journey that’s been equal parts grit, grace, and gallons of coffee—I’m been reminded again how education isn’t limited to the school classroom. Life itself has a way of assigning pop quizzes in humility, patience, and character, often taught by folks who never applied for the job.

I call them unintentional teachers. You know the type: they show up with lecture notes of sabotage, teach without self-awareness, and usually grade on a curve that favors drama over dignity.

Some folks are walking masterclasses in what not to do. I salute them for sharpening my discernment—blessings in slightly irritating disguises.

Whispers don’t shake oak trees. Let the wind blow—I’m still rooted. And growing... especially that dissertation page count.

God hears what's said behind closed doors. Thankfully, He also hands out grace like extra credit.

Character reveals itself over time. Mine’s been tested, pressed, and prayed over—and somehow it’s still intact. Not perfect by any means, but intact.

So while some folks pass through our lives swinging their loud opinions like handbags in a clearance bin, others quietly hold their peace, speak the truth, offer encouragement, or simply lead by example. That’s the kind of person I aspire to be. 

As I cross the finish line on this dissertation, I do so with gratitude not just for scholarly mentors—but for the accidental instructors whose lessons weren’t always kind, but were always clarifying. It turns out that the faculty of life includes a wide range of personalities. I just prefer the ones who don’t grade with gripes.  Be blessed!  wcd

This Is Not About You -- or me.

This Is Not About You By W.C.

When I write, I reach for the stars we all share. Not the shadows one person casts.

I write to explore the ache that echoes in all of us. The patterns that repeat across generations, the quiet heartbreaks we tuck beneath our routines, the grace we hunt for and sometimes fumble through. My pen chases universal truths—the ones we feel but don’t always name.

Yet too often, someone reads my work and folds the meaning inward. “Are you talking about me?” “Is this post about that time...?” “I bet this is shade.”

And I blink. Not in offense, but in wonder. How did our shared human experience become a guessing game?

It’s strange, really—how some read vulnerability as accusation. As if every reflection is a mirror pointed at one person, instead of a window cracked open for anyone to peer into. I write because the human heart is complex, and sometimes we need language to untangle it. Not because I’m drafting a memo about your choices.

If the shoe fits, let it teach you—not trap you. If the words sting, perhaps they echo a truth worth holding. And if you feel exposed, remember: the spotlight wasn’t mine to turn toward you. That was your own flashlight in your hand.

Self-centeredness can shrink sacred space. And my words deserve room to breathe. They are not whispering gossip in poetic form. They are singing to the tender and the brave, the fractured and the faithful.

This blog is about airspace. About exhaling. About tracing the contours of what it means to be alive—with grace, grit, and the right to speak freely.

So no, this isn’t about you. But if it resonates, maybe you’re standing in the same truth I am.  

Be blessed!wcd