Brad Layland, Chief Executive Officer & Senior Consultant
There’s a mug I drink from most mornings. It reads: “Congratulations, you’re 50. Consider the alternative.” I love that mug. It reminds me that while getting older is undeniably frustrating—aches, pains, and the cruel betrayal of my once-dependable body—the alternative isn’t all that appealing either.
Lately, I’ve been noticing just how much my body is protesting the passage of time. My left foot has decided to stage a rebellion in the form of plantar fasciitis. I now wear reading glasses to decipher menus, emails, and, let’s be honest, texts from my kids. And there’s another running injury I’ve sustained that I’m choosing not to talk about. (Denial is a coping strategy, right?)
A younger version of me could run marathons, jump out of bed at 5 a.m., and heal from a rolled ankle in two days. That version seems like a legend now—someone I vaguely remember. These days, when I get out of bed, I sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Snap. Crackle. Pop.
But here’s the baffling part: this year, while my body is aging, I ran my fastest marathon.
Explain that.
It doesn’t make any sense. My muscles are tighter, my recovery is slower, and yet—I’m somehow running better. Wiser. Smarter. More efficiently. I’m running with the kind of strategy and mental grit I didn’t have when everything worked perfectly. I guess that’s what wisdom does: it compensates.
And yet… that mug is right.
There is a gift in getting older. There’s wisdom. Perspective. I notice the people around me more. I listen better. I laugh a little easier. I’ve traded in some of my age for depth—and surprisingly, that feels like a fair exchange.
“Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life.” Proverbs 16:31 ESV
But here’s where it connects to what I spend my life doing: fundraising.
Fundraising, like aging, demands patience and humility. In my younger days, I thought if I just sent the right letter or hosted the perfect event, the money would roll in. I was all about transactions—quick, clean, efficient. But fundraising doesn’t work like that. Not really. Because life doesn’t work like that.
Like aging, the best fundraising is slower and deeper. It’s built on relationships that stretch over time—sometimes decades. The aches of unreturned phone calls, the rejection of a “no” from a donor—it’s all part of it. But just like my mug reminds me, the alternative is worse: a disconnected organization, isolated from the very people God may be calling to partner with us.
We grow wiser with age, not because things get easier, but because we stop expecting them to be easy. And we learn to see the long game. Just like my plantar fasciitis won’t go away overnight, trust with donors isn’t built in a day. But it’s worth the effort.
So if you’re feeling the weight of aging—or the weight of another fundraising challenge—take heart. Wear your reading glasses proudly. Ice your leg. Drink from your “Consider the Alternative” mug. And then get back out there.
You might be more worn down than ever, but you might also be wiser than ever. And that wisdom, that’s your advantage. It’s what allows you to run your fastest race—when no one else expects it.
Because whether it’s in life or in fundraising, the alternative to doing the hard, relational, deeply human work is missing out on something beautiful.
And I, for one, don’t want to miss it.
We’ve been privileged to help many organizations be more effective in their fundraising by learning and implementing relational fundraising principles in their work with donors. Want to talk?