I have felt terribly from the beginning when I saw the problems

Ben Crenshaw, champion golfer and steward of tradition, once confessed: “I have felt terribly from the beginning when I saw the problems and recognized that they would be ongoing. We were hired to put back the contours of the greens as closely as possible to George Thomas’s designs and were real proud of what we did. It’s a sad situation now.” At first glance, these words are about turf and fairways, yet in their deeper layers, they are about memory, craft, and the sorrow of seeing something carefully restored fall into decline.

The ancients would have known this grief. For they, too, sought to preserve the works of their forefathers. Temples were rebuilt on the ashes of old ones, statues were recast in bronze when marble had worn away. Yet often, even after great effort, the erosion of time or the folly of men undid the work. Crenshaw, in his lament, reveals the heart of a craftsman: pride in restoring the vision of another, and anguish in watching it fade once more.

The name George Thomas carries significance. He was not just a designer of golf courses; he was an artist of landscape, shaping the earth into a field of beauty, challenge, and harmony. To restore his contours was not mere labor—it was homage. Crenshaw and his team sought to honor the intentions of a master, breathing life back into a creation that had lost its form. Their pride was not in themselves, but in serving a legacy. And so their sorrow is greater when that legacy falters again.

This echoes the story of the Parthenon in Athens. Built as a marvel of proportion and design, it was later restored, only to suffer destruction again through war and neglect. Each generation’s craftsmen took pride in preserving its spirit, and each generation also wept when it was once more damaged. Crenshaw’s “sad situation” is the same grief—a sorrow that artistry, even when restored with devotion, can be diminished by forces beyond the artist’s control.

But in these words lies more than lament. Crenshaw also speaks of responsibility. He was hired not to create for himself, but to carry forward the vision of another. This is a sacred role, like the medieval scribes who copied manuscripts not of their own invention, but to preserve wisdom for the future. To be a custodian of another’s work is to enter into a covenant of humility and reverence. When that covenant seems broken—by mismanagement, neglect, or decay—the custodian feels the wound deeply.

Yet there is also quiet nobility in his reflection. Though the present situation grieves him, Crenshaw still honors the pride of what was done. This is a vital truth: even if time or circumstance erases our efforts, the fact remains that we strove with faithfulness. In this, there is dignity. The ancients would call this arete—excellence pursued for its own sake, not for guaranteed permanence.

The lesson is clear: in life, we are often given the task of preserving what is fragile—whether it is a tradition, a family, a craft, or even the memory of someone we love. We may not succeed in holding it forever against the winds of time. But our duty is not diminished by impermanence. What matters is that we labor with devotion, with care, with respect for what has come before.

So let us carry this teaching forward. When entrusted with the legacy of another, treat it with reverence, as Crenshaw treated the designs of George Thomas. If in the end the world forgets or time erases, take comfort that you played your part faithfully. For in every act of preservation, we honor not only the past but also ourselves, proving that love of beauty and respect for tradition can still shine—even in a world where much is fleeting.