French, Daughters, and Adventures

I remember going to my future high school as an eighth grader and selecting classes for my upcoming freshman year.  This was an exciting time for a fourteen year old who’d spent the previous eight years in a parochial school, with fairly limited—though profitable—course options.

I spied the foreign language department and its course offerings in the curriculum of Lapeer East High during orientation.  I’d been fascinated by foreign languages, having learned snippets of Spanish, French, Hebrew, and, of course, Latin throughout my years at Bishop Kelley Memorial.  That fascination, along with rumor that the French Department was chaired by a lovely young blonde, was enough for me.  I was in.

Over the next four years, a superficial fascination with language and a pretty teacher turned into a full-fledged love for French and a deep respect and affection for our teacher, Madame Essex.

A few years after graduation, I took my love for French to college and studied it for five semesters there as well.  I even taught it in a variety of settings over the next dozen years or so.  I’ve added other languages to my learning but French was and is my first love when I take leave of my mother tongue.  It is a thing of beauty, discipline and purity.  There’s nothing quite like it.

In a poignant twist of irony, it is now the province—linguistically and geographically—of my daughter Anna, who today moved to the southern part of France near Avignon to work at a school.  My daughter, Emily, is conversant in French as well and I expect she will use it as she pursues her various callings and avocations as well.

It is a delight for parents to watch as their children head off into the sunset or sunrise in pursuit of their dreams, their callings, their fortunes, their destinies.  We miss Anna already—Emily is close by, thankfully—and look forward to seeing her, sooner rather than later would be our preference.  Et j’espere c’est dans le pays de la France.  Mais bien sur!

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Chapters

Today is a bittersweet one for our family.  A new chapter looms before my wife and I.  For me, it will involve a return to two familiar places—graduate school to finish my Master’s degree and the pastorate.  For my wife, continued growth—including college—in her varied artistic pursuits.

This new chapter also involves a move about 90 miles south of our home in the historic Thousand Islands region of northern New York.  And so, fittingly, we’ve worked very hard this summer and today put our house on the market.

It is a poignant and difficult thing.  Our girls grew up in this home which we bought right after the Twin Towers fell in New York City.  It is a place stained with memories both joyful and sorrowful.  As we returned home from town this evening, we were met with the tearful embrace of our eldest daughter as she realized our home will soon become home to another family.  Sigh.

It is a solid old Victorian farm house in a small country hamlet.  It was built in 1914, the year the Great War commenced.  One learns that it is the people and the love they share that make a house a home.  Ours is no exception.

We would appreciate your prayers for us as we launch into this next phase of our lives.  Prayers for the sale of the house.  Prayers for effectiveness and growth as we journey on to new vistas, new experiences, and new friends.  Prayers for the emotional ebb and flow that accompanies such a big step.

We are excited for these new “lines in the book of our lives” (apologies to Dan Fogelberg) that are, even now, being written.

And yet….bittersweet.

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What Makes A True Friend Anyway?

There is a proverb in the Bible that goes like this: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.”

We all survive and thrive on the comfort of those who know us best, who get us back on our feet and help us to carry on when the going gets tough.

This year, I’ve been challenged to take my ability to be a friend to another level.  My wife and I have made some strategic decisions and are laying out goals for our personal and professional development.  Often, in my desire to offer comfort I sabotage her by offering a way out of difficulty rather than challenge in the pursuit of her goals and dreams.  She’s told me, “I really need you to be a friend to me and not let me out of these goals when things are not easy.”

I have to admit, it’s far easier for me to soothe when I should be urging her on to the mark with affection and encouragement.

How about you?

As a friend, you are able to speak in love to those in your orbit and help them become the best they can be.  In fact, it’s your love and commitment that makes such direct challenges palatable.

Here’s some starters to help be a better friend:

• “You’re overextending yourself.  Why don’t you get to bed a little earlier?”
• “Come on.  You’re better than that!”
• ”You really don’t need that second helping of goulash (or glass of wine).”
• “There’s a trend I’m seeing in your attitudes.  Let’s talk about it.  I’ll walk with you  through this.”
• “You need to take better care of yourself.  Why don’t you make an appointment to see a doctor?”
• “Be a class act.  Don’t descend to the level of petty gossip and malice over what [insert name] has disappointed you with.”

Being a friend surely means offering solace and empathy.  But it also has the character of a good coach—you help those you love to win.  Be that friend.

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Chasing Details

Years ago, when Focus On The Family was a much smaller organization, Dr. James Dobson fired off a memo to his staff (in the hundreds at the time).  Paraphrasing his missile, he reminded Focus staffers that FOTF was a detail organization.  That he was drowning in details but following up and expected the same for everyone else on ship.  If they were unwilling to chase details, they simply didn’t belong in the organization.

The memo was blunt and filled with characteristic Dobsonian fire.  But it was effective.  Apparently a letter—this was the Jurassic era, pre-internet—lay on someone’s desk for three weeks.  The letter from a FOTF listener sought help and was not followed up on and then forgotten.  Word of the failure reached the president’s desk.  Thus Jim Dobson’s ire.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff” has become a very popular mantra these days.  Just ask Richard Carlson, whose bestselling book championed the cause.  I read the book and found a lot of practical tips for chilling out and getting past the anxiety curve over stuff that is genuinely not a big deal.

It’s just the “and it’s all small stuff” part that I can’t subscribe to.

Disclosure: I am a retentive.  Ask anyone who knows me.  My pastoral office was always kept so organized that one of my bosses quipped, “This is so well organized, it’s sin.”  Our secretary and her children used to go into my space when I was away and put things out of order and balance just to mess with me.  (This was long before Feng Shui became the rage.)  My IT desk suffers from the same affliction though a tad more relaxed.

All kidding aside, I’ve learned that more often than not, details—and attention to them—make all the difference in the world.  The key is learning that not all details are created equal.

In my daily work in the Information Sciences, I interact with very complex relational databases.  Spreadsheets, SQL queries and CAD drawings are where I make my living.  Anybody who’s worked for any length of time with these kinds of programs and applications knows that there are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of points of failure if the details are not cared for.  Spreadsheet searches return nothing if you add an extra space or character that doesn’t belong.  Code and query strings will fail to execute successfully if the syntax (the precise arrangement of parts) is not exact.

Little things mean a lot.

I’m reminded of the Bible story of Moses.  When he led the children of Israel out of Egypt, they stopped at Mount Sinai.  It was there that Moses went up into the mountain to speak with God.  And there God gave him the Torah—His law.  Not just the Ten Commandments, but numerous other laws covering everything from the treatment of foreigners to dietary restrictions and allowances.

Moses was also given technical information.  Specifically, God gave him a blueprint to construct a tent for worship.  God told Moses to build it exactly as he’d been shown it on the mountain.  Failure to follow precise details—curtain lengths, incense recipes, etc.—would cause God to reject the whole project.  And Moses would’ve risked his life to improve on God’s design.

I’ve always been struck by this reality.  God cares about details.

Here’s the challenge:  Weigh the import of the details of every thing you do.  Some details are liquid.  But others need to be maintained.  Here are some:

• Appointments.  Time is inelastic and irretrievable.  Being on time means being early.  A thirty minute meeting—if announced thus—ends at thirty minutes.
• Birthdays and Anniversaries.  Don’t mess this one up.  It matters a lot.
• April 15^th.  Unless you are filing for an extension, you need to complete your income taxes by this date.  Lacking an extension, you’ll find out that our government takes details seriously.
• Names.  Take whatever time and effort you need to learn accurately the names of those you meet.  It’s been said that the sweetest sound another person can hear is their own name spoken.

Attention to detail will distinguish you.  It is usually what sets apart the excellent from the mediocre.  Make the effort.

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Leader of the Band

My favorite song of all time, bar none, is Dan Fogelberg’s runaway 1981 hit “Leader of the Band.”  This is Father’s Day and it is apropos. Dad and Paul (stepfather), I love you both and thank God I have you in my life.

I heard Dan once say—June 1985, Pine Knob Music Theatre, Clarkston MI—that if he’d only been able to write one song, it would have been this one.

Dan’s father, immortalized in the song, was Lawrence Peter Fogelberg—Larry to friends.  He was “a proper musician” according to Dan and “a far more accomplished musician than I will ever be.”

He taught high school band in Peoria and Pekin, Illinois and had a profound impact on his son.  Here is his tribute:

Leader of the Band

An only child
Alone and wild
A cabinet maker’s son
His hands were meant
For different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home
And went his lone
And solitary way
And he gave to me
A gift I know I never can repay

A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn’t wait
He earned his love
Through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand

(Chorus)
The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I’m just a living legacy
To the leader of the band

My brothers’ lives were different
For they heard another call
One went to Chicago
And the other to St. Paul
And I’m in Colorado
When I’m not in some hotel
Living out this life I’ve chose
And come to know so well

I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don’t think I
Said ‘I love you’ near enough

(Chorus)

I am a living legacy to the leader of the band

–Words and music by Daniel G. Fogelberg

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Servant Leaders Rule!

I meet with and mentor a fine group of younger guys once a week.  The men I gather with inspire with their desire to learn, grow and become skilled leaders in their homes, communities, business ventures and churches.  It is a privilege to share in their lives.

Today, we had an interesting discussion around the concept of servant leadership.  This particular approach to leadership has become increasingly popular and valued in recent years.  Our discussion highlighted why servant leaders are most effective.  In short, a servant leader rules—in the healthiest sense of that verb.   There are sound reasons why.

To properly care for those with whom we’ve been entrusted is a sacred responsibility.  Lives are either ennobled or disgusted, even scandalized, by the exercise and example of leaders both good and bad.

At the core, a real leader must come to understand this value if he’s to succeed at all:  It’s not about you; it’s about them.

What are some qualities that set apart the servant leader and make him or her more effective than all others?

• Servant leaders recognize the full dignity of the human person.  Those under our leadership are human beings, made in the image of God.  They are not chattel, a commodity to serve our self-interest.  They have feelings and aspirations.  Dreams.  They have a story.  They are not tin soldiers to be moved by our whims.
• Servant leaders recognize that leadership is first modeled, rather than mandated.  We must first exemplify excellence in the way we conduct our lives.  There is nothing more hollow for a soldier than having someone issue directives without climbing into the trenches.  Posers are quickly found out.
• Servant leaders, though ultimately responsible to steer the ship, take into account the consequences of their decisions.  In the home, a wise husband listens to the input of his wife and his children.  And he does so with the kind of humility that is aware that he doesn’t have all knowledge and all perspective.  We all have blind spots.  Servant leaders understand that and weigh all immediately possible courses.  “First do no harm” is the chief maxim for the medical profession.  It is the same for servant leaders.

Are you a servant to those for whom you’ve been given responsibility?  Can you take steps away from your own ego and insecurity to put their interests ahead of your own?

Go ahead and do it.  You’ll be amazed at the results.

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Marry Well (I Was Blessed To)

The title for this post is not original.  It’s from Bill Hybels’ outstanding book Making Life Work.  Were someone to ask of me advice about what it takes to have a happy life, one of the first things I’d tell them is this: Marry well.  You’ve no idea the wonder and joy that follows on such a decision.  Nor the incredible sorrow that follows when you marry poorly.

(Sweetheart, if he’s a bum now, he’ll probably be a bum long after you marry him.  Dude, if she’s a diva now, chances are diva will grow into a monster.  Avoid.  Like the plague.)

I’ve made plenty of mistakes in life.  Most of the unhappiness I’ve ever experienced was a product of my own skill at doing stupid things.  But one thing I did, with God’s help and goodness, was marry well.

When writing about home and marriage years ago, Michael Card penned the memorable line “that half of your heart that somebody else treasures, the one who’s your forever friend.”  The song aptly titled “Home.”

Boy, that sums it up nicely.

When choosing someone to spend your life with, there are few things more comforting than knowing the one who cares about you at your best  and worst.  Who picks you up and puts you back together again when life crushes you.  Who is there in the dark with words of encouragement and sunshine.  And forgiveness.

In today’s sexually-charged culture, it seems that the friendship factor in choosing one’s spouse is given short shrift.  Those who’ve been married for years will tell you that feelings and romance can ebb and flow.  Eros is capricious if nothing else.  But being married to your soul mate, your best friend can carry you through things nothing else can.

Here’s to the one I love and will grow old with.  The one I dream and pal around with.  The one I’d rather be with more than any other person on Earth.

Kath….

A Mother’s Love

She was a young mother then, just days before the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  She’d just given birth to a little boy.

Normally the birth of a child is a source of great joy.  But her joy was mingled with sorrow.  For her son was sick.  Very sick and just weeks old.

His stomach was not functioning properly and his life was in jeopardy.  Pyloric stenosis the culprit.  The condition required what was risky surgery in those days.  Not once, but twice.

When the mother realized just how serious her son’s condition was, she went to God.  She was afraid for the life of her child.

She was raised in a devout Catholic family and had her son baptized in the Roman rite in the hospital.  She did not know if he’d leave there alive.

So every morning for weeks on end, she got up before sunrise and walked beneath the stars to attend 6:00 AM Mass at her parish church, Holy Name.

She prayed numerous novenas to our Lord.  She asked that her son be spared. God heard her pleas and answered.  Her son lived.  He is writing the post you are now reading.

She went on to raise two more sons and a daughter.  In the sometimes turbulent days of the early 1970’s she went to college to pursue nursing.  She had four young children, a husband, and yet she found the time to earn her bachelor’s degree in nursing science.  Education had long been a core value in her family.  She became an RN.

The years since that time have alternately been filled with joys and sorrows.  Her children are now grown with families of their own and have given her grandchildren.

In her endless quest for self-development and desire to help the hurting, she went on to earn her Master’s in Nursing.  For a while she taught in a university.

But there was more left for her to do.  There always is.  She went on to earn her Ph.D in Nursing two years ago.  She is now teaching in colleges and universities and continues to inspire her children to be all that they can be, never settling for less than full engagement of one’s faculties.

She is quite a lady and she is my mother.

And this is her day.

Surprise!

This afternoon my wife and I were busy installing a screen door in the rear of our home.  Warm and sunny, an old door laying in the garage needed a new lease on life.  And modification.

So, armed with circular saw, chalkline, hammer, screws and assorted other tools, we modified the door.  And then hung it for the first time.

It cost us nothing.

After the workout, I was sweaty and smelly and tanned a bit.  Kath and I admired our work–she had the genius to repurpose an old door–and were ready to clean up.

My eldest daughter, Anna, was presumably out having coffee with one of her besties.  I just happened to be home.  I was originally going to be in town.

We heard Anna come in.  We looked toward the kitchen door and….

SURPRISE!

My daughter Emily flew in from Kansas, totally unannounced to Kath and I.  She, her boyfriend Josh and Anna have been planning this for months.  Anna went to pick her sister up from the airport.  Now we get to have her here for two weeks.  We thought we might not see her again this year.

We were clueless.  Anna and Emily are rock stars when it comes to planning great surprises.

Hugs and kisses.  And tears.  Our chicks are both home.  Momma is quite happy and Dad proud as a peacock.

Happy Mother’s Day indeed!

Recovering Your Heart

It’s your thirtieth birthday.  You have a successful career as a marketing executive in the San Francisco Bay area.  You wake up strangely unexcited.  You have lunch with your wife whom you adore.  Later, you and your wife gather with friends in a local bar for dinner and drinks, in celebration of your big day.

The evening wears on and your wife decides to go home and turn in.  You elect to stay with your friends.  As you mingle, an attractive woman begins making overtures, coming on to you.  Her message is clear.

What do you do?

You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, located towards the back of the bar.  You find a rear exit and leave.  Without any goodbyes.  You walk home, to the house occupied by the wife you adore, now sleeping.

Something needs to be worked out of you.  Thirty is a watershed.  You should be happy but aren’t.  You need to clear your head.

What do you do?

You strip down to your skivvies and t-shirt, find an old pair of running shoes in the garage and put them on.  You let your wife sleep.  Clad only in your underwear, shirt, socks and sneakers, you begin running.

You haven’t run in fifteen years.  You gave it up when an arrogant track and field coach laughed at you.  You were, after all, a cross-country guy who ran with heart and had served another coach with heart.  But he retired.

You run thirty miles without stopping except to grab burritos and a Coke and press on.  People think you’re crazy.  And you probably are.

That night is a rebirth for you.

That’s what you do if you’re Dean Karnazes.

Read his book Ultramarathon Man: Confessions Of An All-Night Runner.  The whole story and much more is there.  You won’t regret it.  You may even begin to think about what really matters in life.  It ain’t prestige, position or the other trappings of Yuppiedom.

Dean got his heart back that night and hasn’t stopped running.  That was almost twenty years ago.

What will it take to get your heart back?

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