Heart Without Words

The four of us sat with our arms folded and our eyes closed, waiting.  . . .   We were in the home of Dolores, a beautiful, eighty-year-old woman.  She had invited my two companions and me to come teach her about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and we had just taught her how to pray.

We had prayed with her many times, but this time we invited her to offer the prayer.  We taught her to pray to Heavenly Father.  We taught her to thank Him for her blessings.  We taught her to ask Him for the blessings she sought. And we taught her to close in the name of Jesus Christ.  She agreed to offer the prayer, and so we all sat expectantly in a prayerful attitude.

A long, warm silence followed.

One by one, each of us peeked at Dolores, and what we saw taught us more about prayer than we had learned in a lifetime.  She sat, radiant, with tears streaming down her face.  She was moved beyond words.  Her unspoken expression of gratitude to Heavenly Father didn’t need the cumbrance of words.  Her love spoke directly to our souls.

Dolores wept because this was the first time in her long life that she felt empowered to speak the words of her heart to her Heavenly Father.  She was overwhelmed by the intimacy this created with her Creator.  Her love for Him was expressed eloquently in silence.

Prayer is not asking. 

It is a longing of the soul.

It is daily admission of one’s weakness.

 It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.

Mahatma Gandhi

”

I’m Coming Home

The United States had just entered World War II and Gil McLean received a letter that made his heart sink.  His wife brought in the mail and silently passed an official-looking envelope to him.  They sat down at the table and opened the letter.  Their worst fear was confirmed; Gil was called up to go to war.  His wife was filled with dread.  Gil comforted her, “Don’t you worry yet.  I’m going to take this up with God.”

So Gil closeted himself in his bedroom, asking his wife not to disturb him.  He knelt down and prayed. For hours.  He pleaded with God to grant him a promise that he would return home.  His wife noted the great passage of time and prayed in her heart, too.

After a long while, Gil emerged from his room, saying, “It’s gonna be alright.  I’m coming home.  I got my promise from the Lord.  I’ll be in dangerous places, but the Lord will warn me.”  From that moment on, Gil’s faith never waivered.  He knew he was coming home.

At boot camp, the soldiers gave Gil a bad time about his habit of praying.  He always answered good-naturedly, “You can tease me all you want, but prayers are going to save my life.  God has promised me that he’ll warn me when I’m in danger, so I know I’m coming home.”

His sincerity persuaded even the cynical soldiers.  He began to have a following.   Several men began to say, “If Gil’s God has promised to send him back home to his sweetheart, we’re sticking by his side.”

Gil and his regiment were shipped overseas and entered into combat.  There he met new soldiers who took delight in teasing him about his religious ways.  By now he didn’t need to say a word in his own defense.  His team answered for him, “Sure, razz him—but it won’t change a thing.  Gil will stick to his prayers and if you’re smart, you’ll stick to him.  You see, God’s promised to send him home.” 

Well into the war, Gil’s company had fought a day under heavy shelling.  They sought refuge for the night inside an abandoned barn.  Bone-weary, they fell into an uneasy sleep.   It seemed like Gil had barely dozed off when he got the idea that he should grab his buddies and his gear and get out of the barn.  Gil wanted to ignore this prompting because he was hungry for rest.  Again the warning came but with greater urgency, “Get out of the barn, NOW!” 

In that moment, Gil remembered his promise from the Lord and realized this was the answer to his prayer.  Gil immediately shouted a warning to his companions to haul out of the barn.  Some of them joined him, diving outside without taking time to gather their supplies.  They were less than 50 feet from the barn when it received a direct hit by a bomb.  The force of the blast blew Gil and his friends into the air; some of them were caught in the branches of nearby trees.  No one in the barn survived.  Sobered but grateful for their lives, Gil and his friends reported to a nearby division. 

At the war’s end, Gil made it safely home.  Some forty years later, he sat in my friend’s home, rocking her baby daughter.  He felt a connection to the baby because he sensed her life mission would be to fight for freedom just as he had done in the war.  So through this story, he shared the secret of his success:  join ranks with the Lord.

Valiant Young Heroes

I have a niece who inspires me with her courage to stand up for what is right in difficult circumstances.  I asked her permission to share one of her experiences.  She graciously not only gave me permission, but also wrote up her account.  So here, in her own words, is one of her stories:

I stared at the yellow hardwood floor, my back pressed against the brick.  I forget why I wasn’t exercising, usually I made an effort to at least walk around the gym, I didn’t like playing sports.  Lauren was sitting nearby; her glasses perched upon her nose, her curly hair scrunched up in a ponytail.  I didn’t know how to make friends with her, wasn’t even sure that I wanted to.  I think everyone knew she was different, mentally handicapped.  I sighed, feeling guilty that I felt that way; it wasn’t like I had anything to lose by being her friend. 

            I glanced up as a group of kids I didn’t know very well came over and sat by Lauren.  I went back to gazing around the court.  Then, they started asking Lauren questions, I tried not to listen and my ears burned as she gave an indelicate response to a question that was itself inappropriate.  She probably doesn’t know what she’s saying, I thought, angry that they had even asked such a question.  I hoped she didn’t know what she was saying, I only half understood it myself. 

            It got worse, they started saying things like “Lauren, make a sound like an elephant, make a sound like a dog…”  She happily obliged, thinking it all a fun game.  I started thinking of what I should say to them and my body shook with the injustice of it all.  Tears leaked out of my eyes as I wondered if I would have the courage to speak up, even if one of them didn’t notice me. I wondered if they would notice me, I wondered… One of the girls noticed, “Hey, what’s wrong?”  She asked.  I felt awful, here was this girl, who at the same time was being nice by asking me what was wrong, was about to be reprimanded by me.  I couldn’t stop myself.

            “How dare you?  How dare you use her for your own entertainment?  Just because she’s different from you and maybe doesn’t even realize what you’re doing doesn’t mean you should treat her like she’s some pet you can just play with.  She’s another human being who doesn’t deserve to be used for your entertainment.” 

 My niece, Lauren and the group of kids all learned something very valuable in that moment.

Two Rooms in Berlin

1943

Had the man been out in public, rather than sitting at his heavy oak desk, he would have been surrounded by cheering crowds.  He brought hope to a people burdened under the Treaty of Versailles.  He had a superb gift of oral persuasion.  As he used it, his circle of influence expanded to the tens of millions. 

He had a file in his desk that he pulled out whenever he had a chance to ponder his dream. Germania was the civilization he envisioned.  It would last for a thousand years, populated by the Aryan race.  Such a civilization deserved a glorious infrastructure.  He pulled out the folder and thumbed through his plans to build structures that would rival those of the ancient pharaohs.  It pleased him to think that, being the founder of this great nation, monuments to him would be scattered across his homeland. 

You can imagine that a man of his importance wouldn’t have much time to sit and dream about his utopia.  He was far too busy pushing his plans through to make them reality. And if the challenge of world conquest wasn’t enough, he had to deal with the occasional detractors among his own people that needed to be rooted out.

Speaking of which, a request for clemency had sifted its way to the top of his stack.  Ah, yes.  This was the boy whose anti-Nazi tracts were so professionally done that no one could believe they weren’t written by a team of adults.  The Gestapo had spent hours torturing people acquainted with this youth to find out who was responsible.  Finally they concluded their mastermind was a mere 16-year-old.  And this was the young man who was requesting his mercy.  Hitler would not need much time to deliberate over this request.  If the boy was going to play in the political arena of the adults, he could be punished as an adult.

“DENIED” he scrawled in angry letters across the clemency request and handed it to his clerk, activating the countdown of a young man’s final hours of mortal life. 

In another room, Helmuth Huebener was handed the three sheets of paper he was granted as his final wish.  His swollen fingers awkwardly gripped the pen. It was good, though, to see his thoughts once again flow onto paper.   So greatly did he value the freedom to communicate that he had risked his life to print the words which had landed him in this cell. 

He had seen through Hitler’s propaganda and endeavored tirelessly to let his fellow Germans know the truth.  He had listened nightly to the BBC and then printed and distributed flyers carrying the real news.   His only remorse was imperiling his two loyal friends, Rudi and Karl-Heinz, who had helped him distribute the flyers.

 For months since he’d been sentenced by the Nazi Blood Tribunal, he hadn’t known if his execution would be carried out in a day, a week or another month.  The suspense was almost worse than the sentence itself.  But evidently the request for clemency had been denied (as he had expected) and he was now near the end. 

Helmuth remembered the moment he was sentenced.  He stood before his accusers and boldly stated, “You kill me for no reason at all.  I haven’t committed any crime.  All I’ve done is tell the truth.  Now it’s my turn—but your turn will come!”  The stunned assembly was too shocked to silence him.  His words turned out to be prophetic.

Helmuth wrote three letters, only one of which survives.  (His letter home was destroyed in the bombing raid that killed his family nine months later.)  He wrote to his close friends:

“Dear Sister Sommerfeldt and Family,

When you receive this letter I will be dead.  . . .

I am very thankful to my Heavenly Father . . . I know that God lives and He will be the proper judge of this matter. 

Until our happy reunion in that better world I remain,

Your friend and brother in the Gospel,

Helmuth

There are no monuments to Hitler in Germany.  You will not find one street nor park that carries his name.  But if you travel to Hamburg, you will find a park, a street and a monument to young Helmuth Huebener. 

Helmuth’s two friends, Rudi Wobbe and Karl-Heinz Schnibbe were sentenced to years of hard labor, but they lived and moved to the USA after WW II.  One day not long ago, Karl-Heinz was visiting Helmuth’s memorial in Hamburg where a group of students were learning about “the Heubener Group.”  A traveling companion pointed out Karl-Heinz and told them he was part of the group.  He was quickly surrounded by the youth, eager to hear the story of how, when he was their age, he had the pleasure to work with a valiant young hero.

Helmuth Hubener

Sources:

Truth & Conviction [DVD] by Matt Whitaker

The Price by Karl-Heinz Schnibbe

Three Against Hitler by Rudi Wobbe

Hubener vs. Hitler by Richard Lloyd Dewey

Waiting in the Wings

My high school chemistry teacher stepped out of the lab for only a few minutes.  That was all it took.  He returned to an exuberant bunch of juniors spraying water on each other in grand style.  Mr. Caesar (yes, that was his name) yelled at us and quickly regained control of his lab.

“Who started this water fight?!” Mr. Caesar demanded.

Knowing that he’d never believe it, my friends pointed to me.  I had the reputation of being the model kid in the school.  I was both studious and well-mannered.  Not only that, I was downright shy and seldom called attention to myself.

My classmates were right; Mr. Caesar didn’t believe them.  It was a safe bet.  No one got in trouble for the water fight.

Oh, and there was one other reason why they all pointed to me.  I was, in fact, the one who started the water fight.

While all the fingers pointed at me, I neither denied nor admitted anything.   I didn’t need to.  I just smiled angelically at my teacher and my reputation spoke for itself.

In this incident, my reputation worked in my favor.  But most of the time, I didn’t like being type-cast as the shy, studious type.  I wanted to step outside the role I’d created for myself and be a greater person.

I heard about a school where the culture is to keep an open mind about fellow classmates.  In a school like that, I couldn’t have gotten away with starting a water fight.  But maybe in a school like that, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to live up to my potential of not only studying well, but living well.  Every day great things are expected from each other, despite any evidence of “low achievements” in the past.  Every day is a new opportunity to take that monumental step to being the person we were born to become. 

Ten years ago today, Todd Beamer made that monumental step when he said, “Let’s roll” and prevented hijackers from flying Flight 93 into their intended target, thus saving countless lives. This post is dedicated to him and other heroes, who while “waiting in the wings” walk/ed among us as ordinary people.

Hero Aboard the Oryoku Maru

December 1944

The survivors of the Bataan Death March were desperately hoping they would be liberated from their POW camp in the Philippines.  They could see more and more American planes flying overhead and they believed that meant the Allies were winning World War II.  Their greatest fear was that their captors would carry them off before they could be rescued.  For 1600 men—roughly three-fourths of the group—that fear was realized.  The Japanese squeezed as many men as was physically possible inside the cargo hold of the cruise liner, Oryoku Maru. 

Let me introduce a few of the POW passengers:  Chaplain Robert Taylor, who had the reputation for being the only man in the starving camp who could be trusted to deliver food untouched to a dying soldier; Henry Lee, an amiable poet; “Manny” Lawton, a well-regarded captain; and Frank Bridget, who was described as “nervous, intense, over-eager and often rubbed people the wrong way.”

Inside the cargo hold of the ship, it was dark and hellishly hot. The little air that vented through the open hatch provided next to no circulation.  This caused more than a deficiency in comfort; it was a matter of survival.  The men in the corners of the hold were already beginning to pass-out from suffocation when the ship set sail.  The hope that ventilation would increase when the vessel began to move was dashed when they were overcome by nausea instead of air.

The prisoners cried out for help.  Their guard’s response was to threaten, "Shut up or I'll close the hatch.  You're disturbing the passengers!"  (There were 1,900 Japanese passengers.)  The POWs answered him with more pleading and he made good his threat.  As the hatch door slammed shut, pandemonium erupted.  The panicking men shrieked in terror.

Above the hysteria, a man climbed up the ladder to the hatch and spoke in a commanding voice, “We are all going to calm down, every one of us, and work together!”  The voice belonged to Frank Bridget, the man least expected to remain calm in an emergency.  Immediately, the prisoners silenced themselves as Bridget explained how panic only uses more precious oxygen.  He instructed the men to take off their shirts and fan the air towards the men in the corners.  This improved the stifling heat and air circulation immensely.  Bridget didn’t stop at that.  He braved confronting the guard and persuaded him to allow the men who had passed out to be carried out of the hold and revived.  He also insisted the hatch door stay open and that water be brought to the POWs.

Two days after they set sail, US pilots bombed the Oryoku Maru, not knowing American POWs were onboard.  It says a lot of the prisoners to mention they were cheering for the Allies to hit their mark, even though they knew it could mean their own deaths. 

Only 400 of the 1600 POWs survived long enough to be rescued.  Frank Bridget was not one of them.  (Chaplain Taylor lived, and though poet Henry Lee died, his poetry lives on.)  Manny Lawton credited his survival in large part to Bridget.  Lawton admittedly despised Frank Bridget before this event, but he said, “Sometimes people rise to greatness and you never can predict who will . . . Bridget was waiting in the wings and he took responsibility.  I don’t know where he found the calmness.  He saved us with his voice.”

Sources:

Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides.

Oryoku Maru Roster

Cycle of Life

I woke up yesterday rejoicing in my open agenda.  It was the first day all summer that my schedule wasn’t maxed-out to the last minute.  For weeks I’ve been longing to have some time to exercise my creative muscle.  I planned to accomplish this with a long-anticipated writing session—just as soon as I started a load of laundry.

Armed with my laundry basket, my senses were assaulted as I stepped into my basement.  A strong, musty odor about knocked me over.  It seemingly bellowed, You’ve got unwanted water on the premises!

Upon exploration, I quickly discovered I no longer had an open agenda.  I had to deal with rescuing my carpet—and teaching my kids how to feel the burden of responsibility.  I wasn’t in the mood to make things fun for them, so I was just one whip short of being a regular slave-driver.

“Can’t you guys see we’ve got a crisis in the basement?” I hollered.  “Dad is away so I really need your help!” 

My creative juices were simmering while I hauled storage boxes out of the flooded room.  I reflected upon the topic I’ve been wanting to write about, along with how it had a lot to do with the disaster at hand.  My topic: the universal cycle of

“Creation à Fall à Restoration.”    

This cycle began with the dawn of time and has continued on down to the present moment.  I woke up to the middle stroke of the cycle and spent all day dealing with the third.

Creation is the art of crafting something with your resources, made even more joyful when aided by inspiration.  The Fall is the natural deterioration that comes with the mortal experience.  The Restoration has everything to do with God’s power to make things right.  Even with my carpet, I may have cleared the room, but the Lord helped me fix my family relations that went sour when I lost my cool.

My crazy, hectic summer felt like a “Fall” because, with my gazillion responsibilities, I had so many opportunities to mess things up.  I had a painful stretch of time when every single thing I did went wrong.  What, I wondered, am I supposed to learn from all this?

The answer came to me a few weeks ago as I listened to a commentary on Dante’s Divine Comedy.  That’s when I remembered the “Creation, Fall, Restoration” cycle.  This flash of inspiration put my difficulties into perspective and gave me the answer I needed to set things right:  allow the Lord to help me restore my sense of purpose and begin anew to create.

Dante Alighieri

(1265 – 1321)

Dante was a member of Florence, Italy’s “People’s Council” and then was elevated to the office of magistrate in 1300.  It was not a good time to stand at the head of his political party.  In 1302, the opposing party came to power and banished Dante from Florence, with a decree that he would be executed by fire if he should ever return.  So Dante lived the last twenty years of his life in exile.  During these years, he wrote his Divine Comedy, finishing it the year of his death.

He created drama and conflict at the opening of the Inferno, which builds as he descends into the depths of the devil’s domain.  It is a guided tour in which he learns how the seven deadly sins cause despair.

Dante’s tour of the after-life continues as he moves on to Purgatory.  Here he learns that Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude and Justice are the highest ideals mankind can attain without divine revelation.  To move beyond this point into Paradise, he must accept correction and purification through God’s messengers.  By means of his trials and submission to God’s will, Dante grows to become one with God and learns that, ultimately, God is a God of Love.  This lesson was the point of his long and arduous journey.

Dante’s rich poetry and symbolism make it arguably one of the best creative works of all time.  It deserves a closer study which I'll look forward to doing on another post.

Post-Script:  I made that promised post of a closer study on May 28, 2012.

Renewal

After tucking my daughter into bed, I turned around and saw a note taped to the wall saying, “Mad at Mom.”

I asked her, “What is this about?”

She replied, “Every time I go to bed mad at you, when I wake up the next morning I forget about it.  So I’m leaving myself a reminder.”

I laughed and shared with her how one of my favorite things about morning is the fresh start it gives you in life.  It is a gift to have the troubles of the previous night no longer pressing on your mind.

We took the “mad” sign off the wall.  The next morning she hugged me and said in effect that she was glad to dump her anger from the night before and not feel like she needed to pick it back up again the next day.

Another day, my daughter and I were working together and she wasn't happy with the way things were going.  She exclaimed, "My whole day is ruined now!"

I told her, "Flush."

"What for?"

I explained, "Just because you're having a yucky moment doesn't mean you have to carry the yuck around with you all day.  Just flush and be done with it."

She laughed at the idea of carrying garbage around all day instead of discarding it at the first possible moment.  She agreed to "flush" and was amazed at the power that gave her to choose how she responded to life's misadventures.

Since that day some four years ago, whenever we get upset about something, we remind each other to flush.  Since most of the time what we're upset about is not having our way with the other, this has helped our relationship IMMENSELY. 

I had these conversations with my daughter because her emotions are right on the surface, making it very apparent that they need to be dealt with.  Others I deeply love are of a milder disposition.  I'm learning the exterior calm can sometimes hide inner turmoil, giving the illusion that all is well.  Years later, the power of packed-away-anger resurfaces in all its angst. 

It's hard just to say "flush" at that point.  But there is help and hope through love and forgiveness.


 

The Garden

There is a Garden.  It is a very beautiful and healing place.  I love to go there in my mind as I begin each day.  Though I reflect upon it mentally, it is as real and timeless as anything can be.  The grounds are Eden-like with trees and blossoms and meadows with flowing brooks.

 At the heart of the Garden is a Fountain of Living Water.  Dip under the flow and note how it creates a refreshing cleansing that heals from the inside out. 

The Fountain flows into a pool of liquid Light.  You are invited to step into the pool.  Immerse yourself.  If you come prepared to release your burdens, they will either be lifted or you will be made strong enough to bear them.  . . .

. . . Because there was another Garden.  

In Gethsemane, the Savior of the World took upon Himself the iniquities and inequities of all mankind. 

We can confidently cast our cares upon the Lord because, through the agonizing events of Gethsemane and Calvary, atoning Jesus is already familiar with our sins, sicknesses, and sorrows. He can carry them now because He has successfully carried them before!  (Neal A. Maxwell, “‘Yet Thou Art There’,” Ensign, Nov 1987, p. 30)

He reaches out and beckons, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me;” (Matthew 11:29)  Which means He is willing to pull the lion’s share of our burdens with all His Power and Perspective.

The Savior’s atonement in the garden and on the cross is intimate as well as infinite. Infinite in that it spans the eternities. Intimate in that the Savior felt each person’s pains, sufferings, and sicknesses. Consequently, . . . we might be healed from within.  (Merrill J. Bateman, “The Power to Heal from Within,” Ensign, May 1995, p. 14)

 There is no truer Friend.  He sees our anguish, whether outwardly expressed or privately packed inside.  He invites us to forgive, whether it be ourselves or another.  He has already paid the price; our task is simply to accept.

Click here to see a 3 1/2 minute video called "Lifting Burdens" 

Celebrating Sixty Years

“Mama, you paid that kid way too much for mowing our lawn!” my oldest sister complained. 

This topic was revisited forty-something years after the event.  On the occasion of our parents’ 60^th Wedding Anniversary, my sisters reminisced about Mom & Dad's parenting techniques.

My sister continued, “Mom answered, ‘How much do you think I should have paid him?’”

“One dollar.”

“‘Alright, you’re hired.  I’ll pay you one dollar for mowing our lawn.’”

“So for the rest of . . . forever, I had to mow our lawn for just a dollar.  Take into consideration that the neighbor kid got to use a power mower and ours was just a push mower.”

“Don’t forget the hill!” my next-oldest-sister chimed in. “It was fine going down but then you had to DRAG it back up.”

“And the grass had no respect for the push mower,” my oldest sister was on a roll.  “For the power mower, the grass stood stiff at attention to get its buzz-cut.  But for ME, the lawn was like an unruly mob doing the wave, bowing down before the blades and thumbing its nose as it sprung back up behind me.”

We all laughed at my sister’s imitation of the rebellious laugh the grass seemingly bellowed as it taunted her efforts to tame it.

The value of the shaggy-trimmed-lawn-job was way more than a dollar. 

There were a lot of lessons we learned from our parents over the years—some of which we even valued at the time we learned them.

Warren & Arlene

May 1951

A few of the lessons we learned from our parents:

“Do the duty that lies nearest to you and already the rest will seem clear. ”

“Let’s fight the war from here.”

“Don’t shame the family.”

Responsibility—if you sign up to take cookies to an event, you take the cookies even if something comes up that prevents you from attending the event.

Respect others—no matter how young or how different, whether people or pets

Keep in touch through letters

Cultural heritage: listening to folk songs; attending cultural events and then talking about it over ice cream.

The value of well-prepared and presented talks

Watching and listening to, and then discussing movies, plays and books

Appreciation of the arts, music and theater

Creativity—turning a squiggly line into a picture, drawing, writing, painting

Loving life-long learning—the kind of education that feeds your soul

Colorful meals with table topics

Hard work

Principle of the pentagonal man who firmly maintains the five strengths: emotional, social, intellectual, physical, & spiritual

Autumn colors and fallen leaves

Enjoying the outdoors and instilling a love of nature

Teaching how to wash dishes— if the dishes weren’t washed properly, the child who had done a sloppy job found the soiled dishes at her place setting—and next time she did a better job 

Projects—even after things fall apart, they can be pieced back together again

Examples of selflessness,  love, courage, resourcefulness, and perspective

Being there

The value of family heritage through telling our own and our ancestors’ stories

Creating beautiful and useful things with material:  wood, cloth, yarn

No matter how overwhelming life feels, we can pull through to the end

Thanks Dad & Mom.  I love you.

"Cultivate Our Garden"

My mother’s cure-all for her children’s complaints of boredom was to tell us to go out and weed the garden.  Suddenly we were always able to discover a way to occupy ourselves without resorting to such drastic measures.  Though we weren’t too fond of the hoe, we loved going out to harvest my grandpa’s raspberry patch. 

We spent our summers on our grandfather’s farm.  He had an apple orchard, a barn with cows to milk, a chicken coop, rows of neatly tended garden produce, 

And a raspberry patch.

It was so satisfying to slide the red, ripe raspberries off their stems and plop them into the large can that hung from a string around our necks.  Of course, a lot of the berries never made it to the can.  We’d stand in the tall bushes for what seemed like hours, the prickly limbs scratched our arms as we reached for the berries.  The patch was big enough that we could stake out our territory, moving from one rich clump of fruit to the next without running into anyone else’s claim. As the sun settled into the west,  we’d emerge from the patch, hot and sticky. With our pink-stained fingers, we’d dump out our can of berries and look forward to seeing them again at the end of the day.  Our dessert was always raspberries and cream, sprinkled with a little sugar.

                A generation later, I can hear myself telling my kids to weed the yard when they’re bored.  Though they don’t relish the work any more than I did in my youth, my kids and their cousins take great pleasure in harvesting raspberries.  The problem is we don’t go to my grandpa’s little farm nearly often enough. I have a tiny raspberry patch in my own garden that we greatly enjoy.  It takes us all of ten minutes to pick the berries, but that—and the strawberry patch—is the one place my kids volunteer to work in the yard.

Now I enjoy going out to weed my flower beds. It is my reward for when I get all my household chores and community responsibilities completed.  Hey, I just realized—I finally learned to cure my own boredom with working in my yard (although I haven’t thought to call those rare moments without a pressing need boredom for quite some time).  My mom was right all along.

Voltaire’s Candide

1759

Voltaire’s protagonist, Candide, was raised in the “best of all possible worlds.”  He was blessed with both a gentle disposition and sound judgment.  He loved a lovely young lady named Cunegonde.

Then Candide came of age in tragic circumstances.  He was severed from his loved ones and seized as a soldier.  There follows a long train of outrageously unlikely predicaments:  shipwreck, earthquake, inquisition, murder in self-defense, and a visit to the utopian city of Eldorado (where the streets are paved with gold) which he abandons to seek his beloved Cunegonde.  

Along the way he meets a philosopher who insists that no one can be truly happy.  To validate his claim, this philosopher introduces Candide to not only victims of abuse, but a man who has everything but values nothing, great kings in exile, and even his long-lost Cunegonde who by then had lost her lovely bloom of youth and transformed into a complainer.

Candide married Cunegonde and their troublesome travels were replaced by tedium.  Cunegonde grew shrewish.  Her lady-companion speculated that her life may have been better as a slave on a pirate’s ship.  The philosopher friend observed, “that man was born to spend his life alternately a prey to the throes of anxiety and the lethargy of boredom.”  Though Candide disagreed, he could not assert otherwise, lacking sufficient evidence. 

Then they met the farmer and everything changed for the better.

Candide and company marveled at the wealth and good-will of the farmer, assuming he must be in possession of a huge fortune.  The farmer replied, “I have but twenty acres, . . . I cultivate them with my children.  Work keeps us from three great evils:  boredom, vice, and need.”

As Candide and his friends returned home, they realized that Adam and Eve were placed in the garden of Eden to work.  They resolved to cultivate a garden of their own, which they did.  They developed talents and enjoyed the satisfaction that comes from harvesting the fruits of their own labors. One of Candide’s friends gratefully reflected on the painful road they traveled to reach their “garden of Eden.” 

“‘That is well put,’ replied Candid, ‘but we must cultivate our garden.’”

There is more than one type of seed and more than one way to plant it.  I planted the seed of this story a couple of days ago, yet managed to wake up feeling depleted this morning.  I was determined to post this blog entry so I got to work, tending the seed, and now that it has blossomed into a blog post, I feel energized and ready to take on the day’s challenges.

Cultivate your garden, whether it is in the soil or in your soul.

This Too Shall Pass

It had been a long day and we were getting a little edgy.  I had to laugh, though, when I saw my ten-year-old son had taped a sign on his shirt that read: 

“Danger, Tired Kid!!!”

I thought that was a pretty good idea, to broadcast a warning when you’re feeling irritable.  Such a caution could work both ways:  to advise others to tread lightly, and to counsel yourself to think before you act.  Then again, humor goes a long way in easing tension.

The danger sign disappeared from my son’s T-shirt by the next morning.  Storms eventually pass, often leaving behind an overarching rainbow.  This heavenly light appears after the air is cleared by a storm.  If, however, violent winds stir up more debris than the rain washes away, then the iridescent colors cannot follow—not in the air, not in the soul.  This tempering of the tempest is aided by thinking before you act.

Often, allowing passions to cool resolves the issue that created the squall. The storm blows over.  [For reasons I won’t mention, I wish I would have thought of this last week.] 

A year before Abraham Lincoln was elected President, he gave a speech which he concluded with the following story:

It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations.  They presented him the words: “And this, too, shall pass away.”  How much it expresses!  How chastening in the hour of pride!  How consoling in the depths of affliction!

When life has you in turmoil, let it pass.  And if it helps, tape a sign to your shirt cautioning people to beware your stormy mood.

Abraham Lincoln

(1809 – 1865)

Lincoln is famous for his speeches, his humor, his magnanimity and his diplomacy. 

·         Through his speeches, he gave people a vision—“That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

·         Through his humor he created a bond of trust and broke down walls.

·         Through his magnanimity, he used commendation (attributing the best motives to his opponents) rather than confrontation, to point out the similarities between his aims and those of his detractors.

·         Through his diplomacy he emancipated the slaves and held the United States together.

I’d like to take a closer look at the last point: diplomacy.  In 1860, Abraham Lincoln won his party’s convention—but not until the third round of voting.  He recognized both the strength of his Republican opponents and his personal lack of experience in the White House, so he filled his cabinet with strong leaders within his party.  These men were highly experienced—enough experienced, in fact, to think they could run things better than he could.  Lincoln used diplomacy to earn their respect and keep them all working together during our nation’s most fiery crisis.

Lincoln achieved similar diplomatic success in keeping the slave states bordering the Union from seceding.  These border states were critical to the Union’s  success.  Washington D.C. would have been in the middle of hostile territory without Maryland; the South would have owned the crucial artery of the Ohio River if Kentucky were on its side.  All during the war, Lincoln had to find a delicate balance between appeasing the abolitionists of the North and the slaveholders of the border states. 

One of Lincoln's most frustrating challenges was finding a general for the Union Army who could fight a winning campaign.  His first choice, McClellan, had everything going for him with one drawback.  He didn’t want to fight.  Lincoln studied war strategy and gave McClellan, and his other generals, a lot of good advice.  Often his advice was ignored and then Lincoln would have to take the heat.  Lincoln wrote many letters with rebukes, none of which were sent to their intended recipients.  Writing the letters was enough to vent his frustrations so he didn’t have to harm his working relationships.  What he did send were letters that diplomatically expressed his concerns and requests.

As the Civil War drew to a close, instead of self-congratulations, Lincoln asked for an honest self-analysis of both sides.  He issued a call for healing and reconciliation "With malice toward none, with charity for all."  

Lincoln closed his “This too shall pass” speech with this wish:

               

Let us hope . . . that by the best cultivation of the physical world,
beneath and around us;

and the intellectual and moral world within us,

we shall secure . . . happiness, whose course shall be onward and upward,

and which, while the earth endures, shall not pass away.

Sources:

Abraham Lincoln, Speech before the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society, September 30, 1859. http://showcase.netins.net/web/creative/lincoln/speeches/fair.htm

A. Lincoln by Ronald C. White, 2010.
The following works by James McPherson:  Abraham Lincoln; Tried by War:  Abraham Lincoln as Commander-in-Chief;
                 Battle Cry of Freedom.
Abraham Lincoln by Wilbur F. Gordy, 1917.
If you can tell, I have a passion for learning about Lincoln and the Civil War.

Creating Systems of Order

There is a significant percentage of people who wake up eager to face the new day.  They throw back their covers and bounce out of bed, excited to welcome the adventures the day holds for them.  It is estimated that something like 90% of this segment of the population is under the age of four.

As a nurse, I used to voluntarily work the night shift because I’d rather work all night than get up at 5:00 in the morning for the day shift.  I had such an aversion to starting a new day in the early morning hours, that I could only face hauling myself out of bed if I could “return from whence I came” and take a nap right after my morning shower (which accounts for why I needed two hours to get ready for work).

               

                Then a few years back I experienced a paradigm shift when I realized that “early birds” don’t necessarily HAVE to be born—they can be made.  It created a dramatic change in my life to evolve from a night owl to an early bird.  I used to think the hours from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m. were my most productive hours of the day, but I realized it was not a good thing for my family so I decided to go to bed earlier.  To make up for losing those “productive hours” I was determined to get up at 5 a.m. so I could work uninterrupted from 5 – 7 in the morning.  Then I made a profound discovery: all those years I spent as a “productive” night owl, I’d been missing out on something even better.  The early morning hours are inspirational.  I learned that with a prayer and paper & pen I could receive answers that hugely affected my life in very positive ways. 

                In my last blog entry I wrote about the power of environments and relationships.  I want to follow that up with thoughts on creating effective systems to add structure to our environment. 

The way I begin my day is one of the most important systems I’ve developed. It starts with going to bed at a reasonable hour.  My system involves the use of a little alarm clock and a lot of motivation to get up so I can have those precious inspirational hours to work on my projects.  It includes exercising and envisioning how my day will unfold.

That’s just one example of a system. We use systems for everything we do whether by plan or default.  If something isn’t working, take a look at the system behind it and adjust it. What are the systems you use to arrive on time, interact well with others, nourish your family, clean your home, find joy? Creating systems that work for you can be a very powerful concept when you use it.

Marla Cilley

a.k.a. FlyLady

                Marla Cilley allowed her perfectionism to paralyze her efforts to keep an orderly home.  (When a person feels like they don’t have the time to get the job done right, it can be overwhelming to face the job at all.)  She found the “Slob Sisters” book, Side-tracked Home Executive and was inspired to create systems of order in her home.  Along the way, she learned a few things and offered tips to anyone interested. Her handle “Fly” originated from her love of flyfishing, but it was suggested by one of the women who follows her system that FLY really stands for “Finally Loving Yourself.”

                Marla mentors through Flylady.net where she posts resources (and daily reminders) on building effective and do-able systems.  She starts with daily tasks that can be completed in fifteen minutes.  Then she adds on weekly routines and monthly zones.  She encourages people to overcome procrastination, de-clutter, and fix finances. She is an advocate of healthy hearts through active play and nutritious meals. She understands that all this energy needs to come from somewhere so teaches to take time out to pamper yourself, enjoy family fun and renew your spirit.  Check her out at http://www.flylady.net/

                In an article called “Why Flylady is great for actors,” Karen Kohlhaas wrote:

Meret Oppenheim, a mother of two teenagers . . . told me about a website that was changing her life.  She said something like: “I think you’ll like this.  It seems to be about housecleaning but it’s much more than that.  I’m taking care of my daily life in ways I’ve never done before and I can’t believe it.”  . . .  Flylady's principles can work brilliantly for artists of all kinds because they are about handling unstructured time.

In other words, what works brilliantly is to create systems of order.

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FlyLady

Act As If

I was dismayed to find my (then) four-year-old daughter’s lovely dresses piled in a heap on the floor of her closet.  This was not the result of carelessness but a pointed demonstration of where her priorities lay. Just a few feet above the dresses, she had carefully hung her assortment of swimming suits, evenly spaced to fully occupy the prime real estate of her closet. 

Had she been left to her own resources, I can guess how she would have preferred to spend her Sunday afternoons.  Down came the swimsuits and back went the dresses. Thanks to our family culture of weekly church attendance and the welcoming friends and teachers we meet there, now there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.  My daughter came to love going to church so much that when she happens to feel sick on Saturday nights, she prays hard to feel well enough to go to church the next day.  It seems her prayers are always answered.

Our relationships and environment have a huge influence on how we live our lives.  Our success in reaching our goals has everything to do with how effectively we arrange our environment and recruit people to support us in our efforts.

I am very inspired by a woman I learned about while reading Influencer:  The Power to Change Anything by Kerry Patterson et al.  Her story follows:

Mimi Silbert

(1942 –      )

“My job is to be the chief believer, to believe in them when they don’t believe in themselves,” says Mimi Silbert about the 1,500 ex-convicts who currently reside at one of her Delancey Street communities.  Over the past forty years, she has transformed 18,000 felons into upstanding contributors to society.

There are only two requirements for becoming a resident (slash-employee-in-training) of Mimi’s Delancey Street Foundation: to have hit bottom and to be willing to change. 

Mimi sees the people (commonly labeled as thieves, addicts, even murderers) she brings to her Delancey Street Foundation not as a “menace to society” but people who only need an opportunity to learn how to care about something besides themselves.  She teaches them to care by giving them real responsibilities, not only for themselves but for the success of other people.

Mimi creates a highly structured environment that holds people accountable for their actions.  As soon as her residents learn personal accountability, they are given responsibility to train someone else.  They become “team players” and build something bigger than themselves.

Delancey Street accepts no government funding and seeks no philanthropic aid.  Mimi has no staff other than her residents.   Though almost none of them had previously held a skilled job for longer than three months, they learn to be self-supporting and live off the profits of the businesses operated by the Delancey Street Foundation.

Half the people who dine at the Delancey Street Restaurant don’t realize it is fully staffed by ex-convicts until they read the back of their menu.  By then they’ve been so favorably impressed by the dignified maitre d’ and their gracious waiter, that they are sure their servers are exceptions. 

They aren’t. 

Mimi’s environment and the coaching relationships it fosters create a place where people who have been labeled “human garbage” can find their talents and soul.

We’re lucky in the fact that our people have hit bottom.

We ‘act as if’ we are all the things we want to become.

We ‘act as if’ we’re decent and caring and bright and talented.

And we eventually become those thing.

Mimi Silbert

Her story can influence everyone’s story when we learn to ‘act as if’ and build environments and relationships that help us find the “Gem in the Geode” of our lives.

Sources:

"The Mimi Silbert Story:  Re-cycling ex-cons, addicts and prostitutes,"  by Jerr Boschee & Syl Jones (http://www.socialent.org/pdfs/MimiSilbertStory.pdf)
See also http://www.delanceystreetfoundation.org/president.php to find several more links to televised spotlights and articles about Mimi Silbert.