The Power of the Group

Sandy, Elissa, Cartha and Mirtha discuss data resources we have right here as a goldmine for analysis

Today my faculty gathered after faculty meeting for their very first research lunch. As we had talked before the school year started, we had noted that we've gotten so busy with teaching that we haven't given enough attention to building our research and publications. That needs to change, if we're to make the case for the programs we want to add. So we made a strategic plan for steps to get to where we want to get in this area. And it included me sponsoring a once-a-month lunch for us to be accountable to one another, talk about our projects, and review drafts of articles to submit to peer-reviewed research journals.

I was surprised and my heart warmed when nearly everyone showed up, even those who are regularly publishing and presenting. We had good discussion, floated ideas, and my friend and colleague Sandy, who was hosting the session at my invitation, handed out a very helpful list of journals and their acceptance rates. We may as well go where the chances are good, since we want to see results in short order.

This whole situation reminded me of the power of a group for motivation, courage, and developing better ideas. We have one or two loners among us who get research and publications done, but most of us are in education because we love people, we get our energy from people, and we do things for the sake of other people.

A group for courage, a group for accountability, a group for inspiration, a group for celebrating together. It's worked in so many other situations. Hopefully it will do the trick for us, too. The next time we get together, we'll get a glimpse of whether it will.

Mansion Over the Hilltop

The mansion we saw hiding back in the Riverside orange groves during our walk on Sunday.

When I was growing up, we used to sing a Christian song called, "Mansion over the Hilltop." It began thus:

I'm satisfied with just a cottage below,

A little silver, and a little gold.

But in that city where the mansions will shine,

I want a gold one, that's silver lined.

I've got a mansion, just over the hilltop

In that bright land where we'll never grow old

And someday yonder we will never more wander,

But walk those streets that are purest gold. 

It didn't take me long to recognize that the lyrics to this much-beloved song were extremely materialistic and embarrassingly self-centered. Really? I need a house made of gold and lined with silver? Why? And what I yearn for is to walk on streets of gold? My sassy side is thinking that all that shining gold might give me a headache. And there would be dents and divots everywhere, since gold would not hold up well under all those thundering feet.

Heaven isn't about what you'll get. If heaven exists (and I happen to believe that it does exist, but that it is completely different than what we typically hear about), it's about being reunited with my Creator in a relationship that we started during my life here on earth, now. For that reason--being in a heart-close, loving relationship with the One who I can trust completely, and who knows and loves every molecule of me--I can hardly wait for heaven.

But let me turn my attention back to mansions right here on this earth. I'm not fond of them. I've lived in fourteen apartments and houses in my life so far. Some were very small and several have been quite a bit too large, and I must say that some of my happiest times were spent in the small ones. I do think there are some places that are just TOO small, and that would be miserable. But when I've been in the too-big ones, I've felt rather uncomfortable, partly from guilt and partly because extra space is like wearing clothes that are too big for you.

My point is this: a mansion, by definition, is too big. Things are just things, and it's the love and the activities that make a home or mansion a happy place. Our last house had three rooms we almost never used, and we would have gotten along just fine without them. Our current house has two rooms we almost never use, and we'd be okay without them. And we could fairly easily do without the separate dining room, too. Why have a room you only use, on average, three times a year?

Maybe someday we'll get it just right: Our bedroom, two office rooms with storage closets in them, a kitchen, a nice large family room and a guest room. Oh, and a laundry room and a garage. That would do it.

And now the thought comes to me: that would be a mansion for most people in the world. Oh dear.

Allergic

[It was my goal to post every day this month, but I see that I have fallen off the wagon this past week. Well, let's see if I can back-fill, since I do have interesting things to comment about. I'll assume the time-stance of the date with which I'm stamping the posts.]

Yesterday we dropped by Daughter #2's new house to say howdy to them and the grands. They recently bought a home 10 minutes further away from us, which is a bit daunting when we might otherwise be able to drop in for a few minutes, were we "in the area." We're not in their area, ever. And no, for the record they didn't do that because of us. We already dropped by precious few times. Now they are twice as far from our house as Daughter #1, who lives just 15 minutes away and can easily be included on the route between home and Husband's work (and my parents' place, as well).

On the theory that staying too short of a time makes us more welcome than staying too long, we just stayed for half an hour. We admired how things were looking now that they're more settled in the house, jibber-jabbered with the grands, ate little, tasty apples fresh off their trees, and reveled in the fresh-hot chocolate chip cookies Daughter #2 served up for us. And we oohed and aahed over her latest work of art, pictured here.

Son-in-law is allergic to nuts. Deadly allergic. Oddly, he is NOT allergic to peanuts, but anything else will put him into significant a deadly respiratory distress. Daughter #2 has both a talented hand with art, and a witty way with words. So when she bought some almond butter for her and the kids recently, she marked it up well so that her husband wouldn't get anywhere close to wandering into the tasty treat.

It would be difficult for me to have to be so vigilant about the ingredients in everything I eat. I don't feel good when I eat something with a lot of milk in it, although I react less to even milk when I'm rested and not stressed. And corn can make me feel like a I have the flu, and I have to go sleep it off. But that's still not a deadly allergy.

For son-in-law, his allergy really does work a little like a "tree of knowledge of good and evil;" "Eat, and you shall die." Literally. Yikes.

Waffles!

Every family has their favorite breakfast. One of mine, growing up, was waffles. It was a treat, one that we had on the occasional Sunday morning, made by Mama. She had an old Sunbeam waffle iron, and it kept on turning out the waffles, year after year. Four waffles at a time, with small dents in them. I liked it best when there was an overflow edge on the outside, which I broke off and munched on happily.

Waffles with butter and syrup. Waffles with peanut butter and applesauce. Waffles with fruit and whipped cream.

Our waffle iron died a couple of years ago, and when I went looking for a replacement I couldn't find anything except Belgian waffle makers.  They are small.  They have big dents. They don't produce the four-part waffle with little dents.

I bemoaned the loss of my favorite type of waffle maker, and then someone suggested, "Why don't you check on eBay? Or go to yard sales?"

Well, I hate yard sales. Call me snobbish, but I have never gotten away from the sense that you're just swapping one another's junk at such an event, and spending a whole lot of unnecessary time doing it. And I've never been able to see someone else's junk as my potential treasure.

But I went on eBay, and sure enough, there was MY waffle iron, the kind that makes the four-part waffle with the little dents. I bought it. I made waffles this morning. And they were yummy!

The Poignant Years

With my dear, sweet parents

These are the poignant years. My mother is 88 as I write this, and my father nearing his 87th birthday.  When we moved to California, my parents--who had no wish to go through the trauma of a move--agreed to move with us. In doing so, they sacrificed much for me. While they would have had to make these sacrifices soon, anyway, it felt like these came because of our move: reducing their household and giving many of their things away, moving from their home into a two-bedroom apartment in an assisted living facility, giving up their own car and freedom of driving, narrowing their world even further than it had already narrowed.

The benefits to them? They have assistance any time they need it, which means there are people to help my mother get up when she falls, which she did just last week, again. She does not have the strength to get off the floor, and my dad can't help her. There are people to help decide that my father should go to the emergency room when he becomes ill, which he does on occasion. Their meals are cooked for them. Institutional food is not nearly as pleasant as home-cooked food, although they had mostly quit doing any significant cooking for themselves before the move. There is someone to clean their apartment and wash their clothes. The latter has brought some disasters, including a ruined Chinese brocade dress of my mom's a couple of weeks ago. And my mother dislikes that no one irons their clothes. My parents, who have always looked good as professionals, now look a bit more rumpled.

And a lot more frail.

The two years in California have not been kind to them, but I have to realize that two more years in Washington would not have been kind, either. And we are, all three, so grateful that we can get together often. They are just a 20-minute drive away from me.

The thought comes to me often: people who do not care for their aging parents at close quarters miss a huge education, and often, a huge blessing. My parents's lives teach me constantly during these years.

Out for a shopping trip: we ordered this delightful recliner minus the console for them.
It will arrive in the next six weeks, in a lovely dark forest green.

It is rare that I leave a visit with my parents, without feeling wall-to-wall grateful for my time spent with them. There is a blessing in being with these two people that I just can't explain to anyone. I learn from seeing them struggle with aging. I learn from their words. I learn from their blind spots. I learn from their patience as they wait for a day when I can get over there to help them with some errand. I am blessed by their prayers. I am touched by their gladness to see me, and their little techniques for delaying my departure from some visits.

They are so gracious, and it makes me feel guilty. I really struggle with the living situation we have arranged.  I simply could not work in my job and care for them at the same time, were it up to me. There must be someone to assist at all times. On the other hand, people at the assisted living are far from perfect. They don't reach out to remind and invite my parents to come to social events (many of which are simply not the types of things my parents would do). They seated my parents with the grumpiest couple in the place for their meals, and my parents won't ask for a change of seating arrangement because they don't want to hurt that couple's feelings. But meal after meal is spend in depressing company. The assisted living people know this and respect my parents' wishes to not change. I understand that but I worry over it anyhow. And I worry about their joy in life, where they are situated. There isn't much provided to feed the minds of people who are highly educated. I go over to visit two or three times a week, but the days between visits are long and empty, spent in reading, TV-watching, napping.

I often wonder whether there is something missing, some way I could set up life to be more enjoyable for them in these years. An apartment with caregivers? What about the falling? What about the fact that they prefer a space that they can call their own, without someone else there all the time? What about the cost differential? Would a different assisted living center do better by them? What about the disruption of moving and getting used to new routines when they already feel displaced? What assisted living place would give them as spacious an apartment as they are in? I don't know of any facilities around here that would do any better for them. What if my husband and I moved to a place where they could live in a part of our house? I know that wouldn't work because of their living patterns and the fact that it would be difficult for my husband and me in these years when we need to be be there for each other without distractions. My parents would not wish to be a disruption or burden on our marriage, and they would be, if they lived with us. But am I selfish? I know other people who have an ethic that says they will care for family members and not turn it over to others. I fret and roll the questions over and over in my mind.

"Getting old stinks," my parents have told me. Life lost some of its sparkle when they retired from practicing medicine, lost more of it when conflict entered the family late in life, and lost hope when they stopped going overseas for short-term mission relief stints (when my mom was 80).

As I write this and look at the picture I took this morning of my parents on the way to their church Bible study (with the church they got married in 54 years ago peeking over the trees above my dad's head), tears are running down my face. I wish I were wiser about how to care for them. I wish with all my heart that I could help these years to be more joyful for them. I've fixed all that I know how to fix, but somehow it feels like it's not enough. They are such precious, precious people. They haven't lived their lives perfectly, but they are perfectly committed to the grace of God, and doing the best they know how.

Oh, how I long for heaven when bodies and minds are made new, when love is flawless. Not all people believe in such a thing, but I do, and it's a great comfort to me.

What We Worked So Hard to Accomplish

[Photos from online image searches]

An private school system leader with whom I collaborate asked if we could meet today. She was leading meetings about half an hour's drive from me. I drove over to the hotel where she was working, and we sat in the lobby to talk.  Three hours later our conversation finally wrapped up.  I was on the lookout for her to introduce some major agenda item, but there were only minor items that we could have addressed over the phone. I think she just needed a safe person to talk with. That can be hard to find when you're in leadership.

During our time together, we got to talking about some younger women in her organization who are getting leadership degrees in one of the academic programs my school provides. I named several of these graduate students that I would love to see progress toward a doctorate. They are organized, positive, bright, and clearly capable.

And then we talked about some others in the same group of students. These are not women that I would recommend for advancement.  Here's why:

One of them had been told two years ago that she needed to produce a transcript from one of her schools in order to be fully accepted to our program. A year later and after warnings to her, the transcript was nowhere to be seen, so she was blocked from registering for her next term. She called in, and was so rude to people in three offices on our campus that they began not answering the phone when they saw her number, frustrating her even further. I don't excuse their lack of service, but I don't excuse her attitude, either. And as the dean of my school, I did talk with her about it.

Another woman always "colors outside the lines." Rules and procedures don't apply to her, and she, too, can be rude about trying to get what she wants. During her first term in our program she raised a nasty ruckus on campus about dorm and cafeteria issues. Then there was time she ordered in pizza during class time--even after we made it clear to the students that our contract with the hotel prohibited external vendors. As the professor I had to say to her, "You're welcome to sit out in the parking lot and eat your pizza, but class will get underway on time, and without pizza in the room."

Another student in the cohort was supposed to be in two classes this past summer, classes necessary for the degree her cohort is working toward. But she decided that instead, she would rather work on a committee and go to a professional training across country. Even though I told her at the start of the first event--I was on that same committee as a guest member--that this would set her behind in finishing her program, she went ahead with her own agenda. The "insult-to-injury" was that she then asked the professor of the class that she was missing to do independent study arrangements for her--at no cost, of course--to enable her to keep up with her cohort. (He refused, as he should.) And then when we wouldn't accommodate independent studies for her, she signed up for a distance learning class, and--after the fact--asked her employer to pay for it.

"What is up with these students?" I said to my colleague today. "They were hand-picked to attend this program because they were seen to have potential to be future leaders. But they're doing things to shoot themselves in the foot. And yet they will want our good recommendations when it gets to job-hunting time."

My colleague was just as bemused as I was, and added another story or two she knew about these students onto the pile.

"Another thing," I added. "The students who don't seem to get it are primarily women. What's up with that? Don't they understand how carefully you and I have have worked to open the doors for women in leadership? It's almost like they are trying to mess with what we have worked so hard to accomplish."

"They don't get it," said my friend. "They weren't here to see what it was like when we were first in leadership positions."

When we were first in leadership.

It was hard, back then. I remember going to leadership meetings 25 years ago as a vice-principal and walking past a group of male principals who didn't even acknowledge me, although most of them knew me. They were busy talking about their afternoon golf game in guy-words, and I was invisible.  Educational leadership was an old boys' club back then, and we women received the message in all kinds of little, mostly unintended ways that we were second-rate or invisible. That old boys' club persists even now, with some of the guys my age and older. But they are becoming more and more a minority as the years pass and society's awareness changes.

Not only that, but we had negative expectations from women to deal with. I remember getting ready to leave the parochial school where I had been a teacher for six years and vice-principal for three years. My office had been in a nook off the main office where the secretary and the bookkeeper worked, and I had interacted with them daily, considering them to be friends and assuming their support. As we discussed my impending departure, Andrea the secretary said, "You know, I was really worried about having a woman boss when you became vice principal. But you've been really good to work for. In fact, you're the one who has been running the school, if the truth be told.

I was floored by her comment about my gender. She admitted she had expected that any woman boss would be "witchy-with-a-B," as we used to say. And I had proven her wrong. I was glad it had gone so well, but I also pondered the concept of women who expect a bad experience in working for other women who take up leadership.

It was then that I realized that in my work, I would be teaching people that women leaders can be effective, calm, wise, collaborative, responsible, and visionary. That's a pretty heavy burden, doing all that as a representative of your gender.

And that's why my friend and I found it so frustrating to see women throw that away. It felt like their rudeness, lack of responsibility, and willingness to break the rules had potential to undo what we tried so hard to establish. You just want to shake these women, these women who actually have plenty of potential, and say, "Get a grip, Girl! Take care of that fatal flaw, because the world needs you. But it's not going to want you unless you can play nice. Raise your gaze to a bigger picture! Show some integrity and wisdom. We're not done yet with this task of establishing that women can lead effectively. Don't mess it up!"

The Third Time

I noticed last year that we do nothing to orient our new graduate students to the culture of the institution, to our expectations for graduate work, and to the support systems we can offer them. I brought this up to the department chairs, and asked if we could arrange something. They said they all had their differences from one another, and indicated that they do their own orientations. I wanted to make sure there was a system that would reach all the new students, and pressed the issue with them. I took it to the full faculty meeting and asked everyone to please systematize their orientations for their new students. "It's up to you all," I said.

Off the went to do their own planning. And then the chair of the most complex department got back in touch with me. "We want YOU to do the orientation for our students," she said. "You did such a great job with our visiting accreditation team last year. Can you do a version of that for our students?"

Next thing I knew, I was on deck to orient all the new students for all the academic departments in our school. I'd be doing it four evenings this week so as to catch them all, since they come in for classes once a week, Monday-through-Thursday. Well, now.  I put my presentation together, and thought it was very good.

Until I finished the first session.

Teachers are taught to be reflective about their practices, and it didn't take me much reflection to know that I had done a less-than-satisfactory job on the first evening. I had talked too much about this, too little about that. I was under-estimating what the students already knew. I been too rambly and had gone too long. I probably sounded stupid. When I thought about the students' possible take-away messages, I squirmed.

But as I get older, I am doing better at turning away from self-critique sooner, at giving myself grace. "Not so good," I told myself with a comforting mental pat on the shoulder. "But maybe I can do better tomorrow evening."

"How did it go?" my secretary asked me when I walked into the office this morning after Orientation Number 2 had taken place last night.

"Better," I said. "But I'm still not there.  Maybe tonight I'll get it right."

She chuckled. You've gotta love an optimistic person, right?

Well, tonight it clicked. I still went a little long, but this time I felt like I connected with the students who were there. I hit my timing right. I made them laugh. And I gave information and answered questions that would make their lives better, as new graduate students.

Whew.

It's so good to know that the third time's a charm. Or the fourth or the fifth.  But eventually, I'll get there.

Fat, Part 2

My 8th grade photo

[This is the second part of my "Fat" series, begun here. I'm writing this to work through some thoughts, so skip it if this isn't your thing.]

Sometime around the age of 12, as I mentioned in Part 1, I began packing on pounds in excess of what my frame needed. Developmentally, lots of children put on pounds just before they shoot up in height and get balanced out again. But I didn't lose it as I got taller; I just added more.

By one of the island waterfalls, around the beginning of 8th grade

Sometimes I wonder if part of this battle with weight during my upper elementary years (other than picking up my mother's concern about being overweight) had to do with the climate in the part of the world where I grew up. Living in the tropics with extremely hot, humid weather does not encourage one to get out and move. As a child I had done a lot of bicycle riding, tree climbing and running around. But as I reached puberty and felt heavy, moving became more hot and uncomfortable, the heat and humidity left painful chafing between my thighs, and I was far more happy lying on a couch or bed indoors with an icy drink or homemade popsicle and the ceiling fan set on high.

I made the dress myself, under my mother's watchful eye.

As I ponder the photo taken after church during my last weekend at home before leaving for boarding academy, I see a girl who was trying with all her might to be ready to fit in, and I love her for it. I tried to straighten my hair to look like the pictures in the magazines that depicted that mid-70's late hippy era look. But my hair stayed straight for about two minutes in the humidity. I was uncomfortable with being so tall in a country of short people, so I slumped, which made my stomach look poochier. My pigeon-toed stance in shoes that were custom-made to fit my feet, speaks of my vulnerability at the age of 14, my sense that as hard as I tried, I had no clue whether I would fit in among the "American kids" where I was going. It was an exciting time and a scary time. Truth is, all the new freshmen had the same insecurities that I did.

Freshman yearbook photo (rough proof)

It didn't take me long to recognize, entering boarding academy in Singapore, that I was on the fat side compared to my peers. And to realize that my home-designed, dressmaker-sewn clothes were out of style. I started putting effort into losing the weight, first of all.

The cafeteria served incredible food: pancakes on Sunday mornings, Asian curry for Tuesday lunch, pizza on Wednesdays, granola with peanut butter sauce and applesauce (we called it "manna") for Friday suppers, sweet rolls and milk for Saturday morning breakfast in the dorms, ice cream after lunch on Saturday.  They fed us like kings and queens. I wasn't going to make any progress without drastic measures. Skipping suppers at the cafeteria made the most sense to me, and the pounds started to melt off. Additionally, our P.E. teacher made us girls work hard out there in the stifling heat and humidity. It did the trick.

By the time my mother visited me near the end of my freshman year, I was much slimmer, and pleased to pose for a photograph with her.  (I am surprised to realize that in this picture my mom was two years older than I am now. It would be interesting to get into her head at that time and see how she was thinking.)

Sophomore yearbook photo, rough proof

My sophomore year I roomed with a girl who had lived some years in the United States. She updated my hairstyle and got me into clothes that looked more like what the other girls were wearing. She, too, was found it difficult to manage her weight, and we both shared the perception that we were fat. It's interesting now to read research findings that people who hang around with others who are overweight, tend to put on weight themselves. I know from experience how easy it is to take on the perception of being overweight, and from there it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Note my brother covering up his bare feet!

Looking at a photo of my brother and me taken at home following my sophomore year, I see a girl who was not by any means obese. To me, I just look normal. So why did I continue to see myself at the time as having troubles with weight? In those years of boarding academy I never would have been caught dead wearing a two-piece bathing suit. I didn't think of myself as either attractive or unattractive. I just was, with this general awareness that fat was a problem for me.

Banquet dress, my junior year. You can chuckle at the 'fro, if you like.

One thing I did catch onto, a typical misunderstanding held by overweight people, was that flowy garments would somehow cover a person's weight sins. I think it came from my mom. So my banquet dress my junior and senior years was a gorgeous hand-painted thing created by a fabric artist on my home island and sewn by our dressmaker. But it looked a bit like I'd been draped in a white sack. (Note to anyone reading: 3/4 sleeves work against a slim line.)

I kept trying, though. I continued on and off to skip suppers, and it worked pretty well. My reward was being able to buy ready-made clothes in Singapore stores, rather than having my clothes made. I loved it when I could do this. It felt like I was getting more normal, becoming more like a girl my age should look.

Our junior class, at the end of the school year. I'm the one with the cowl neck.

It's reassuring to realize, as I write, that most of my attention during these years was focused somewhere else than on weight. I was figuring out North American culture from my peers, doing fairly well in my studies, managing my crushes on boys and fending off the couple of boys who got crushes on me, developing my musical skills and leadership skills, figuring out my likely career path, and just having a great deal of fun. A poochy tummy was a minor frustration, and some clever draping of material could minimize it.

It's also interesting to realize that several of the slim girls in the class picture above, girls who I envied for their figures back then, now carry significantly more weight than I do. It doesn't make my own challenges easier; it's just interesting to note how things turn out unexpectedly over time.

One more thing I should mention: I never had a boyfriend during these high school years. It seemed like the boys I liked, didn't return the compliment. And the boys who got crushes on me (at least, the ones I knew of) were not in the least bit appealing to me. I pondered that. The one message that resounded in my head was the one said by that guy on the badminton court outside our church: "Waaaaa. You getting so fat, ah. You never get boyfrien' like dat, lah."  When I tried to explain to myself why I wasn't attractive to a boy I thought was really cool, I figured it must be that--I was physically unattractive. I wasn't slim. That must be it.

But it was a small pool, a school of 70 students in the heart of Singapore. And I didn't need to be in a rush to be steady-dating a boy. Maybe my special person would show up in college.

Senior yearbook photo

And so my senior year in boarding academy arrived, with such a difference in me from the day I arrived in Singapore for that first year. I was active and busy, and looked pretty decent in terms of size. My favorite church dress was a store-bought pink one with a lace collar. I'd grown up and grown in during my four years in that school. The environment had built my self-esteem and self-efficacy. I had made significant progress in learning how to interact with others in western culture. I had learned that I was a leader, and I believed what the religious speakers told us when they came to our school: "You young people are the future leaders of our church, getting prepared for leadership right here in this school."

With a couple of friends, graduation weekend

My goal was to be prepared to go to college in England or the United States. That preparation needed to be academic, personal ... and I wanted to be slim when I went. Wearing my elegant golden Chinese brocade skirt during graduation weekend, I felt ready.

I Like You

Once upon a time....  I knew it was coming to a head. One of my direct reports' behaviors were becoming more disrespectful and he was not keeping me informed on topics that were extremely important for any administrator in my role to know about.

I dislike confrontation. Let me clarify that: I despise confrontation. In ramping up to such a conversation, I fret. I pray. I try to figure out ways to avoid it. But one thing I am not, is chicken. I will confront despite the knot in my stomach, my face tightening up and sometimes even spasming a little (how embarrassing), and the hot and cold waves in my skin as I do it.

It would be nice to say that after many years as an administrator, I have this down, that I've learned how to do it. Actually, I don't have it down. But I have learned a thing or two so that I don't do it as badly. One of those is to wait until I am calmer than when I first realized this difficult conversation needed to happen. So with this one, I waited. And while I waited, I spouted off to my husband at home so that I could get my frustrations verbalized and off my chest. I talked with a peer administrator and with my boss. I checked my perceptions with them all and floated the messages I planned to deliver to this direct report. And I listened carefully to what all of them had to say. There is wisdom in surrounding yourself with good counselors.

And then I had my conversation.

I had my direct report come to my office instead of going to his. This made a statement about where the power had to be in our conversation. It was symbolically important because in his culture of origin, women administrators are nonexistent, let alone respected. It was necessary because in his office, the chair I would sit in is lower than his chair, creating a physical sense of looking up at him. In my office, the chairs where I interact with people are identical to each other, putting us at the same height. These things are all important.

As our conversation began, I laid out my concerns, naming the behaviors I had seen. I pointed out the message they were conveying and why that was problematic. And then I listened to what he had to say.

As always when I've opened difficult conversations, his responses shed new light on what was going on his head. I realized by listening to his perspective that he had been working from considerations I wasn't aware of, that he had not intended insubordination, and that the situation didn't rise to the level of dishing out a threat of non-reappointment (something I had been tentatively planning to deliver). People in my discipline generally have good intentions and work awfully hard, and I heard that again as I listened to him.

At one point while the conversation was more intense, when we were discussing accountability and the requirement to share information with me early and thoroughly, my direct report threw out the words "controlling" and "micromanage." Praise the Lord, my knee-jerk reaction was to just laugh. Outright laugh. I chuckled and said to him with a grin, "I knew those words were going to come up! But here's the thing..." and then explained again why any wise administrator in my position needed things to be different. I pointed out that the administrators prior to me had not required this, so I knew that asking for change would be distressing for a while until he and others in my unit got used to it. I saw him visibly relax right in front of me because I reacted with amusement, not receiving the "controlling" and "micromanaging" descriptors personally.

We came to some agreements, with him freely offering up what he could do to make things work more smoothly. I recognized his hard work and promised follow-through on a couple of things he needed support on. And the conversation was done.

But then, I got an unexpected urge. Was it a God-sent urge, or just my own impulsiveness? I don't know. But I said to him, "You know, I just have to say this to you.  I like you. You're an interesting person. You are visionary. And you're doing a good job in leading your department. I just wanted you to hear that I like you."

At first he looked startled. And then the conversation wrapped up in short order with smiles and friendly tones.

That was the moment of change. After that he dropped by my office more often. He greeted me in the hallways where he had avoided eye contact before. He looked happier. And I could see that he really was making an effort to tend the things I had asked of him.

And I ponder this truth: how deeply people need to feel that they are liked by their bosses. Or teachers. Or anyone sitting in judgment on them. It makes a world of difference.

Oh, Canada

This morning I boarded a plane for Phoenix and then Edmonton, Alberta. Once a year I have to travel to Canada because our academic program is also taught at an extension campus about an hour's drive south of Edmonton.

Flying into the airport mid-afternoon, I snagged a car (with some difficulty; I hadn't noticed that the rental office was off-airport) and then hopped onto Highway 2 south, pushing the speed limit and hoping I wouldn't get a ticket. I walked into my committee ten minutes late, which was survivable even though I was chairing the committee. Once our task was completed we were off to a little Chinese restaurant in the small town where the campus is located, and proceeded to enjoy one of the most delightful meals I've had with any educational group, with such hilarity that we probably disturbed everyone else in the establishment.

It boils down to this for me: I can't think of a Canadian I've ever met that I didn't like. I don't know if it's the national personality formed by surviving hard winters, or the fact that much of the country is rural and thus people live closer to nature, or some other reason. But it seems to me that Canadians are just plain nice people, even before you get to the fact that they are friendly, thoughtful, have a good sense of humor, make great connections between conversational topics, and write the most interesting blogs.

So my cheer goes up today for all my Canadian friends and acquaintances. In two weeks I'll be heading to Chilliwack, BC, where I'll get to enjoy your fair country and fine people once again. Can't wait.

Day of Prayer

Today we attended the Chinese church next to where my parents live. At the end of the service, the pastor noted that it was a day of prayer for the church and invited everyone to sit quietly and pray, either alone or with someone next to them. 

I snuck this photo of my 86-year old dad and 88-year old mother in prayer. The picture touched me because it reminded me that my parents have sent up many, many prayers throughout their lives.  I think those prayers have not only changed the lives of others, but they have also changed their own lives. 

My childhood and adolescent memories are rewritten time and time again as I get older and shape my recollections according to what I'm thinking about. I believe everyone's memory does that. I remember my mom praying with us before bed and during the blessing before eating. And I saw my mom kneel at her bedside and pray before getting in bed. I remember my dad praying up front at religious meetings and before meals. And I knew he prayed before taking up the scalpel at each surgery he did. But I don't remember seeing my parents actually quiet and communing with God. 

As I compare then and now, I'm certain that my memories of my parents aren't of them being nearly as mellow or deep back then as they are now.  Sure, they still have their blind spots and their human flaws, even in their late 80s, but I'm blessed just about every time I spend a few hours with them. I believe that's a function of life experience and prayer. They are humbler, deeper, more interesting and more loving than most of the people I know who do not have faith in God or admit a need for forgiveness and mercy. 

I believe that time spent in humble, personal prayer (not perfunctory, ceremonial prayer) changes people for the better. I'm thankful to have seen that modeled by my parents, and would wish a similar blessing for any child.

Once You Post a Photo

I was jolted today to see that someone stole a picture I took. It happened like this:

A friend of mine from the Northwest, a woman who is just a few years older than I, was recently diagnosed with non-smoker's lung cancer, stage IV, which has gone to brain and kidneys. It's not a good situation. This friend has generously started a group on Facebook so that the many people who know her can follow her journey, which she is transparently sharing. Currently her daily posts are gripping, focusing on her preparation for and beginning radiation treatments for the tumors in her brain.

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after she broke the news, I posted a beautiful photo to the group that I took of my friend two and a half years ago. It shows her luminescent spirit, sitting at sunset in her favorite spot by the Whitman Monument in the Walla Walla Valley.

On Friday I opened up the Facebook page to see my photo of my friend looking back at me...over a link to a fundraiser for her medical expenses. How many mixed feelings can one have? I am glad friends are raising money to help with her expenses. But I would like to have been asked. I don't even know the person who started the fundraiser and used my photo. I don't like the fundraiser website they're using because you are expected to pay a fee for donating through the website. While I think web developers should be paid for their work, the fee is more than I think is fair, and I feel like this particular site is using people's hardship or dreams to get rich quick. I don't like my creative work to be used in connection with that. And again, I think it would have been the right thing to do for the lady who used the photo, to ask my permission.

I already knew this theoretically, but it was brought back to mind experientially that once you post a photograph on the internet, you cannot assume that you are the only one who will use that photograph.

Will I say anything? The most important thing at this point is for my friend to fight her battle free of any controversy on the sidelines, and for her to get as much support as possible from the loving people surrounding her. So, no, I won't say anything except here, where none of them read.

But it did rattle me. 

Bad to the Bone, Part 2

Recently I was talking on the phone with my dad, one of those habitual "bad to the bone" storytellers. He's nearly 87 years old now, and while his body is slowly failing him, he exercises a pretty clear mind and has plenty of time to ponder his next topic of conversation with us. In a vulnerable and unusually insightful moment recently, my dad told me that he is experiencing a lot of regrets about his life. There's not much he can do with those thoughts at this point, he realized, except to depend on the grace and forgiveness of God. And then he said, "I spent far too much of my adult life trying to convince people that I was valuable. And I recognized it at the time."

Wow. If you know my dad, you know that is an uncharacteristic admission.

But I think he nailed it for what drives most of us in telling our "bad to the bone" anecdotes. To quote my friend, Jayne, "Doesn't this behavior simply boil down to people wanting recognition that they matter and have significance?... it screams, 'Look at me! I'm a brave risk taker and I matter, by golly!'"

I matter. I don't fit the mold, and that proves that I matter.

"I didn't have very good role models," my dad told me by way of explaining his lifelong search to convince others of his value. "My dad was a welder who came home and didn't interact much, and my mother was a gossip in our neighborhood." Wow again. Consider this simple, uneducated couple living in a typical city neighborhood in the Netherlands during the 1930's and 1940's, and then look at what their son did: going to college, getting a medical degree, working as a missionary, doing thirty major surgeries a month in addition to being chief administrator of a 140-bed hospital, saving lives, building hospitals, ... and all the time trying to convince people that he was valuable.

What is this deep wound that we humans try to assuage by telling our "bad to the bone" stories (some of which are about simple mischief, by the way, and later used as "bad to the bone" story fodder)? Why is it that for many of us, it never heals?

My husband and I recently attended two funerals. At both of those funerals, which were for very different men, stories were told of how these men crossed the boundaries.

One of them had crossed boundaries in fun ways in his work with young people and as a school principal, but later crossed a less forgivable boundary and spent several years in jail for molesting a nephew. Obviously his life took a turn from which he was unable to recover, professionally. He died a month ago from the effects of early onset Pick's Disease (frontotemporal dementia). Over recent years he had become ever more detached and childlike. About 150 family members, coworkers and students who had loved and appreciated him at various stages of his life were gathered at his funeral.

The other man had been a college president, a church leader, a senior pastor of the largest church in his denomination. The boundaries he had crossed were those policies and values in the system that make life work for a group of believers who call themselves a "church," boundaries that created both positive and negative aspects of culture for the people he served. Some loved and admired him; others disagreed with him or greatly disliked him, and were hurt by his choices to operate outside the lines. But... he was widely known and had 1500 people at his funeral, and more watching by streaming video.

The "bad to the bone" stories of both men, I believe, quietly highlighted that although they did much good, they also indulged times when they refused to see the bigger picture, neglected opportunities to live from a deeper principle, and indulged their narcissistic tendencies. I suspect that both men were driven by a need to establish or reassure themselves of their own value, their own reason for existing in this world. And as I write this, I wince in recognition that those same drivers are present in my own life. And then I smile because I think this is common to all of us, is part of our human condition.

I wonder if there is a way to break out of our "bad to the bone" stories. Can a person survive simply being ordinary? Is it such a great tragedy if we live within the lines? Must we stand out from the crowd for our lives to have mattered? Is it okay to leave a "vanilla legacy" that doesn't sound very remarkable among the colorful stories everyone else tells about themselves in this world?

How comfortable are you with the thought of your funeral being one where people say, "She was pretty ordinary. She got up in the morning, put one foot in front of the other, met the challenges of her day as best she could, walked through the doors that opened in front of her and turned aside from those that didn't open. She was unremarkable, did her part, enjoyed her friends and hobbies, and blended in with the community."

While I'll admit I'd have to try hard to be okay with such a legacy at my funeral (I am, after all, my father's daughter, given to efforts to establish my own value), I must say this: I like my friends who are creating a vanilla legacy. They are safe, dependable, companionable, comforting as a fleecy blanket, a good place to land when life dishes up drama. And they are much loved by those around them. In quiet ways, they may just accomplish far more than the people who are busy breaking rules.

There's something mighty powerful and effective about not having to live life "bad to the bone."

Post script: I believe in prophets who are called disturb the status quo. I also believe that a great number more human beings believe themselves to be prophets, than actually are called to do the job.

Bad to the Bone, Part 1

A quilter's statement, perhaps designed by some sweet little granny, found here

Everyone seems to need to be bad.

It was my husband who first pointed it out to me in my dad's conversation style. He mentions prior girlfriends. He mentions his drinking days. He frequently references locking horns and doing end runs on those in authority during his mission doctor days. But in truth the need to be "bad to the bone" is everywhere. You most likely do it, too. Listen to yourself. People point out in the course of their conversations that they cross the line, that they push the borders, that they are rapscallions--in the most lovable of ways, of course.

"They call me a maverick," said a grizzled old mission doctor whom I met when I was seventeen. I still remember his pride in that word, maverick.  "I don't fit with the mission's expectations, so I went out on my own." He was now working in his office in a Thai three-story shophouse, having left accountability to his former church employers.

"We were the fearsome foursome," says another. "Oh, the mischief we got into, working at camp." The impression given is that they would still jump at the chance to get in league with others and push the boundaries.

"Yeah, I keep a bottle of wine in the pantry," says a someone who belongs to a teetotaling church, speaking in sotto voce with a wink and a smile.

"So the national park service wants me to pay $1500 for a photography permit now? Just watch me. Here's my latest photo from X national park, with a model in it," says an online friend. (Well, the national parks are going to find that rule to be difficult to enforce!)

"I know society thinks blah-blah-blah, but I do la-de-dah," someone else points out.

Look around you at the mall, at the post office, on bumper stickers, emblazoned on t-shirts, conveyed in art and music, proclaimed in the media, cited in stories at funerals. Over and over the message is given with a wink and pride, using a variety of phrases but always conveying the same message: "I operate outside the boundaries." "I am bad to the bone."

Bad. Outside the lines. Sneaky. Acting out some level of rebellion against whoever is perceived to be the authority.

In the years since my husband pointed out this strange little human proclivity, I have consciously listened for it, and noticed some commonalities. Sometimes the badness is overblown by the speaker. You chuckle inwardly, realizing that they are actually quite harmless. It's almost as humans are programmed to believe that their personal worth is evidenced by their individuality in doing something that breaks the rules. You aren't much if you don't strike out on your own, jump the fences, live free of authority in some manner small or large. We have a need to establish that we don't operate as society--or at least our microculture--expects.

Isn't that odd?

Don't you wonder what deeper human phenomenon these little comments reveal? The longer I've listened for them, the more they have seemed like pitiful little statements highlighting those times when we refuse to see the bigger picture, neglect the opportunities to live from a deeper principle, and indulge our own narcissistic tendencies.

[continued in Part 2]