How JobShift Helped Me Survive

Following is my piece in the High Calling series Best Business Books.

In 1996 my family faced multiple—nearly overwhelming—crises that included me leaving a long-term stable job in a ministry setting. No big deal, just the loss of job, church, friends, and a deep-rooted support system.

One challenge involved helping family members make it through each new day. Another was the added pressure of an employment search. Oh, and because of the depth of our stress, I committed to not moving. I feared moving for work might become a final tipping point. I hoped that somehow holding place would provide a bit of hope that everything hadn’t been lost, a possible place to build from going forward.

Rare was the day I had energy and excitement about the search process.

Read the rest of my story at the High Calling: http://www.thehighcalling.org/work/best-books-business-how-jobshift-helped-me-survive#.VCBxAitdU01

I’ve been here before

another hotel and I realize

I’ve been here before

two, three times maybe four

to Dallas, not this hotel

but only for conferences

airports, shuttles, hotels,

meetings, USA Today, networking,

meals and goodbye

there were two times

I got away

to see the grassy knoll,

and those making a living

keeping conspiracies alive

same with

Orlando, Vail and Chicago

and others I can’t recall

there was the time  I visited the Nelson’s

and went to Wrigley with Mark to see the

Cubs play the Tigers

we sat down the third base line

on Father’s Day, without  any of our kids

oh, and also Atlanta,

except for the trip with Kyle

to the 2000 All Star game

the year he graduated and I

had won the radio contest

I missed a week of advent

I missed a week of advent

as if it disappeared

or maybe never happened

I was in another place

with decorations and

carols all around

and greetings of cheer

from nice, new people

friendly, but unfamiliar

I sat in hotels, meetings and planes

that little convinced my heart or

soul of the soon coming day

I have returned home  

bearing an unseen weight

of responsibilities and

expectations with slight chance

I’ll catch up

or be caught up

advent, again

only a fool

would retell a story

that resists a change

that the world adores

only a fool

would think life

might breath anew

on a dreary, winter morning

only a fool

would reach

for faith and hope

again and again and again

Advent writing project

check out the advent writing project at "wide open spaces" http://charitysingleton.blogspot.com/2011/11/week-1-day-2-advent-writing-project.html

some say it’s easy

some say it’s easy,

natural, you can’t stop it

“involuntary” droned  

the science teacher

some days

effort overwhelms

crushes my ribs

and empties my lungs

some times it takes more

much more

an act of tenacious will

a choice to continue

August Evening

it's national poetry day so i'm re-posting one of my favorites. 

August Evening

sitting next to Connie
old, hard, wooden stadium benches
red paint, chipped, gouged and peeling
she puts on her sweater
I put on my sweatshirt

band plays hits of some artist
we know little of and care less for
overbearing 80's synthesizer
annoys me
she doesn't seem to notice or care

beyond the stage I watch carnival rides
loop, spin and race into the evening
colored lights intensify
sky drifts to darkness

near full moon glows above the trees
growing smaller as it brightens
yellow to orange to almost white

we come to the fair almost every year
it's something we do
we learned this spring she has cancer
treatment, fear, hope shadow our days

we talk a bit, decide to leave
i am ready, but hesitate
how many more times we will go to the fair

merit award 2007 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest

I think it happened something like this… #6 - Boredom

#6 - Boredom

The guys grew tired of record stores, sporting goods, and watching girls. We ended up in a stationary shop. Wandered while the lone clerk reluctantly followed. I picked up a stapler, wove through the shelves, turned a corner, slid it behind some envelopes, and bolted.

The clerk met us at the exit. “I think you forgot to pay for that stapler.”

“What stapler?”

“The one you picked up.”

“You accusing us of stealing? Go ahead. Call the cops.” We smirked, shrugged, offered up our empty pockets.

He feigned looking, backed off. “Get out. Don’t come back!”

We laughed and walked away.

I think it happened something like this… #5 - Russell

Russell

His puffy red face and misshapen mouth were the result of beatings and non-existent teeth. 

He collected bottles and scavenged garbage while mumbling threats to imagined people. He’d pedal fast, bent over the frame of his rusty, crooked bike. Kids would chase and taunt, but never really tried to catch him. Nobody wanted the game to end.

We heard rumors that he lived in a shack near the market. Some older kids bragged to a wide-eyed audience that they sure showed him. “We broke in and trashed the bum’s place.”

I stayed clear of Russell, out of fear or pity.

Thirty-five

9.14.74 Connie & I were married. I wrote this poem in honor of our 35th anniversary 9.14.09. I'm re-posting it today, our 37th.

Thirty-five

Sometimes I wasn’t sure
we’d make it
sometimes I wasn’t sure
I wanted to

When we started
I assumed we’d get here
expected us to stay together
but had no clue what was ahead
or what it would take

It’s not a milestone,
like fifty
but well past twenty-five
people notice twenty-five and fifty
appears thirty-five
Iis no big deal,
at least
according to public opinion,


Memories made
and more forgotten
seasons of devotion
and trials of anxiety
grace remembered
and offenses forgiven
and much forgiven again

It is the choice we made
the path we’ve followed
and I would choose it again
I think I do
I hope we do
everyday

April Fool’s Day

I am re-posting this poem during this our anniversary (37th on 9.14) week. 

Someone should make a law
That we hold all weddings on April 1st
Because only fools would make
Those promises

Promises to
Put another person first and
Stick with them
No matter what happens

To love
To sacrificially give
All because of a promise;
It’s almost un-American

There are too many examples
Of failure and despair
Outsiders mock it,
Rationalize, and degrade it

Some lie through their teeth
They make the hollow promises
For convenience
To get what they want

But some, the true fools,
Still make the promises
Maybe their youthful zeal
Blinds them to what’s ahead

And some, more foolish yet,
Keep their promises
Not because it’s easy
Or because they meet all expectations

But true fools believe the promises matter
That love cannot be forced
That it’s sometimes found
By two fools

Who learn to laugh together

I think it happened something like this… #4 - Until Morning

Until Morning

On the best summer days, we’d play with friends all day and sleep outside at night. You might get to have one friend over. Maybe two.

We’d wait for lights to dim and our parents to sleep. The big maple at the end of the block was our gathering place. We whispered jokes and lies in the dark. Coughs stifled laughter. We’d light and flick matches; in later years, we smoked. Sometimes Denny would strip naked and run around the street.

At the sight of a house light or sound of a car, we scattered to our sleeping bags until morning.

I think it happened something like this… #3 - Clyde

We knew safe territory. Cut troughs, trails in the woods and trees to climb. There were shacks in forgotten pastures, as if put there for us.

And we knew the places to avoid. Crabby old people or reactive young parents. Most frightening was the house where Clyde lived. He was a few years older than us and strong beyond unbelief. Everybody called him retarded. It was all we knew. He’d yell and chase. Attack at his little brother’s command.

We never saw him at school. He disappeared by the time we hit high school. No one knew where. No one asked.

I think it happened something like this… #2 - A Wad of Bills

Story #2 in a series of 6 fiction 101entries (a story in 101 words or less) exploring growing up in the '60.

A Wad of Bills

Donny showed us the wad of bills, lots of bills. We followed him to the drug store lunch counter. Burgers, fries and sodas. Cherry for me. Whatever we wanted. He sweet-talked the waitress. She was maybe sixteen, but to us she was a woman. He offered to buy her presents. She refused. Time wore on and someone mentioned getting home for dinner. Donny promised more tomorrow.

After school, we anxiously waited for Donny, dreaming. Doug arrived. “Donny’s dead. He took that money from his dad’s wallet. He’s grounded forever.”

After mumbling and a few shrugs, we started a ball game instead.

I think it happened something like this… I Wonder (1 of 6)

This is the first in a series of stories based on memories of growing up in the 60’s. Each story is 101 words or less.

I wonder

I wonder what stuff in my memory is more story than fact. Like Johnny from Sunday school, who swallowed his gum and choked to death.

It happened at the grocery store. In my memory, he was wearing a navy blue suit with short pants, because that’s what he wore to church. I was always glad I never had to wear short suits. He was with his grandparents, so his parents didn’t see him go.

I think we would have gone to the same school. We might have been in class together, maybe even sat next to each other, but we didn’t.

a poem for my dad

My dad died on 8.1.97. I wrote this poem a decade later. I'm re-posting it on this day of memories and missing.

August 1, 2007

ten years gone

a decade

August 1, 1997

we were over the mountains at a hotel

waiting to get the kids from camp

I was planning to visit the next week

got the call

you were gone

all the things you don’t know

within days, OK a few months

I had a new job and car

Michael moved out (was in foster care)

we would have talked and you would have cared

I can’t believe you don’t know

I imagine you in your family room

sitting in your chair

(it’s upstairs in our guest room now)

your television and sound system

(big screens and theater sound are the rage,

I know you’d love it)

you’d put in some action movie

tell me “listen to this”

sound would overwhelm the room

it would be impressive

I want to hear you rant about the government

and the unending stupidity of people

I want to play Upwords

just the two of us

you keeping score

for little reason

because you would win

again

Sadie

Mr. Parker gave us Sadie. She was brown-red with white flecks. Her tail and tongue flapped when she ran. She followed me to school and slept with me every night.

One afternoon, Billy, the biggest kid around, threw a punch at me. Sadie lunged, pressing her teeth on his neck as a deep growl escaped her throat. Billy squirmed loose and took off. I ran home to Mom, bawling, gasping for words of explanation. Sadie was protecting me.

Mom was sitting on my bed, not Sadie, in the morning. “I’m sorry. Dad took her to the pound. She won’t be back.”

My Best Stuff

I’d always wanted to do stand-up. My family was funny. Dad was so quick; his words would be in the next county before the cousins got the joke.

This was my moment. I had an audience, the coveted captive kind.  They were laughing, crying and choking. Everything I said was killer, even the words that slurred worked.

I used my best stuff. The teenage couple “lost” in the woods. A priest, a pastor and  a rabbi go fishing.

Then she cut me off. “The anesthesia will wear off in a few minutes. You can have visitors in an hour or so.”

Back of the Bus

We giggled holding hands on the bus in fourth grade. Our first dance was at the seventh grade sock-hop. In tenth grade, I surprised him with a kiss in the library. We said a rushed goodbye on graduation night. Lost contact until the ten-year reunion, both married with kids. At the twentieth, he sobbed, telling me of his divorce. The thirtieth, I unloaded the grief of my husband’s cancer. The fortieth coincided with our sixth anniversary and I felt like a kid again, holding his hand and dancing. Duty and habit led me to the fiftieth, without him, I left early.

Teach your children well

I live in something of a generational limbo. My birth and life experiences place me squarely with the Boomers. The 60s cultural upheaval — an unpopular war, home front riots and the bloody killing of national leaders — hovered over my school days. Fears of being drafted were driven by the very uncertain political landscape. Music seemed to be the net that drew us together, provided occasional escapes and now lingers in fond memories. Most of my friends were fawning (if not fainting) over the Beatles, Stones or the ever-present AM radio pop sounds. I was drawn to some of the fringe stuff, including a strange mix of FM radio with its new folk, acid rock and early country rock. Influences of delta blues and gospel filled my days, as well as of forerunners of punk and alt-whatever.

My growing up was also shaped by years in a conservative, if not strict fundamentalist, church family. In my later teen years I was drawn to the edges of the “Jesus People” movement. A summer working at a church connected camp led to more summers, and eventually I was “in the ministry.”  For over 30 years, I have worked in ministry roles, now in a more moderate main-line setting, and I’ve focused on coordinating and mentoring young adults. It began when I was “one of them” and has continued through numerous life stages and ages. Now I am older than most of the parents of the people I work with.  This work has afforded me something of a front row seat to observe the rapid shifts in young adult culture as I spend most of my waking hours with those in their 20s.

I’ve listened to employers, parents and others express frustrations over the problems of current young adults, including entitlement, self-esteem overload and generally not getting it. While I share many of the observations of traits that seem to mark the current young adult population, I generally have a somewhat different perspective.

The character of any young adult generation is determined more by cultural and social context than by masses of children rising up and proclaiming some new way of being.  Face it: each generation is shaped by those who went before. The weight of cultural happenings, parenting styles, educational systems and new technologies are interpreted and accessed, or not, by values. And those values will filter into what kids learn, eventually manifesting in how they live.  If one generation does not like what another is becoming (especially as they move into adulthood), they have waited too long to make a difference. Generations are shaped in the days of growing up. And generations reflect the values of those before them in a never-ending stream — not the lofty values spoken of when there’s an audience, but the lived the values that seep into lives and emerge in practice.

Those of my generation might benefit from understanding that not only has the world changed, it is on a path of ongoing rapid change.  To prepare young people to enter the adult world in a similar way to how we did it is bankrupt. That single-track, career-first, corporate loyalty world is long gone and highly unlikely to return. We have allowed or encouraged success, accomplishment and affluence to guide our lives for decades. My life among young adults reveals a shifting of some of essential life values. Community and relationships are beginning to drive choices as much as climbing the corporate ladder.

Whether the world has become smaller or flatter will be debated long into the future. But by spending my days — and often long days — within a world of twentysomethings, I find hope in their efforts to live life more holistically and realistically driven by deeper values than societal pressures. The best hope is that we will all gain an understanding of the times and a commitment to make the best of life in the moments we share across generations.

http://www.catapultmagazine.com/my-generation/article/teach-your-children-well