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 Love My Place

My childhood home on Stephens Street was a poorly built track piece in the booming suburbs of the fifties. Ten miles from downtown and a few more from a farm town that would transition to little more than one of the states largest strip mall repositories over the next few decades.

Our place was one of the smallest, cheapest models in the neighborhood, with three bedrooms, one bath, a single garage — maybe a thousand square feet. The yard was never finished, maybe because of my mom’s scattered-ness and dad’s drinking. Who can say?

The place was defined by contradictions. It was home, my place of rest and protection. It was a mess of screaming fights, lonely fears, abuse and waiting for the next bad thing. I remember Mom would give us pajamas hot from the dryer on a winter night. I remember days without seeing my dad, not knowing if it was a blessing or a curse.

We moved in when I was four and stayed for about fourteen years. Moving came up a few times and I was terrorized. When I was nearing my last year of high school, the momentum increased. I made it clear that the family could move, but I was finding a way to finish school with my friends.

My childhood dream was that somehow I would live in the house forever. In the far future I’d be there, probably with a family of my own. I’m not sure where my parents and my brother went in the dreams, but they were gone. It was home, my home, and I wanted or needed no other.

The move happened soon after I graduated and the fragmentation of my family became its own version of a modern tragedy over the next decade leading to my parents’ eventual divorce. We may have been fortunate to get out when we did. I hear it is now within spitting distance of some of the worst crime and poverty in the metro area. It is the stuff that fills local news and idle conversations.

Connie and I married young. We went through the somewhat common series of rapid moves in our early years together — about an address change a year on average. In 1985 we made the move to owning our first home (actually, the bank owned it and we just got the privilege of paying for and taking care of it).  By this time we had two preschool-aged sons. We moved a few blocks in 1992 making sure to stay in the same school area for the kids’ sakes.

This new home, new for us, was built in the fifties and went through a major remodel in 1970. It was twice the size of our first place and twice the size of my childhood home. Within a few years we had reworked most of the interior. The kitchen took a few extra years, but we finally got it done. My wife worked to provide our own outdoor sanctuary by transforming the yard and gardens.

We live on Tulip Road, formerly a tulip farm. It is a solitary piece of road with about fifteen homes. Most people in town have never heard of it. It is the home our sons most identify with. It is the only home our grandkids know us in. it is the home both my wife and I have lived in longer than any other.

It will soon be twenty-two years that we have lived on Tulip Road. It is getting near twice as long as I lived in suburban home of my childhood.  According to any standardized accounting system this house experience far exceeds my childhood residence. More house, better organized and cared for and a far from perfect, yet more stable family.

But when I think of “home” I am still driven by my childish memories. I can quickly skim the bleak realities and ruminate on memories that may or may not be real. This house, the place I have lived longer than any other, the place that has truly provided refuge and strength, has an ongoing feeling that I can only describe as temporary. Not that I expect to leave soon.

I think it may be wrapped in the sense of childhood innocence and distance of memories. I somehow thought living on Stephens Street could last forever, maybe my first self-definition of heaven on earth.  Tulip Road has always been held with awareness of responsibility, my own limitations and knowing that there will be an end.

Occasionally when I am back near Stephens Street I’ll drive by the old house, maybe get out of the car and walk the street a bit. It looks so small and uncared for. I no longer have delusions of what life would have been if I had stayed there for what I thought would be forever. I am thankful for where I live and how my life has been shaped and guided over the years.

But I realize there may be a gift in the sense of idealized home that touched me all those years gone by. I may never sense it again. It may be unreal but it shaped me and it provides a bit of an idealized memory for moments when I need them.

And in unique ways, each home has shaped me and each continues to be a part of defining who I am.

May God have mercy on us all.

also: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/i-love-my-place/article/from-stephens-street-to-tulip-road

Stephens Street house over my left shoulder.

Really, I saw it

You should’a seen it! Mrs. Dobbins

slammed the brakes, she said

the “S” word, I heard it. My lunchbox

broke and my sandwich

got squished, bologna’s my favorite.

Books were flying everywhere. Kids were

screaming, crying. There was

blood on Stevie’s face, I couldn’t

tell where it came from. All ‘cause

that stupid dog ran in front of

the bus. Best thing is I was sitting

up front, close enough to see

everything, even his eyes pop out!

Really, I saw it, they popped right out.

Lessons Learned

After two successful weeks on Romper Room (local franchise of the national TV pre-school), I entered first grade at Lynch View Elementary in September of 1960, as there was no public kindergarten in our area. Following high school I went to community college and then a state school to finish my degree.

Three months after graduating from college I was teaching in an elementary school in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Over the years I have been an involved parent and community member (including a failed school board run), taught at virtually every level from pre- to elementary to middle to high school, university, grad school and community education, and now I’m doing a bit of substitute teaching.

All of this leaves me with observations, strong opinions, respect, hopes, concerns and questions. Here is a random sampling of my thoughts surrounding schools and education.

1.  There’s no such thing as compulsory education.

To put it simply, you can’t make anyone learn anything. You can build buildings, train and hire staff, set curriculum, establish programs and force attendance. But you can’t make anyone learn.  I used to say that all adult learning is self-learning. But I have adjusted my view to say that all learning is self-learning. You can create opportunities for learning; you do things that make learning easier or more interesting. You can inform people of the values of learning and the dangers of not learning. At some point, each individual will make a choice when it comes to actual learning. I have watched kids sit in a daze for an hour and a half more content to exist in a near state of nothingness than to make an effort to participate in learning.

2.  Some stereotypes are deserved.

I was recently in a high school history class being taught by a basketball coach. She was talking about the American political system and she referred to a fact in the federal election system related to presidential elections. She said a change happened around 1970. I cringed and looked it up. It was closer to 1800, which was the time I was thinking. I waited until class was over, thanked her for the time of being an observer in her room and mentioned she might want to check the facts in question. She gave me a not-too-subtle look letting me know she was the teacher and implying my day was long past. I hope she’s a good coach.

3. There is no level playing field.

Some kids are naturally smarter. Some have more self-determination. Some are easier to like and thereby get more attention or better grades. Some are hard to like and easy to ignore. Some have great parents and eat breakfast everyday. Some are hungry to learn or driven by the sense of accomplishment. Some stay up all night playing video games or listening to fighting adults. I challenge you to find an easy way to motivate and evaluate this small sample of the realities lived out in student’s lives in most any school setting.

4. School is as much about socialization than education.

Class sizes, schedule constraints, standardized testing and ever-fluctuating government regulation add to varied levels of interest, ability and participation and thereby impact learning.  I watch kids in and out of the classrooms. From playgrounds to the campus commons, students take advantage of loose supervision to create, or at least discover, their emerging sense of community. Students have their methods of subverting teacher’s expectations and control. Conversations, whispers, looks and other creative forms of communication are discovered by each new generation of students.  For better or worse, students are living into what they will become, especially in how they relate to others and live in community.

5. Grades are a conundrum.

Grades may do more to discourage learning than they do to encourage it. Grades often encourage learning and working a system more than mastering a subject. Grades ultimately tell how a specific teacher judges a singular student in a chosen moment. Period.

6. Good teachers are good teachers.

I do think teachers make a difference. Caring deeply makes a difference. Kids need it and know when it is real. Teachers who are self-aware and mature with a mixture of academic competence create a classroom that sets the best baseline for students to become interested in and open to learning.  I will wrap up with memories of teachers who made a difference in my education, but much more in my life.

Mrs. Jones was my second grade teacher. She may have been tuned into the troubles I was experiencing on the home front. I remember her pulling me aside for brief conversations and the day she gave me a tropical fish to take home. I guess she knew we had an aquarium.

In upper elementary (we did not have middle or junior high school), there was Mr. Meyer and Mr. Barker. Mr. Meyer was the cool art teacher. He was single (cool) and his parents owned a (cool) drive in theater. He drove cool cars, had a cool haircut and wore cool clothes. But he was much more than image. He had a bit of aloofness toward the system and others’ expectations. He treated us like something more than little kids or simply students.

Mr. Barker taught eighth grade U.S. history, still my favorite class and subject. I remember the day he stood on his desk kicking books to the floor and imitating Mussolini for us. I was transfixed. He and I would talk of presidents from past days and events that shaped our heritage. He was fascinating, larger than life.

Mr. Lamb was our high school speech teacher. He had a reputation on the state and national level for the quality of students he coached in speech and debate competitions. I was not one of those students. I hung around with speech kids because I liked them and because I loved his classes. Often the hour would be filled with random stories about life and of far-ranging people and situations. Conversations with Mr. Lamb were rich, always about much more than the surface subject.

Miss Vincent was the other major influence in my high school days. She taught my freshman algebra class. It was not a class I liked. To be honest it was a brutal struggle. I do not know how or why but we stayed connected after I finished her class. We’d touch base when I would walk by her room or passing in the halls, lunchroom or some other school setting. I never excelled in algebra or any math that followed, but I valued the connection with her, the support she extended and the memories that still encourage me.

My advisor in college was Dr. Ferguson. There were stories of women who would leave her office crying. She would talk of needing to be tough to build a career and that she wanted to get rid of those who were not committed. And this was in elementary education. Once I got past her initial screening we developed a sense of trust and respect. She was a great support in completing my education and launching my career.

Observing what happens in school fascinates me. I am aware of how deeply the people and experiences of my school days have shaped me. I am intrigued to watch my grandkids make their way through the system and their parents support them along the way. I appreciate the relationships I have developed in schools as a student, a teacher and in other roles over so many years. And I hope I am still helping make schools something more, something better, in my corner of the world.

May God have mercy on us all.

also: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/schooled/article/lessons-learned

I read the news today -- oh, boy…

So said the Beatles a few years back.

In theory the news is about being informed, becoming aware through gaining a sense of what is happening and possibly shaping one’s life in response.

I remember a time when news was easy. Radio was the closest to being an “in the moment” news source. You could get half hour updates with occasional emergency reports. Television gave us a couple of half hours at dinner and bedtime with a bit more depth. The paper would arrive the next day with more details, including sports scores and game details. Magazines would eventually arrive weekly or monthly as scheduled.

These days it all comes at warp speed and I am pressed to deal with the privilege and responsibility of choosing the news I tune into. There is now an unending number of online sources I touch base with, some by my choosing and others at the nudging of friends. Occasionally I jump on some digital trail that takes me places that rarely seem connected to the beginning.

There have long been discussions about the slant of each source and the limitations of selected medium. My honest evaluation begs the question, “How much do I choose my news to support my beliefs and values or am I trying to gain, and share, a deep and diverse understanding of the what has been, is and possibly might be?”

I have a small following of people who look to me for suggestions and connections. I recommend and they read. I connect people with what they see as cutting edge or a new perspective.   A friend once called me a “maven.” People ask me to add others to my “list.” I don’t have a list. Each time I send stuff around, I think about who might be interested. It is inefficient and I doubt I’ll turn it into a moneymaker any time soon.  I trust I am usually making my best effort to bring light to cultural moments and forward leanings, hear voices outside the usual circle and push toward understanding new possibilities.  Some consider my passing along info is a sign of automatic support. Not true. I hope I am more interested in sparking ideas than pushing my singular agenda.

The worst case is when things devolve into petty, tit-for-tat arguments. This invariably happens when either 1) I am trying to encourage (that’s the nice way to say it) others to see and agree with my perspective more than honestly encouraging thinking and dialogue or 2) people take things the wrong way (per my determination).  My best hope to is that I am getting ideas out and encouraging thinking and conversations.

I imagine I will continue my practice of skimming, sifting and passing along news items to those who have expressed interest. If there is power in this process, it is first that I keep learning and hopefully growing. Second, it may be the potential of influence. The act of encouraging others to consider and possibly change can have impact that transcends a singular relationship or specific setting.

May God have mercy on us all.

foalso: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/news-to-me/article/i-read-the-news-today-oh-boy

Caught in the middle

My mom’s life mission was to rescue those left out. If you were marginalized, ignored, mistreated, in crisis, new to the area, lost, lonely or in any other way an outsider, she wanted to help. She would find you in a crowd, at an event, walking the neighborhood, while shopping, at the park or wherever. I think you get the idea.

At first meeting, she would invite you to over for a meal or a chat or, better yet, to some gathering, usually one she was hosting. And she would keep inviting. And if you didn’t show up, she’d find you and be with you on your own turf.  The stories of my mom’s caring are legendary and the grateful recipients of her kindness are many.

My Dad relished being an outsider and wondered why anyone would want to “join that stupid club” or organization. From his perspective, joining in was the same as giving yourself over to the system. And the system was bad. Leadership was almost always corrupt and who would want to trust their future to people who were empty-headed, arrogant, evil or foolish — and in many cases, all four of the above?  In any situation, he knew what the games were, but refused to play, a straight shooter all the way. His attitude may have been rooted in deep distrust that grew during a childhood now clouded in memories long forgotten.

My Dad has been gone almost seventeen years, but the better part of his reputation still holds. He was trusted and respected by friends and business associates. Others knew his word was gold. If he promised it would happen, no extensions or excuses would be forthcoming — the deal was as good as done. He made agreements with individuals, not companies or organizations. Plans were set, and commitments fulfilled.

And me, I’ve spent much of my life living this tension in my own way. I resonate with my mother’s desire to help those who are, for whatever reason, overlooked or abused. And with my dad, I am quick to see the flaws in systems and leaders — a big stew of nature and nurture.

Much of my adult life has found me in roles where I have been able to open doors for inadvertently overlooked or intentionally excluded people, and I sense this is a reflection of the best of my mom in me. I have helped people gain access to new ways to further careers or shape life paths. There is deep satisfaction in seeing someone beat the odds or prove others wrong. I believe I have been gifted with insight or intuition that helps me see deeper potential and encourage it to surface.

I have also lived in a love-hate relationship with organizations. Organizations have given me the opportunity to live my deeper convictions and commitments. But I often find myself hitting my head against the wall. I can’t tolerate perfunctory rules. I am mostly unable to ignore incompetence. I shut down when encountering self-serving, egotistical leadership. 

For things to happen, people must somehow become a team, tribe, club, business, non-profit or other form of organization. And as soon as that system is established, it will show the signs of becoming self-serving and, possibly, corrupt.  Some are simply gifted with an ability to overlook situations that step up my race toward some future heart health incident.

Another perplexing piece of this puzzle is the contradiction of my values and experiences. At times I must admit I am helping people gain access to or be elevated within systems that I distrust. Yes, you might want to read that again. At times I have helped people gain ground in settings within which I question the health of the organization.

In all honesty, I think my Dad was more of an institutional joiner than my Mom. Mom could take or leave the structure, cared very little for politics and was truly focused on helping people. If the organization helped people, she’d go along with it in spite of internal imperfections. Dad worked in and with systems of business, associations and government. He may have more accurately been seen as one who felt ostracized, but wanted to find a way in. The only problem was that no organization lived up to his standards.

Belonging is deeply rooted within. The desire to be accepted, included, valued and ultimately loved is human. The realities of belonging are complicated. Think of the stories you have heard, or lived, in relation to the complexities of being a part of an extended family.

I do not blame my parents for the ways in which I have struggled with being a part of organizations, systems and groupings. I appreciate what I learned from them along the way. I imagine I will continue to struggle with the tension of belonging in both my current context and new opportunities that I will discover in the future.

I need others. The mess we create in trying to do this life stuff together frustrates me. But I have yet to find a better option.

My God have mercy on us all.

also catapult magazine:  https://www.catapultmagazine.com/belonging/article/caught-in-the-middle

Beyond my ability

As a child I was never able to color within the lines, cut a decent shape with scissors or make the glue only cover the intended area. Making model cars was a favorite activity of my neighborhood friends. Mine never looked anything like the box cover.  My school art projects were disasters. Whatever it was I made as a gift for my parents resulted in awkward moments. Either they had to ask what is was or fake appreciation for what they held, but didn’t understand.

As for my family, my Mom dabbled with painting and other artistic endeavors. She an eye and the touch. I struggled with an unsatisfied eye; I could see it, but never create it.  Both of my sons have exceptional artistic talents. My oldest son paints, sketches, sculpts and more. He does custom tattoo work, taking ideas and images and creating something beyond expectations. My younger son dabbles in graffiti art having created a wall on his garage that continues to amaze as he covers one great piece with another.

Even from a young age, there has been something in me that wanted to create — to take what is within and make something, something that would express that which stirs deep within.  I had a poem published in a primary school anthology (and it was not one in which every student had a piece included). In eighth grade we wrote autobiographies and I mentioned wanting to write as a possible future career. The desire lay dormant until I stumbled into writing as a young adult. 

In the late 70s, I was a camp director and was asked to write a training piece for the national journal. The piece got published and something clicked. I was asked to write another piece, and then another.  I loved the validation that came from seeing my ideas become print and get “out there.” Soon I was looking for other places to get published. I started with training-focused pieces and soon shifted to leadership, satire and op-ed pieces.

Satire became my primary vehicle for a few years. Growing up in my family provided great fodder for snarky insights into organizations and relationships. I found ways to take basic ideas and re-craft them for numerous settings.

I made a few bucks here and there and set a goal of getting at least one piece published each year. I wrote for national journals and some local publications. I made a list of publications that I wanted to work with. I learned to live with rejection letters. And I learned how quickly the buzz of publication faded.

I was writing on assignment for a local magazine when I got a call from the editor. Could I come by and pick up my kill fee? “My what?” I asked. Kill fee. They had decided to go another way with the story and no longer needed my work. I picked up the envelope a couple of days later.

I waited until I was in my car to open it, and then started to laugh. The check not to print my work was bigger than any I had received to date for a published piece. I wanted to go back in the office and ask if there was anything else they’d like me to write for them not to print.

A landmark was the day an editor introduced me as a humorist. Mark Twain and Garrison Keilor are humorists. I was not about to consider myself their peer, but was energized to be a part of their writers’ community.

I later expanded into short fiction, poetry and essays. I won a few local contests and the bug kept me going. Anytime I have been called a writer, even occasionally a poet, it fuels my drive.

I have been writing for over 35 years now. I know my style. I took little more than required writing classes in my schooling. I know I want to have my voice, a more casual, personal tone. I do not want to come off as using vocabulary to somehow prove educational or academic superiority. I know at times my stuff is weak and mangled. At times I avoid an editing process that feels endless to me and send too quickly.

I have a sense of deep gratification when my words connect with others stories, feelings and hopes. There is something magical about working alone digging within to produce something that will eventually be out there for others — others who hear my stories in their own way, adding or shifting meaning beyond my ability to imagine.

May God have mercy on us all.

also: https://www.catapultmagazine.com/making-art/article/beyond-my-ability