In this post, I continue sharing my rememberings. Earlier, I told a story from my pre-adolescence.  The story that I tell you here took place when I was 20 years old:

“Dave, my most significant learnings in life, the events that have made the most positive difference in my life, have all come as a result of my failures.” These surprising words were passed along to me by my sociology professor and academic advisor at Grinnell College as I questioned why I’d received a grade of D on my midterm exam.

Dr. John Burma had greeted me with a broad smile as I arrived at his office and offered me this invitation: “I know why you’re here. Thanks for coming to see me. Let’s take a walk. I have a gift and a promise for you.” Dr. Burma shared an office so we proceeded down the hall and then entered a completely empty auditorium. In the balcony of that auditorium, as we sat side by side, Dr. Burma shared some difficult episodes from his professional life, the traumas that had become (as he put it) “terra firma for every future success.” He asked me to listen to his whispered admission: “Dave, I’ve learned practically nothing from my successes,” he explained quietly. “All of my learning has come from incidents like getting a D on a sociology exam.”

Truthfully, my professor’s stories of failure didn’t offer much comfort during that time of personal anguish. I was devastated! I had earned this grade in an early course, just after declaring sociology as my major. I’d figured that in a major, a student should get As and Bs. The department had few major students, and it was a tight-knit group, so I thought every one of the other students would know about my failure.  I was also afraid that my professor would think of me as not being capable of this university work.  I’d thought long and hard about this major and to be a failure at it, early on, undermined my self-confidence. Plus, I was still gaining confidence with the whole notion of having arrived at college in the first place, when my life path hadn’t always pointed that way.

I thought that I would soon be history at Grinnell College. Was Dr. Burma just giving me “a way out,” an invitation to move on?

Although I didn’t know it then, John Burma’s failure stories weren’t a way out; they were “a way in.” Over the almost 60 years since that hour of his truth telling, I’ve recalled this conversation many times.  Dr. Burma’s quiet moments with me have, more and more, filled a void of doubt in my heart. I’ve heard his words again and again.

With the passage of time, I’ve gratefully discovered for myself the truthfulness of John Burma’s stories. Without question, my most significant learnings have come from my failures. They’ve been my “ticket on and up” (John’s words once again). Repeatedly, rejected work applications led to better opportunities elsewhere. Disappointments that seemed so rough and raw in the moment brought feelings of satisfaction over time. And about that midterm grade of D: it led to my kicking rote learning out of my life and to my embracing my own process of learning.  Until that time, I think I believed that learning was about figuring out a scheme to memorize vast bits and stores of information.  Instead, I began to focus on the big ideas, rather than the details.  This way of learning also served me well in graduate school. Since John Burma told me the truth of his life, I’ve increasingly experienced the joy of being a learner.  And, I’ve been able to keep rejections in perspective and hold disappointments more gently.

As I was about to pull out of my auditorium seat, John Burma stopped me with these final words: “Dave, there is one more thing that I have to pass along to you this afternoon. I’ve given you a gift, and now I want to give you a promise. Here is my promise to you: I will always believe in you. Please always remember my promise to you.”

Well, Dr. Burma, I’ve never forgotten either the gift or the promise. As with the lessons of failure, your promise has become an integral part of who I am. I know that I am a product of my failures and your promise to believe in me.

*****

And so, how about you?  What is an experience from your life that seemed almost life-ending at the time, but with the passage of time you came to see as life-giving? In your life, who has told you his or her truth, a truth that was life changing for you? Who has given you a promise that helped you believe in yourself?

In the previous post, I spoke about remembering significant experiences from my life, especially those that have shaped or named who I am.  Here I recall a brief but powerful story of being on the cusp of adolescence and being heard for who I am.

Once upon a time, when I was about twelve years old, my life (outside of school, that is) was almost totally given over to activities that were related to Boy Scouts. And, because our scoutmaster, Harold White, believed that the way to transform boys into young men was through what he called “hardship practices,” the brave lads of Scout Troop 12 went on challenging campouts at least once a month throughout the entire year – even in the midst of the bleak mid-winter of the American Midwest.

I was very much the quiet fellow in those days. (I still think of myself as not very talkative.) Actually, back in those days except when I was playing basketball or baseball, I spoke only when asked a question. Yes, I was that silent. You might say: I was rather shy. I think that then, as now, I truly enjoyed listening more than speaking. About me, my mother would say something like: “David is just finding his voice, and in the meantime, he is listening with utmost care. The day will come when he will have a very strong voice, an encouraging voice. We’re trusting patiently.”

On an extremely cold, dark January night, camped by a frozen river where the snow was two feet deep, fourteen Troop 12 scouts cozied themselves inside sleeping bags spread across the floor of an enormous khaki-colored army surplus tent. I found myself in a somewhat isolated far corner, and prepared for sleep. But sleep was not to be the order of the evening. My tent mates wanted to talk. And talk and talk. And talk some more. The chatter (about girls, hot rod cars, and teachers’ dirty looks – in that order) went on for more than an hour. However, every fifteen minutes or so, Don would call over to my corner and request in a most genial fashion: “David, say a word.” When first asked, I called back with what I thought was a most clever retort. I said: “A word.” Chuckles all around. So, when asked a second and a third time, I replied in the same way: “A word.” However, as the time went on and I began to feel that my friend, Don, was simply trying to be clever himself, while all the while embarrassing me, I changed my response to: “Listener.”

This pre-adolescent bantering continued in this way until Scoutmaster White, who I’m sure actually took all this in with a big smile, declared sternly: “That’s it boys, all words will now cease. It’ll be quiet time throughout the night. And when you awake, may every word spoken be considerate and kind, and may you listen more deeply.”

I was always the first one up each daybreak on these camping outings. I helped Mr. White build the fire and get the pancakes going on the griddle. His first whispering to me on this bitterly cold morning was: “I heard the word you spoke last night: listener. The day will come when you grow into that word even more deeply. Those around you will see you coming and say to themselves:  Good, David is on his way. You’ll not say a word but everyone will know a careful listener is here, and be glad.”  On this morning, just the two of us huddled around the warmth of the campfire, I knew my Scoutmaster was on my side. He let me know that he saw and heard me…and I’ve grown into that person he named and valued.

And, what about you?  At an early age, who might have been an advocate for you?  Who let you know “I am heard and seen?’  And now, which young person’s side are you on?