There are some lines in the blessing-poem, “I AM NOT NEEDED THERE … FIRE, GIVE ME FIRE!” by Clarissa Pinkola Estés that fit me perfectly: “There are enough scholars… I am not needed there” and “There are so many beautiful singers… I am not needed there either…”.  Like this poet, there are so many life stations where I’m not needed, or more to the point, for which I am not suited: novelist, athlete, scientist, musician, architect, technician, physician, artisan, and others. If I were completing a talent survey, I’d be checking “no” quite often. The experience would be humbling, to say the least.

Dr. E, as she wishes to be known, shares many of the stations of life where she is not needed, and then brilliantly describes the activity of “stone sharpening” that brings her alive. With great precision, she describes her gift.

Through her blessing-poem, Dr. E has invited me to ask of myself: What is the gift that is mine to give? With a bit more precision, I ask these two questions of myself:

1.                         What am I genuinely passionate about, at this very time in my life?

2.                         And, therefore, where am I needed just because of who I am?  

I’ve always been a good listener. I’ve never been one who was eager to make a point, or have my say. I listen carefully, and I hope, thoughtfully. It seems to me that attentive listening is something that the world needs now. That kind of listener is who I am; so probably, I am needed there.  Also, I am an enthusiastic person. Once, someone posted a sign outside my office door that announced: “Alert! David sometimes erupts into sudden bursts of enthusiasm. Beware!” Although some people may see these two qualities or gifts as quite a contrast, they both seem to live alongside in me.

However, there is also one other response yearning to be expressed. Without a doubt, I am an optimist, and probably, an idealist. My wife, Karen, once gave me a cap that declares on its front: “Optimism Can Take You Anywhere.” It certainly can! And, therefore, I think that I was born to be an encourager. I can’t not encourage others; I’m always optimistic about their potential. The role model for my writing, Carl Sandburg, is known to have told his best friends: “I may keep this boyheart of mine… I am an idealist.” Me too! And so, I am a deep listener, an enthusiastic person, an optimist, and an encourager. I feel that these are the gifts that are mine to give.

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How about you: What are the gifts that you have to give?

I have long been enamored with an African tale about unique identity, which speaks to my wondering from the previous post about why authenticity is thought of by many folks to be reserved for the elderly.

Instead, this story asks us to consider the possibility that we’re always – no matter what our age – invited to fully live our unique identities, to sing our true songs. At all stages of life, we’re always able to be who we are.   

There is a tribe in Africa where a child’s birth is considered to be that moment when the mother first knows that she wants a child. At that time, the mother goes into the wilderness, sits under a tree, and listens carefully for the song of the child who wants to come. She then returns to her village and teaches the song to the man who will become the child’s father.  As they make love to conceive this child, they together also sing the child’s song to invite him or her into the world.

When the child is born, the midwives sing the child’s song to welcome it.  The community also sings the child’s song in celebration. The child’s song is sung often as he or she makes their way to adulthood – for example at times of passage such as initiation into adulthood or marriage or death.  The child’s song is also sung to honor her for wonderful acts, or to console him, or even if the person commits an anti-social act against another or the community. Everyone knows that such anti-social behavior or crime represents a straying from one’s true identity.  So, punishment is not called for at the time of a problem. Rather, singing the person his or her song brings the child home.

What is my song? What is my truest nature? When am I able to hear my song?

On the occasion of a recent birthday, as I was expressing concern about my advancement in years, a friend declared: “David, don’t fret about your age, the best is yet to come. These are the years when we’re called to sing our true songs.”

Puzzled, I asked what he meant. My friend, then fifteen years my senior, went on to explain: “During our earlier years, we may not be involved in an occupation that is connected to our deepest heart, or one that is related to our most fundamental life interests. Due to a wide range of circumstances in our midlife, we may simply be engaged in earning a living, not living out our true calling. Now, however, in our elder years, we are truly able to just be ourselves. Hopefully, with a little more distance from the constant need to earn as much money, we can be much, much closer to our true identity.”

My initial take on my friend’s point of view was a cautious acceptance and tentative agreement. Of course, I thought, once we’re into our seventies and hopefully no longer needing to scramble for success or financially provide for family, we can more freely be our true selves. We might be more precisely who we were always meant to be. Role and soul are reunited and realigned. The idea made sense to me.

However, with the passage of time, I’ve become more cautious and uncertain about my friend’s “true songs claim.” I’m now wondering: why is authenticity thought to be reserved only for the elders among us?  Aren’t we always invited to be our true selves – even when pressed by external conditions and societal demands? Isn’t true identity seen in some of us regardless of our age? My friend’s claim makes less sense now.  

No matter your age, how are you trying to bring your authentic self

to your roles and relationships?

Birthday Snapshot

I will soon celebrate my birthday.  Most years on this late April date, I find myself in a thoughtful, contemplative mood.  For me, a birthday is a time of taking stock: Just who have I become at this age and stage of my life? What’s going on for me at this exact moment? It’s time for a snapshot.

My birthday season is not a time of remembering; reminiscence lives in the quiet of my wintertime. Nor is it a time of thinking out the future.  For the most part, I reserve looking ahead for the abundant summertime.

This year’s birthday snapshot reveals an older gent who is content and most often, at ease. The words of William James could readily be the caption under my photo this year:

I am done with great things and big plans, great institutions and big success. I am for those tiny, invisible loving human forces that work from individual to individual….

I’m no longer defined by any institution or any lofty goal or achievement I’ve set my eye upon.  Instead, this “magic time” surrounding my birthday is a time when I am most likely my true self.

The luminosity of the “magic time” provides photographers and cinematographers the final few minutes for the best picture taking/making. For me at age 78, this is a time of great lighting. I am able to see myself – and others around me – with clarity. For sure, I am a quite legitimate “old guy.” That descriptor feels good to me. I own that term proudly.

This is a springtime of knowing who I am and knowing who I am not.  It’s a time of better understanding those enduring qualities that make up who I am.  In this time of my birthday, my sight is clear; my knowing feels keen and sure.

Northern Lights, Fairbanks, Alaska
Photo by Dirk Lummerzheim.

With this story, I conclude my winter remembrances. Over this winter, I passed considerable time in the Writing House up behind our home in Central Oregon. I have found myself recalling places and people that have brought me home to myself. The story I tell you here is one of my most cherished homecoming tales. Although it occurred more than a few years ago, I remember the celebration as if it happened last evening:

The house at 1350 Viewpointe Drive in Fairbanks, Alaska, was ordinary in one sense. It was sort of a tract home, but it was the first home we owned together.  However, it was far from ordinary in another sense. It was high on a hill just north of Fairbanks and looked out on the Alaska Range, including the mountain that the Alaska Native peoples call “the Great One, Denali,” known by others as Mt. McKinley. Situated above the ice fog in winter, we looked out on clear skies during the few daylight hours.  In the summer, we were able to do all of the gardening we desired in a series of terraces that cascaded down to the street.  The extra hours of summer light in the land of the Midnight Sun also gave our garden a big boost.

In addition to our home’s situation, our lives there were blessed from the start. At the time, I was the principal of the downtown pubic school, Denali Elementary.  I already knew from experience that the students, teachers, parents, and neighbors associated with that school were quite special; however, on moving day I learned how spectacularly special they were.

All during our late October move-in day, the teachers and parents from our school ferried furniture and clothing from the house we’d been caring for to our new, real home. And then, after the last truckload of goods arrived at our front door, the parents and teachers gathered in the kitchen, offering a special potluck meal for all of us.

But the best was yet to come. One of our Alaska Native teachers, Kathleen, told us to get our caps and jackets and come outside.  As we gathered in the dark on the front lawn on that early winter night, she told us:  “Look up! The spirits are showering a blessing on this house.  The auroras are blessing this home and us all. And right in the midst of a full moon!”

Sure enough, we were totally spellbound. The northern lights were even more magnificent that usual. The greens and pinks, the glowing whites were more dazzling than I’d ever seen and all of us watched with genuine awe. But what was most unusual was the direction that the auroras were traveling. Usually, we saw them in intermittent waves, high up in the sky or even toward the horizon.

This time, on this night, we watched an aurora shower. The northern lights were raining down on us. And it seemed to us all that the northern lights “rain” was falling directly on our house. Kathleen called out to all of us: “The spirits are blessing David and Karen’s home!” She went on to whisper: “If we’re real quiet, we’ll be able to hear the auroras.”

Well, I’m sure that our Alaska Native parents and teachers were the only ones to actually hear the northern lights. I’ve always felt that their way of knowing is more well developed than is mine. Finally, we were told: “The spirits wish you peace.”

And so it was, that modest house at 1350 Viewpointe Drive became a peaceful place. It was a magnificent and happy place for Karen and me. We believe that was so because the northern lights blessed our home that night.

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How about you?  When you think back on your favorite home, where was it? And, what made it so special for you? What particular special occasion do you remember?

As this winter of remembering draws to a close, there are just a couple of last stories that beg to be told. This one, while teary at the time, now brings me a broad smile:

During my son’s high school years, he and I lived in Juneau, Alaska. Bruce was a good boy. However, he was a teenager. He struggled sometimes, simply because those were his growing up years. We lived in a small cabin on North Douglas Island, across the bridge and way to the north of downtown. Bruce needed our truck to get to high school. What teenager doesn’t need a vehicle? In this case, however, it was true. The school bus didn’t come anywhere near where we lived. And so, Bruce took our truck every morning. And I walked what felt like a mile each morning to where I could get a connection to the city bus. I took that bus to the University of Alaska Southeast, where I worked as a college professor.  And I took the bus back home each night. It was a very long ride, taking about an hour by the time I made the necessary transfers.

When I arrived home each night, the immediate concern was supper. I’d never enjoyed cooking all that much; however, since I was Bruce’s only parent in those days, I was the chef extraordinaire of the house. What else was a dad to do?

I tried my best. I scoured women’s magazines at the supermarket and actually bought a cookbook or two. In my opinion, I was preparing pretty decent meals. But to hear my son talk, that was certainly not the case. I think Bruce hated my cooking! After hauling water and cranking up the cook stove – yes, our place had no running water and the stove was an antique – I would do all in my power to set nutritious meals before my son. However, it seemed to me I could never please him. Bruce’s reactions to the food placed before him were alternately: “Not this again,” or Dad, I’m not eating this.”  I know he didn’t like my meals!

So I was at my wits’ end regarding what I called feeding the boy. The next day, as I rode the bus back home, I felt in a rather hopeless and teary condition. To make matters worse, it was raining – not such an unusual condition in Juneau. I was sitting in a seat just across and slightly back of the bus driver, Frank, who leaned over toward me and asked: “Tough day at the office, David?” And I called back: “No, too many rough days at the stove.” And then, of course, I told Frank the whole sad situation.

To my surprise, Frank pulled the bus over to the side of the road; we were near the end of the line, and I was the only passenger. He got out a little notebook and wrote out a recipe for “potato, vegetable, and ground beef casserole.” I was amazed. And, I was absolutely delighted.  I can taste it even now.  Frank had “saved my bacon” at least for that night.  Bruce liked it – or at least, he didn’t reject it outright – and, true to my ways, once I like something, I go back to it again and again, so “potato, vegetable, and ground beef casserole” was on the rotation at least once a week.

But the story doesn’t end there. When Frank got home that night, he called our faculty secretary at the university.  (Remember, this was a small, tight-knit town.) According to what Molly, our secretary, told me later on, Frank requested that: “All the women in the department make a collection of simple and easy recipes – in order to save David’s life.” And, sure enough, in about a week I received this spiral notebook from the 12 women I worked with. The title on the front was: Lifesaving Recipes For David.

Well, indeed, those recipes did save my life. Bruce came to love the various concoctions that my friends told me how to prepare. And, as the year went on, our father-son relationship got better and better – along with the quality of our meals. There were no more tears shed on the Juneau-Douglas bus. There was rain outside, but no tears inside.

I suppose there’s a moral to this story: Sometimes when you can go no further on your own, you need a little help from your friends. My bus driver, Frank, gave me more than just a ride on that dreary Juneau evening; he gave me a bus ride home.

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So, how about you? When you were at that truly desperate end of your rope, who saved your day? Who surprised you with the words – or a gesture – that made the big difference?

The theme of this recent set of posts has been remembering. Perhaps that’s because winter has been a quiet time for me, a time that invites recollection, and an easy sharing. As I write, it is March 5, 2013, the 30-year anniversary of the day when received a totally unexpected and most precious gift. Although this event is long past, the gift continues to have a deep and vivid feel to it. It’s as though this gift was given to me on this very day:

Jill, my night nurse, cupped my remaining quasi-functional left ear tenderly with her warm hands and whispered loud enough for me to hear her quite surprising advice: “David, from now on, you’re going to have to listen with your heart.”

This angel, Jill, shared those words with me in my hospital room 30 years ago this very night. I hear the words again every night, as I move myself to sleep.

Jill’s bold and surprising gift came to me as I was recovering from what I’ve come to call “just one of my life accidents.” Earlier in that day, I lay stretched out in an operating room for 17 hours with my head in kind of a weird-looking, large green metallic vice. The Willie Nelson music that I’d requested had played in the background while the team of seven removed a brain tumor the size of a large tangerine.

As a result of what the medical team called “a stunningly successful procedure,” I initially lost my ability to talk and to walk. Because of the persistent and ever encouraging efforts of a fabulous cast of “singing angels” at the Northwestern University Speech and Hearing Clinic – yes, they actually sang to me – I first regained my ability to speak and then, to walk. The hearing was “a lost cause,” they explained in a matter-of-fact manner: “Totally dead right ear, thirty percent and declining in the left ear. Severed nerve during surgery caused the situation. But, don’t cry about it, David, you’re actually a walking wonder.”

So, here I am – the walking wonder –30 years later. Of course, I went through a myriad of stages: puzzlement, devastation, anger, adjustment, to name just a few. And, I still have my struggles. I get lost in a noise-filled room. Often, I want to flee. Sometimes, I do just walk away. I have, on occasion, run pell-mell from the scene.

And yet, believe it or not, a number of precious gifts have come my way as a result of this life accident. Among them – and this might come as quite the shock to hearing people – is the feeling I sometimes have that it’s just not quite quiet enough! Often, I find myself wanting to eradicate the remaining chatter and perceived nonsense that I hear going on all around me. So, sometimes (mostly undetected) I put an earplug in my remaining source of sound. The resulting quiet is heaven-sent!

Perhaps because I’ve had so many (what I’ve believed have been) angels walk into my life offering me encouraging signs, I’ve become even more of an encourager. So, in addition to silence being experienced as a gift, learning how to better encourage others has also been a gift received.

However, Jill’s gift – “from now on, you’ll listen with your heart” – is the most stunning gift of all. Every night, I thank Jill and I silently send forth this prayer: “Lord, with each passing day, help me to better… listen with my heart.”

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Thank you for being with me in this especially tender time of remembering. Perhaps my story will remind you of an unexpected and precious gift that you’ve received.

In this recent series of posts, I’ve shared my most vivid remembrances. For me, this is a winter of remembering. So far, I have shared an embarrassment turned blessing from my pre-adolescence and a disaster turned major learning from my early adulthood. Now I turn to a life episode that was ready made for total chaos, but defying all odds became a touching story about service and trust.

It was the stormiest period in Evanston’s school desegregation history. This small city took pride its schools and colleges. As a part of the school district’s desegregation plan, all of the school attendance areas were redrawn so that the enrollment of African American children at each school was more evenly distributed to range from 17% to 25%. Almost everyone along the tree-lined streets of this close-in Chicago suburb was affected by the late 1960’s school busing that was necessary to achieve these targets. Whether you were a student reassigned from a formerly all-black school or a white parent whose child was learning “relationship skills” in a newly integrated school or simply a long-term resident of this community, you were at the very least aware that these were stormy and turbulent times for the Evanston Public Schools.

The storm’s intensity was most strongly directed at the school district superintendent, Gregory Coffin. Rightly or wrongly, the clash of these tempestuous times seemed to sound the loudest as citizens focused on the leadership style of the superintendent. Interestingly, but perhaps not surprisingly, many community members and parents didn’t bring up, and seemed to avoid, the underlying issues of race or the purposes of education. Instead they declared the superintendent to be “cut-throat, abrasive, and a non-listener.” Others would find him to be their champion of change. “He is able to see what needs doing,” his advocates would say, “and he does what needs doing.”

Many persons would have said that the school desegregation issue in Evanston came down to the contentious struggle regarding whether the superintendent should go or stay. The drama of this struggle took place on the stage of the city’s Unitarian Church, a building that could hold more people than the school district’s office – almost nightly, for months. At eight o’clock on many evenings, the school board would convene there in public session. Of course, there would always be other items on the agenda. But the raison d’etre for the regular gatherings was always the tenure of Greg Coffin. And almost always, the meeting’s adjournment occurred well after midnight. The street question the next day was often: “Did you attend the shouting match last night?”

Greg Coffin was so completely engulfed in this “struggle of his lifetime” (his words) that he had little time to orchestrate and oversee the day-to-day workings of the Evanston Public Schools. Such orchestration and oversight were left to Joe Hill, the associate superintendent; Frank Christensen, the personnel director; Ken Orton, the director of business affairs; and me. At that time, I was the director of curriculum and instruction. Basically, the four of us ran that 11,000 student school district for the better part of a year. Truthfully, we didn’t have a single leader.

Perhaps, this group of four became “the superintendent.”

The four of us started every day with what we called a “state of our world” meeting at 7am. We were exhausted, of course, often from the turmoil of the night before. But after a couple of minutes of “Can you believe what Sarah said?” or “Peter was so outrageous with his remarks,” we would settle down and set up the agenda for the day. We determined which schools each one of us would visit on that day; we rated the “teacher concerns” from one to five, identifying which concerns were most critical; we divided up the correspondence that needed response; and we made a list of who would call whom.  We sought to provide a central office presence and to assure that the day was dedicated to the young people in our charge. And then we would leave the superintendent’s office with this pledge: Taking the lead from Joe and Frank, each of us would move through the day with a servant’s heart.  We would be at the people’s beck and call. We would do what needed doing for the young people, for the teachers, and for the community. We would never say a disparaging word about anyone else in our foursome.

As I remember that year (1969, I believe), it was one of the few times in my work-life when I most experienced genuine trust. We four trusted one-another completely. There were no lies. There was no deception. There were no exaggerations. There were no partial truths. Nothing was hush-hush. There were no “arrangements.” What felt like madness swirled around us, but we experienced a kind of pure calmness. Among the four of us, there was no panic, there was no tension, and there was no despair. It was a time of telling the truth, and surprisingly, it was a time of laughter. As I recall those days, a smile comes to my face; I remember that year as one when I had the most fun on a leadership team. We joked with one another, we reveled in one another’s victories, and we somehow found our failures and mistakes to be cause for (what we’d call) a “crazy calamity occasion.” We had so many good laughs!

How is it possible that amid the chaos of what we called “the Coffin cacophony” we had a positive, peaceful, and productive experience? And why, in the midst of that chaos, would trust and laughter find such a comfortable home?

Well, for one thing, we had no choice but to make good things happen for those in our care. In our situation, there was little room for wondering, worry, or wistful waiting. And, the political battle that swirled around us was not of our doing, was beyond our control, and was at times beyond our understanding.

And then there was the matter of the makeup of our leadership team. Ken Orton was a true-blue kind of guy. Of course, he knew the numbers. I called him Careful Ken. He was good! And he was more than good. Ken was keenly and genuinely interested in everyone. Whether a school board member, or a teacher, or a member of the community, Ken Orton took that person seriously – did whatever was necessary to answer that person’s questions completely and thoroughly. Ken loved the work he did, but I believe he loved the people more.

Joe Hill was the soul of our community. Joe grew up in Evanston and was at the heart of the black community in a town that was, at the time, primarily a black and white city. He had an infectious sense of humor, a precious manner with all of the children, and had the respect and admiration of every Evanston citizen.

Frank Christensen was a mythical man. His human relations practices were of legendary proportions. For example, when a kindergarten child was preparing to step off to school for the first time, Frank would visit that child’s home a few days before that first day, spending substantial time with that child and with the family. Teachers received similar gifts of Frank’s attention. To this day, Frank Christensen is my ideal educator.

Of course, I did my part. I was “the new kid” within the team. But I gave it my all.

We served to honor the people. And, perhaps in the process, we found the perfect setting for trust – in the eye of the storm.  We shared common values, we reflected respect for each other, we made information transparent among us, and we were in it together.  Somewhat surprisingly, I learned that it’s possible to develop and live with trust in a time of crisis, a time when I – and perhaps others – might have thought that trust would not flourish.

As you think about your work or personal life, have you ever experienced a time when trust developed within difficulty? Have you ever been part of a team at your work place that was truly life-giving or you experienced as a gift?

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?