The Gemba walk

I first learned about the term "Gemba" many years ago while working in manufacturing.  It was one Japanese term used in the "Lean" vocabulary which is basically a way of thinking and improving processes and systems.  The underlying philosophy of "Lean" is about continuous improvement, removing waste and adding value at the individual level.  Everyone becomes concerned about these principles.  Not just the leaders. 

Gemba translated means:  "The place where value is created."  It is where the work gets done. 

It is often referred to the manufacturing floor in some environments, but it can applied to all industries, even any place.  These were some of the principles that were introduced post WW II and transformed Japanese auto manufacturing that led to culture breaking leadership practices as well.  

Before Lean, Asian plant managers were king, everyone walked behind them in a plant.  all were subservient to them.  They knew all the answers and led with a top down mentality.  With Lean, there was a complete 180 paradigm shift.... Managers began their morning walking the manufacturing floor--or the Gemba, and asked questions of all the teams of people making the products and asked how they could help them improve their areas, How they could remove roadblocks, add resource, give more autonomy and authority to teams and individuals to improve their work.  It was all about respect for the worker.  Leaders believed that there should be no undue burden on the worker and anything they could to to help them bring their best was in the best interest of the customer.  It was a philosophy and belief that broke down the very strong traditional Asian cultural hierarchal norms.  Since then, Lean has been incorporated into almost every industry across many organizations because of the great results the application of its principles have yielded.

Interesting... the place of value or of truth was not in the manager's office, No.... it was where the factory workers toiled.   

Jesus, before he was known as the Christ, I imagine observed farmers, fishermen, shepherds and others during his informative years.....  Before he taught, he watched, and walked in these "Gembas."  He chose his 12 from these Gembas.  He knew what they did.  He knew their work, he knew their world, and he knew their hearts.

About 10 years ago I was asked to help guide some young men in our neighborhood in their spiritual development.  As I pondered the best way to help them, I thought about applying what I had learned at work with what I believe Christ did in his ministry -- daily Gemba walks.  I got a map of our neighborhood, and divided it up into geographical sections and called them Gembas, and assigned each young man to a specific Gemba.  I then taught them the principles of what Gemba meant and then I shared with them what I believed Jesus did in his Gemba walks.  I invited them to spend an hour per week just physically walking their "Gemba" but being quick to observe any opportunity to render service.  We did it together first, and I modeled what I thought could be a good gemba walk.  I picked up trash, I right-sided tipped garbage cans, I notices weeds in widow's gardens, I ran to help those that were unloading groceries, I said "Hello" to anyone out in their yard or driveway, I actually rang the doorbell on a few homes I felt impressed to.  One elderly lady said her furnace went out.  I made a note to share with church leaders.  The first walk wasn't momentous, in fact it was unusually ordinary and simple.  But after the walk we sat around on some grass and shared what they saw and witnessed.  I asked them what else might they do on their gemba walk?  As the obvious ideas came out it triggered some out of the box ideas to start to flow.....I will never forget one 14 year old who asked:    

"Aaron, what if we said a quick prayer before our Gemba walk and as that we might be sensitive to spiritual whisperings in addition to physical things we see?"  

I smiled..... (It is always very cool when someone really gets it.  Do you know what I mean?).... I could feel the emotions coming to the surface.  I said that would be a very special way to prepare for a Gemba walk.  I invited them to have their own experience that next week and we would meet again on Sunday to share and see that they learned.

A week went by, and I prepared myself to lower the bar as I remember how motivated I would have been as a teenager to go walk the streets of a neighborhood by myself.... Not so much!

We met, and while some did not take the invitation, several did.  One in particular was so excited to share.  On their walk they noticed a lawn that was covered in leaves.  They decided to rake up all the leaved.  They went and got other family members to help them and they ended filling 30 hefty bags of leaves!  It took several hours but they loved it because it was a direct result of doing their personal Gemba walk.   He had found the place where value is created.  Although entirely so simple, I would like to think he won't forget that first Gemba walk ever again.

This Christmas I have been thinking about Jesus.  His ways and who he is.  I have reflected on how he might of thought about his ministry.  I wonder if he thought about how he would best connect with people. He must have been so thoughtful about the approach and pattern he took.  At the appointed time, he walked his own Gemba.  He had no office.....He just walked and never stopped.  

It was in his Gemba walks that he taught about Love, Forgiveness, Kindness, Repentance, Life beyond physical death.  

I would like to believe that he continues his Gemba walks even now. I don't see him, but I feel his influence often when I pay attention.  It is almost always through a feeling or impression upon my mind or often through kindness of others.  I wonder if he does what that young man did.... Begin his daily walk with a prayer for you and for me, wondering how he might lift us, how he might bring more light to our lives..... how he could create value for us, such as inspiring us to look another's way instead of our own and cascade any light we feel from him to others.

So my friend, whether you believe in Jesus Christ or not, do you think their is any power in embarking upon your own Gemba walk?  Just think about it..... This season may be a great time to start one......What might happen if you tuned your mind and your eyes with a bit more precision to seek out opportunities to lift someone each day that you may not have thought of before?  Could you surprise yourself?  Not only that, but you might completely change someone's life with a simple choice to start one........

                                                      ...........maybe even as small as one single solitary email response.

Liftoffs and Landings

I was on my way to NYC...Normally I get an aisle, but this time was a rare window seat.  As the plane turned to line up for take off I got a quick glimpse of the long runway.... It was a powerful image and struck me as completely thrilling as I put myself in the shoes of the pilot.  To know you are about to thunder down this little strip of land with this massive machine with all these souls aboard and lift off through some magic called physics and aerodynamics up into the clouds.  Pretty impressive feeling I imagined....

I wondered if they feel the same exuberance for landings...or would it be a bit more like anxiety... that twinge of butterflies that I could only dream would be there... Somehow finding that little spot and bringing everyone home safely must be a daunting feeling.  Which one would be the greater experience?  Maybe it isn't right to compare.  They both are their own thing.

I found myself musing about liftoffs and landings.... and life.  Most of the times liftoffs are about going somewhere....maybe somewhere new, exciting, full of opportunity and adventure.....freedom from feeling bound or tethered.

Landings are about returning... maybe for some it feels like coming home.....coming back to what is known, what is stable. Maybe even to what knows us..... embracing us back into its fold.  Sometimes it might feel like the ending of an adventure, and the transition back to the inevitability of responsibility, structure and the stark reality of routine.  Sometimes it can be as exciting to come back home.....We all love adventure, we also love home.....The familiar patterns and smells, the hugs from kids and dogs, the familiar feel of the the house.  Landings give us both these.

I've experienced some amazing liftoffs and landings this year.  I have explored new places both geographically and figuratively in ways I never expected.  I have seen sights, tasted food, felt the soul of many cities.  More importantly I have met many new people and have made a few special friends.

And it is this little stretch of land is the place that makes all the arrivals and all the departures all happen....The runway.  It sits silently waiting patiently... in between, creating the necessary space for both to occur.

If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song

She Is The Hero

She never stops fighting for what is right.  She never backs down.  She is the one that suffers silently for things that no one will ever understand.  She smiles when others wouldn't.  She smiles when she shouldn't have to.  Her gaze cuts through the haze of uncertainty and confusion--because she is fierce...  She bears the weight of world, because it is through her that she will bear all those that will come after... to shape and sculpt the world into what it will be.... She is the vehicle, She is the means....She is beauty.

The betrayal she endures only unveils her vulnerability and true beauty.... to live and love despite what others do, to rise above and persevere...and to often...forgive.  She gives effortlessly and  knows when to hold back to create safety for herself and maintain the self-respect she deserves.

An all the while, she seeks persistently for clues to elusive, unanswered questions....answers that will open her heart like a fountain of water to the thirsty traveler.....answers that will unlock doors to the creation of transcendent experiences....

There is no man that will ever truly know Her.... Her mind, Her heart, Her experience, Her burden, Her loss, Her self-doubt, Her sorrow, Her strength or Her triumphs.  The world somehow sees all of Her and beckons Her to keep bringing all that she is to each new day that comes.

And here I stand....all amazed.... watching, in absolute admiration...pretending to understand, pretending to know.... realizing that the only thing I do know, deep down inside, is that at the end of the day I will never know....

I sit on the side....and watch in awe....wondering, hoping...... wishing that someday, that I can be part of her....like the consistent ebb and flow of the tide..... moving together in beautiful natural unison....in an important pattern that Heaven smiles upon.....

.....Do I dare ask..... Can She can still save me yet....?

Quand Je Avais 12 Ans

Would you agree that most of us would say of the time we were 12, that if if there were a film of our lives that section would be heavily edited out? At best, it would be the first on the list of "deleted scenes" never to be remembered because of how painfully that age represented the height of awkwardness, insecurity and overall physical and emotional horribleness....!

No Bueno.

When I was 12,  do I remember not feeling so confident?  For sure... Did I not fit in with the cool groups?  Correct, I did not.  Did I wonder what others thought?  Yes, and I didn't probably take compliments well as I didn't know it was ok to accept them without seeming egoistic.  I was on the smaller side of humanness and do remember being self conscious.  But, I gotta say, despite all that stereotypical drama and fuss,  I loved that time.  I am probably out of my mind, and yet I do remember those years very fondly.

They were so defining to me, they brought such clarity...  

When I was 12, I remember clearly so much of that time frame.  I felt like I soaked in everything, I watched people, I watched what I didn't like and I watched what I did... I began to identify with those differences.  Those experiences and interactions of Jr. High totally helped shape very quickly who I thought I was, and who I might want to become.

When I was 12, I remember really clearly defining what pretty was.... like creating my own Webster's definition of the term.  What defined pretty wasn't words, but names, names of girls.  Girls who I admired, looked up to, thought were so smart and so grown up.  I remember for the first time in my life realizing that some girls were pretty, but I didn't like them and all of a sudden they weren't as pretty any more.  Others, that seemed more plain, less talked about by my friends, became more pretty as I got to see them on the inside and how they acted and carried themselves.  Funny how that worked.... I didnt' understand why, but it went like that for me.... did it for you?

When I was 12, I started to figure out why I liked certain people for the first time other than liking them because my parents did.  It was an extraordinary time to have these awakenings and early insights.  I watched what people did, I listened to what they said, I soaked in a lot without knowing I was doing that.  I then found myself thinking a lot about why people did the things they did.

When I was 12, I didn't know it, but I needed this rich diversity of cultures and nationalities to help me define who I wanted to be. Intetersting I needed to see a lot of what I didn't want to be as much as what I did want to be in others.....  I couldn't have done it without them or those experiences.

When I was 12, I had no idea if anyone would notice, or remember me.  Everything I did was about getting noticed each day, at each party, in each conversation, during each class, with each love note written, ... it was more about a series of living in moments than laying down tracks for the future.  No one thought about that, at least I didn't.  The longest I thought about the future was maybe several weeks, maybe a couple of months at best.  Everything was about "now"!  Maybe that is why it is still such a vibrant memory for me to this day..... Each day was like a mini-liftetime because each day was "it".

When I was 12, I did hate leaving my friends.  I felt their loss when they moved away.  It was intense.  I sincerely thought I would never see them ever again.  The way we lived overseas made sure of that.... it was an age before technology and social media knew how to fill those gaps.  The inevitability and permanent probability of never seeing good friends again caused a lot of ache inside despite the continual reocurrence this cycle had in my life.  It really never got better, I think I just became more numb.... but it did cause those moments to be super tight -- meaning, I squeezed the most out the ones I was dealt.  This made a difference later.... that investment paid great dividends later.... much later!!

When I was not 12 anymore,  I started finding people and they started finding me...  Can I possibly explain how important that was for me?  Probably not very well....    What has been so beautiful is that many that I thought I didn't want to be like, surprised me!  Others, were the opposite.  So interesting to see how all these lives unfolded like long roots flowing out from that center place of being 12 all together.  To see the different directions their choices had led them was fascinating.  What was the best of all is that almost in every case, each friend was still the same... they were still that 12 year old kid at the end of the day.   There was the instant familiarity, the feeling of knowing, the sense of community and immediate understanding and empathy causing an euphoria of emotion and joy.   Despite the stark differences that had taken place, there was that beautiful balm of universal understanding and feeling of "remembering who we were" in an instant!

When I am 112, I will still look back and find the times when you and I were 12 to be some of the most important in all my life.  Yes, they were awkward and painful.... But I wouldn't trade them.

Thank you for being 12 with me then and staying 12 now and hopefully remaining 12 forever.  Can you do that?  Your fingerprints are all over me, your influence lingers, and I could never have become me without you being 12.

S'il vous plaît restez 12 ans pour toujours....!

Sounds of The Night Vendors

I wish I could explain what it was like..... to be 8 years old and living the first few days and weeks in Jakarta, Indonesia.  It would be impossible to describe the color, the smells, the humidity, the heat and the dirt.....the kaleidoscope of a fascinating culture.

To go out into the street I could inhale so many things in the air there.  To hear the early morning and late afternoon islam prayers being broadcast from the local mosques.  To see the the stunning colorfully painted sunsets......It was incredible to experience all of one's senses at once.

We had just moved there from VA.  So the immediate difference in life was stark!  The first couple of nights were so eerie... I remember having jet lag which meant every night I was wide awake at 2am with only my thoughts about this new interesting land and my ears hearing sounds I had never heard before.....or ever since.  They came like haunting calls in breaking the silence of the night.....

"Sapooooo!" "Sapoooo!"  

A voice called out in the black night....  this was the first of many....These were the sounds of the night vendors.  The first few nights these guys freaked me out and I ran to my parents room waking them up only for them to explain to me that these were people out in the street trying to sell something to make a living.   What a foreign idea....Why would they be out so late and yelling out loud??  Who would buy something in the middle of the night.  It didn't make sense.... but in time it would.

Once I knew I didn't have to be afraid of them I began to to catalog the different sounds and sometimes I would try and sneak a peek out the window to see what type of vendor they were as they passed by hurriedly.... to see what were they selling.   "Sapooo!" was the call of the sweep and broom vendor.  There was the cobbler, the butcher on the bicycle, the medicine woman, the knife sharpener, the myriad of food vendors (Satay guy was amazing!), the basket man, the metal clanging guy who I never figured out what he did.... All of these amazing people out in the street late at night walking often barefoot with a bamboo pole slung across their shoulders with their wares hanging on each side creating perfect balance.  Because of the weight and the flex in the bamboo they would almost do a dance-walk, very rhythmic and bouncy as they pitter pattered down the streets.   They would yell out while walking letting the neighborhood know that they were out....to give enough early warning to the neighborhood so they had time to run out and flag them down if needed before they passed by.

As I became more of a night owl even in my young years, I came to look forward to nighttime in Jakarta,  because I knew that when everything else became silent, the night vendors would be there, their calls often haunting and lonely, but to me they became comforting and soothing.

"What a solitary existence....I wondered...." 

Wandering the streets hoping their longing call would trigger a sale.  I would hear them while in bed, waiting to see how many seconds would pass in between their calls.  I wondered what it might be like to do what they did, to live as they did...... I fantasized about being one of them, walking in the night, never cold, being so happy when someone stopped me to buy something and then thinking I might eat that day.  I wondered at times if they were sad or if they even knew what that meant.  Just because I thought they were poor and destitute maybe they weren't... maybe they were quite happy.  They seemed to be able to walk all day and all night with the same energy and pace....not prone to slowing down.  They would carry their sarongs around  one shoulder and then when it came time to sleep, which could be anywhere, they would wrap themselves in it like a poor man's sleeping bag and catch a bit of sleep and probably dream of roads not yet traveled hoping for a life of more ease.....and better food.

Did we partake?  Oh yes... my parents were big fans. They would flag as many down as they could week to week.  There was nothing more fun than to run down and then watch each one do the bargain, do the pitch, start high on the price and then inevitably come down with the art of the bargain.... The cobbler was my favorite.  He came for 5 years and he seemed to never age but I think he was 100 when we started.  He would come up to our driveway and set up his little shop.  It was incredible what he had inside each of those two hanging baskets..  He had an iron anvil shoe horn, tools, leathers, glues and all kinds of doo dads.  We would bring out a dozen pair of shoes (six kids...) each time even if some of them weren't so bad....  I would sit there and just watch him work.  It was hypnotic and I was in awe of his skills.  So adept and supple with his hands.  Measuring, selecting the right leather, tracing it, cutting it and then gluing or nailing little rivets into the soles.  It was fascinating and my memory is so clear of it even today.  The smell of the glue and leather.  His silent toothless smile.  We paid him a bit more which my parents always did....not too much, but more....

I can look back now and honestly say these were profound moments of life for me.  I realized later that it was an honor to see a man live off of his own hands and efforts and to take such pride in his work.  I learned then that it doesn't matter what our work is.  We might be a dentist, a lawyer, or a ticket taker at a concert....what matters is how we carry ourselves and if we do it with our best effort and to be fair in what we are paid for.  I feel God reveres this old man who had nothing but the shirt on his back and the roll of a few coins hidden in his sarong for some rice and tea.  Each vendor was the same, the meat grinder, the broom guy, the lady selling medicine etc....  They weren't looking to be saved or subsidized... they wanted a fair price for their best.  They probably wouldn't have taken more than what was fair.

Do you still know people like that?  Are you like that?  Am I.....?  do I bring my best everyday?  Am I honorable at the end of each day as I look back on each interaction and effort I expended?

It has definitely caused me to reflect on my own approach to my work.  I think I can do better....

So, when the night comes now.... I don't hear those sounds any more... I miss them terribly.  Nothing would make me happier for slumber than to hear outside of my very developed HOA community, the call of a new night vendor... Man, that would put things into perspective again.

I cherish those familiar calls.. they linger long in my memory.  They continue to live and breathe each time I remember....

I won't forget their beautiful sound, and I won't forget what they have taught me...

The Little Things.....

So, I was on BART going to San Francisco from the Oakland airport. I could see the sun setting on the bay, I can see the SF skyline. My body has just settled into the rhythmic vibration of the train, adjusting to all the stops and starts at each station...I take a look around, not too many people on board which is unusual, so I turn my thoughts elsewhere and make a conscious decision to not dive back into my phone to browse at email, texts and social media.  I look out the window and begin to  soak in the sunset and reflect......

I thought of home... and started thinking aobut each kid.  Eventually I came to Alexa.  I wondered what she might be doing right at that moment... I tried to imagine her a work, maybe finishing her homework..... and then I realized that this was her last week of school.  Woah...!  She was about done... Wait a minute... She is graduating next week!  Yikes!  I immediately realized this wasn't just my last daughter finishing high school....No, this was my last kid finishing high school!  I felt a bit panicky all of a sudden as  if I had just lost control of something and I couldn't stop it.  Like trying to grasp a quickly falling rope running quickly through my hands but unable to hold on enough to stop it.  It really caught me off guard which is silly because it isn't like a secret when graduation is in every high school across this country, but I hadn't really been paying attention when I came to Alexa.

As the realization of the finality of this event hit me I found a lot of emotions coming to the surface very quickly.  I found myself immediately missing her.  I thought about how challenging this past year had been for her... we moved far away from her high school and she had a long commute every day.  She had to get up early and would often come home late and many nights stayed over at friends because that was easier on her due to after school work schedule on top of that. She did an amazing job of making this tough routine work... I realized how much she had grown this year.  

Then I started rewinding the tape.... as I often do.  I thought about what I would miss the most.  What came to me weren't the big events, the seemingly more important milestones, vacations or family reunion type of things....rather it was the little things that I would have never have suspected I would even care about became the things that stood out.

The little bottles of nail stuff......I thought about the assortment of nail polish paraphernalia that she would constantly cart around all over the house...... All these little bottles of polish, remover, clippers, white tips, adhesive, and other nameless bottles of whatever that girls need to have to take care of their of nails.  They would seem to always be in the worst places, like on the couch, on the carpet, on the bed and they would travel together like a little gaggle of geese, always together, always in the way and in the wrong place and we would find ourselves incessantly having to move them to their proper place.  So, yes, a total annoyance.....  I am not sure why she buys 100 different shades of polish but seems to use 2 of them over and over, but such is the greatness of girls.    I have no idea why this image came to me, but as soon as it did I actually realized how much that represented her to me. This activity she would do so often was something that was part of her, something that was meaningful to her, almost therapeutic maybe and I felt an immediate pang of loss of not seeing those blasted bottles and vials here and there again...  

The little plates of food.....Then I thought of the half eaten food and half filled cups of milk that she had a tremendous talent in leaving around too.  Truly, there may not be anyone with more expertise than her in this category--once again I felt the loss of picking up after her.  Never before would I have ever thought that doing this activity for any of my kids would be something I would reflect on longingly... No, shouldn't be this way... so what was different this time with her? I wondered until the answer came.  Because we didn't see her very much this year due to the circumstances, the idea that maybe leaving this trail for us to follow was in a very strange way a way to connect with her... like because she wasn't there physically for me to get after her about I would have to actually do the work of gathering and collecting those things and then taking them downstairs to the kitchen was actually like touching her after all.... like she was there and it was a way to interact with her or at least think about her.... it hit me that way, like weird but true.

The little texts... ME: "hey... when you coming home tonight?"  HER: "yeah"   ME:  "When do you think you will be home?"  HER: "later...."   ME: "Do you need to stay the night with your friend?"  HER:  "Maybe".   Yes... I can now tell how you can see how obvious it is why I will miss these!

The little "talks".... Alexa is adept at one word answers, which often means that she doesn't always need to engage in long conversations.  It isn't her thing.... so one of the things I learned to totally cheris were the super brief and not very wordy moments I had with her.  Here is what it would look like...  She would come home, not really say anything, but I might find her doing some nail polish stuff somewhere.... then I might say "hey.... how are you?"  and then she might say "yeah".... and then that would be my trigger to actually not say or really ask anything else... and then we might just sit in the same room after that for a while and then she would leave.  To some, this may seem not super deep or super content rich.  I would disagree.  This might be the best conversation we have the entire week.  Because the conversation didn't need to have words.  There just needed to be "space" not necessarily filled up with words... often unecessary words...  Creating that space actually became the conversaton..... I had to learn this and once I did, I really enjoyed them.    Not filling up space with words is not a very Aaron-like thing to do.  Anyone who knows me would probably agree.  So learning how to chill was a super cool thing I learned from Alexa.  And then to "chill" together a little here and there became a little thing that I found so sweet that I will miss horribly.  There were a few times where it was I go to CupBop and get food and then we would then just eat it together, in silence..... awesome memories for me!  I loved that I could find such great meaning in that brief, quiet exchange.

The little walks..... We live about 1 football field away from a Cup Bop store.  We are regulars.  About once a week Alexa would announce that she would like me to go get one for her.  The rule is she has to walk with me to get it.  It is about a 3 minute walk.  We shoot the breeze, not too much substance, a few questions I try and insert that she cleverly evades with precision... She knows what's coming and so do I.  No surprises... but a fun predictable routine.   Simple, short and very sweet.  Little walks that I will miss terribly.....

Is it possible that that we glean the most meaning out of life through the collective littany of little things?  As I pondered on this list with Alexa, I realized how easy it is to miss the little things that we might overlook, not see or just pay attention to.  Although I kept trying to find in my memory the bigger things that I thought I was looking for, it ended up being these small moments.... drops if you will, in a life large lake that accumulate, and grow and make little unforgettable impressions that are so easy to forget....  How ironic....

At this point on my ride to the city I found myself looking through blurry eyes... watered with the memory of each of these little things and the feeling of sound peaceful gratitude came with it.  A perfect hurt good moment.

The little Lexi....

Lexi.... my heart is full... my eyes too... what an absolute beautiful person you have become... graceful, poised, funny and precise.  In some ways you will always be this little thing  to me despite how grown up you are now...
I wouldn't trade any of these little things for anything. It has been these that have made this, your last year here at home bearable in light of the other kids being gone and so much silence we have experienced with so much transition and change.  Thank you for being generous and sharing these moments with me, and then when you do that crooked smile thing, well.... game over.

Congratulations on doing the myriad of little things that now represent your huge achievement in graduating with honors from High School.  

You did it!  

Much love and admiration......

#MYPACIFIC

Andre Gide said:  "Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore." 

This became the title for the recent documentary of 6 incredible women who made a seemingly impossible journey rowing across the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to Australia.    It was crazy.... For about 9 months they took ritualistic, relentless 2 hour shifts between sleeping (hardly) and then rowing....every day, every night...yes!... the whole entire time.....simply crazy!    I am a sucker for human interest stories especially if they involve the kind of stretch that changes people forever.   I was hoping this would be such a story....I decided to watch it the other night not so much because I was interested in watching women rowing hour after hour, rather I was a lot more interested in what made these women tick.  

The actual documentary wasn't that dynamic in terms of production and sheer entertainment value.  Much like the journey itself, it was a bit long, boring and monotonous at times.  In fact, after the first 20 minutes I almost stopped watching.... but, because they were so committed, I felt like I needed to be as well...  I thought... "Would I be letting them down if I didn't watch it all the way to the end?"... Ha!  Silly, but true. These women I didn't know somehow guilted me into it and so I kept with it... I kept with them....Plus, I needed to find the "squishy emotional motivational center" of this whole deal and I hadn't figured it out yet.

Watching them forced me to put myself in their place, attempting to imagine their insane existence and yet time after time, when I would think that I would have just stopped.... they wouldn't.....they didn't.  No way.  As a result I felt myself being drawn into their emotion every so slowly, but it mounted.  There was this one point where I began to feel more connected to their cause when one of them mentioned this quote again....

"Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."

The words carried deeper meaning and weight.... It was only then, that I started to reflect on my own life....I recalled some of the hardest things I had experienced in my life...  Memories came, feelings resurfaced, and I had to reconsider how I handled them in light of this quote... "Did I traverse my trials with this type of courage of willingly losing sight of the safety net to cross the chasm without knowing what was up ahead?"  "Did I dig down so deep as these women did?"  "Going past the point of exhaustion, finding that new place where there is nothing left to give?"  This definitely made me reflect and wonder.  How many times have I believed that I had left it all on the field, only to later realize I hadn't?  How many times have I convinced myself that I had nothing left in the tankto give or to try, only to find more drops to spare looking back at me...... 

It was interesting to watch these women pass through their crucible at the same time wondering and contrasting my own experience....  My respect for them grew considerably.  By the end, the story had won me over, it had managed to slither its tendrils down and wrap them tightly around my heart...My emotion spilled over and it felt awesome to somehow be part of their joy of accomplishment and super human achievement.  

They talked about what this journey would mean to them later.... All I knew is that they would never be the same, ever again... it reminded me that whenever we do things for the right and best reasons, we can be forever changed, if we have the right frame of mind and intent.... those ripples will never stop, forever increasing outward....

At the end, Natalia, who seemed to the leader of this group, summed up everything so beautifully by sharing this :

"Everyone has their Pacific to cross" 

That is what I needed to hear. That sealed the deal for me.   I needed to be reminded of my own Pacific crossings... this is why I needed to finish this particular story... I knew something was there, but I hadn't connected to it until the end.  These women weren't just breaking some record, or raising awareness for some noble cause, or trying to prove something for their ego.... at least not to me.  What they were doing was doing something remarkable to remind you and I and everyone else, that we are all rowing our own versions of the Pacific Ocean somewhere... and that our lives may not be always exciting, in fact, we more often experience long spells of routine and mundane repitiveness, and that we need to remember that we can win, that we will win, that we can overcome all adversity and not just endure, but be refined in the process..... to come out as something brighter, more durable, more resilient, more beautiful then what we started with..... Like these women did.  To acquire a deeper love for life and empathy for others.  It was really cool to cross the finish line with them.....

So.... I wonder.... 

Is it possible, that somewhere in the recesses of my earliest memories.... a memory before "here".... one so faint and fragile that I can barely pretend to remember I can believe I was with you and others on a distant shore... a shore far away, in a different time, a different plane, a different universe...before you and I knew we existed as we do now here, in this life?  

A place where we longed to cross an vast spiritual ocean.  An ocean of forgetfulness, that with each stroke of an oar, our memory of this place and shore would slowly fade...yes, as if like a veil one might say, might cover our mind and eyes to total forgetfulness.  But with with clear purpose, great hope and exceeding faith we would row, like these women did, to a beautiful destination, a place we had not been before.  A destination that would reunite us forever if crossed and rowed with enough faith and determination.  I would like to think that you and I both, held hands, leaned and looked forward and lept from that shore never looking back, knowing we would risk not coming back--completely losing sight and courageously willing to cross this unknown ocean together. The journey would seem so long and uncertain—so filled with risk. It wouldn’t be easy, but we knew it was worth every effort because deep inside, a whisper of a memory that reverberated in our hearts that we would be reunited again with others in a grand celebration of reunion.  If this crossing resembles even the smallest part of the crossing these women made, then... yes.  It would be worth every oar stroke.....

I wonder.... 

How am I doing?  Can I go the distance even when I can't see the shore ahead?  

All I really know is that I won't stop rowing.  I might stop and rest at times... but i am not going to quit.  How about you?  How is your Pacific crossing going?

Until then, keep rowing... and I will catch you on the flip side where all will be well again....

The House I Never Entered

When I was twelve, living in Jakarta, Indonesia, there was a house I wanted to get into.

It was called the Agape House.

This was the late seventies, and the “love and peace” movement had found its way into our international community. Some teenagers had organized a place to gather, with what I remember as funding and support from the U.S. Embassy. They did activities and volunteer projects, but mostly they seemed to have created something young people would hope to find: a place to belong.

I was too young to join them. Apparently, though, I was old enough to have opinions about them.

Long hair. Bell-bottoms. Rock and roll. You know the types....

Or at least I thought I did.

Then I became curious about the name.

What on earth was “Agape”?

Somewhere in my asking around, I learned that there were different words for love. One was eros, which turned out to be slightly more intriguing to this twelve-year-old, to be honest. But I digress....

Agape was described to me as a generous, self-giving love. A deep concern for the well-being of another. The kind of love God has for us, and the kind we might learn to offer each other.  I am sure much of that went over my head. But enough stayed with me to make me look again.

These teenagers had chosen that as the name of their house?

The more I understood about these long-haired hippie types, the more quickly the stereotypes faded. I began to wonder what mattered to them. What they hoped to create. Who they hoped would come.

They became clearer to me, even as my certainty about them became a little less clear.

How much had I assumed from so little?

I never did set foot inside the Agape House. I cannot tell you how closely the experience matched the name. But I remember wanting to be part of a group that would choose it.

Maybe I was curious about more than a word.

I have thought about love often since then. Where it comes from. Why we need it so much. Why something we desire so deeply can also be so difficult to give.

We can learn a great deal about attachment, human development, and our need for community. I find those explanations interesting. I also find myself wondering about what we recognize in certain moments of love.

Why does being truly cared for sometimes feel like remembering something?

I don’t quite know how to explain that. But as a believer, I sense something of God in those experiences. A familiarity. A feeling that this is how we were meant to treat each other, even when we so often struggle to do it.

Recently, after receiving a considerable amount of love from family and particular friends, I found myself thinking again about that little house in Jakarta.

And its name.

Agape.

When I first learned about agape, I understood it as love without self-interest. Giving without any thought of receiving.

It seemed like a worthy thing to reach for. It still does.

But I wonder if I made it a little too tidy.

Does the happiness I receive from loving someone make that love less sincere? Does my need for their friendship somehow diminish what I offer them?

I hope not.

Perhaps what I need to examine is the expectation I sometimes attach to the gift.

Can I care for someone without quietly keeping an account? Can I allow them to receive my love differently than I imagined they would?

I suspect I have occasionally called something unconditional before discovering a few conditions tucked away inside it. That is an uncomfortable thing to notice about yourself.  Probably a useful one, too.

Paul’s words about charity have always given me pause:

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.”

—1 Corinthians 13:3

I can give that much and still miss something essential?

It makes me wonder about the heart behind my helpfulness. The need to be appreciated. To be useful. Perhaps even to be right about what someone else needs.  I recognize some of those things in myself.

Then Paul describes charity as patient and kind. Without envy or boasting. Not puffed up.

I find it interesting that after describing such extraordinary acts of sacrifice, he brings us to qualities we have opportunities to practice almost every day.

Patience. Kindness.

Listening long enough to understand. Making room for someone whose experience differs from mine. Letting another person be the center of the conversation.

I wonder how often the love someone needs from me is quieter than the love I had planned to give.

What has stayed with me about the love I have recently received is the feeling of belonging.

Of having a place in someone’s life.

There is a particular comfort in being understood. And perhaps an equally important comfort in being with someone who doesn’t understand everything, but wants to keep trying.

I think about how much of ourselves we sometimes hold back until we are sure we will be welcome.

The uncertainty. The unfinished thoughts. The parts of our lives we have not figured out how to explain.

What allows us to finally bring those things through the door?

I am beginning to appreciate the people who make that possible. Their patience with what they cannot fix. Their willingness to stay interested. The ways they remind us, sometimes without saying very much, that we still belong.

I believe I have felt something of the love of Jesus Christ through them. And it makes me wonder what it feels like to come through my door.

Wouldn’t it be something if there were Agape Houses all over the place?  In our neighborhoods. In our homes. In the friendships we make room for and the people we are still learning to understand.

I think those teenagers would be surprised to know that a boy who never joined their club would still be thinking about its name all these years later.

I am a little surprised myself.

Back then, I stood outside imagining what it might feel like to belong.

Recently, someone opened a door for me.

And I found myself remembering a house I had never entered.

The Last Call

It has only been two days since that last call.... it seems like a lifetime ago now.... 

"Aaron... Dad's gone."  

It was dark and early in the morning.  I jumped at the first ring... The blasted call that I knew was just up ahead, foreboding, lingering in the shadows, just waiting for the right moment....had come.   The call I wanted to avoid, the call that hung heavy in the air like an imposing humid fog.

I had written about Dad a few days before.  A post that came to me late one night  and I wrote without even knowing why... but I went with my gut.  What came out was: "The Last Farmer." Looking back, I now know why the prompting was there.  Something told me to sit down and capture some thoughts that were circling my heart and mind....to pay silent tribute to him in word, in my own way.  What I didn't know was that it would be the last one before he passed.  2 years ago I wrote "Who is this Man?" and then 10 years ago I wrote: "50 Words" as birthday gift to him.

We quickly dressed and left to help his wife with the details and tasks that always come after this type of call.  The busyness of plans and tasks kept my mind focused for a while.... a few hours later I went into his office to look for an email.... 

I made the mistake of sitting down in his chair....I pushed it back a foot or two.. and then looked all around.....and started to soak.....and then the rushing emotional waterfall came crashing down all over me and took over.

I can't express everything I saw... but there were quotes, and pictures, and drawings and doodles, and half written poems, lists of what he was working on, cards from kids and grandkids... I looked at all the placques on the wall, recognition from all over the world.  It was like being in the cockpit of his mind, seeing what he saw, trying to feel what he would have felt.  I started to focus on a few.  Here is one that caught my eye. 

He had this taped to his monitor:  I particularly liked No. 6: That stemmed the tide a bit as I laughed out loud... Then I read No. 8 and was caught off guard how I was immediatley filled up and rendered useless as I wondered what went through his mind as he so subtley wrote that one down... What is one more step after you have done all the obvious ones.  It felt so intimately personal and this one wasn't about the will, or the insurance.  It wasn't about that email response or grandkid birthday reminder.... This was something else....

What if this was something he was working out with his Maker?  Could it be that they were conversing about what that next step should be? Could he have been preparing to acquire the grace of "letting go" and being ok with that gesture.... to release his life unto the Father of his own free will without that clinging "one last look" ache?  Maybe that was the most courageous and noble thing he would ever do.... quietly, with no one looking, no one knowing.  So personal, so intimate.   

Is this a list that you or I will have posted on the mirror when we are 87 riddled with cancer?  Makes me wonder....

I have learned more about my Father in the past week reading oodles of stories from so many friends and family that I have been overwhelmed in just trying to take him all in... I can't.  It is the most beautifully heavy load I have had to bear in a while.  

I had the good fortune of taking him to the Dr's recently and so I picked him up in my little two seater sports car and the first thing he said was: "What possessed you to buy a two seater car?"  as only Dad could..... I laughed out loud...This meant he was still "here", his body was betraying him, but he was still in there... We went to the visit, we had some quiet time, and then he would say..."It will be nice to see Mom and Roland...... and my parents too."  I knew then he was leaning differently... before the fight was still there, now it was a reflection of what was just up ahead and he was ok with it.  I held back the tears and said "It will be so great Dad."   Afterwards he took me to breakfast.  He had an omelette and I found a bottle of Cholula because they didn't have Tabasco sauce... He doused it and ate the whole thing.  Simple, quiet, but the moment was filled with meaning for me.  I drove back and I told him how much I loved him.  He squeezed my arm.... I got out to help him into the house and he gave one of Mom's relentlessly ferocious desparate hugs that felt like he was hanging on to life itself and said "Thank you!".   

..... Yeah, that was a pretty good day.

HIs whole life passed before I hung up the phone.... My guess is he did the same thing as he received his last call from Heaven asking him if it was time and as he looked one last time through all of his life, he smiled, nodded and said, I am ready.

Now the glorious aching begins.... 

The Last Farmer

Farmers are anything but rock stars. They get up early and work. They sow, plow, toil, and protect. In all of it, they beg God for rain.  No, they aren't rock stars but they are built like rocks.  Solid, unmoving, steadfast.  They have a gaze that sees things that most don't.  They squint and the world comes into focus.  They know when it rains when the familiar pain twinges in their knees.  They smell the weather...they feel the world.  They seem to just know things.... how things should and shouldn't be.  They know about right and wrong in their bones.  They move slowly, but always lean forward and their wit is lightning quick.  They don't need to use a lot of words to get to the real meaning of things.  

Yes..... my dad was a farmer.  

The last in his line.... 

When he was baling hay, tending to cattle and watering the crops, something beckoned inside... He was a cowboy that started to form big non-cowboy ideas... Ideas that grew and became bigger than the state of Arizona.  They needed more land to grow in and he needed a wider horizon. So, he traded in his boots for an airplane and took us around the world.   You can't take the farm out of the farmer..... Although he dined with Ambassadors and Presidents, he always put tabasco on everything he 'et and always fixed the car himself. 

He painted the world with his wit, he made every joke understandable in every language and culture.  He was welcome at every campfire in every nation.... Though no statues will be raised, no monuments with his name, he will leave a lasting legacy of himself.  

The seeds of his posterity have been sown deep in rich soil and have sprung forth in a multitude of goodness.  His gaze has shifted from vast foreign lands to the eternal hinterland of his mind... and lingers on those that have gone after him.  What joy he has in tending to these that are fruit of his vineyard of eternal increase.

Now, as he wrings every ounce he can with every interaction he has, he finds something to give, of himself.  He has done this his whole life.  He has been willing to give his life away to other people.

I am one of those other people..... 

He has given me laughter, he has given me understanding, he has given me hope, he has given me mirth.  He has given me the world, so that I could see things differenlty.  He opened up doors that few ever even knew existed, doors to inexpressible joy, doors that connected me to people all over this world.  Doors to diversity, doors to awakenings, doors to understanding, doors to empathy, and doors that allowed me to love more uniquely.

I do not know what he will give me next, but I know it will be something solid, unmoving and steadfast.  It will be like a rock, that I can find my footing with, where I can stand with surety and strength.  

Yes, my dad was a farmer,... The last of his kind.  

And although I will never really know what that means, and maybe, just maybe I don't need to as I watched and learned what it meant to him.  What makes a farmer isn't the crops, the animals and the land after all....What makes a farmer a farmer comes from within.  It is part of who he is.  I have spent my life watching him give his life away to others..... one precious piece at a time with every touch.

He is in charge of the number of days that are left now.... He will know when to give away the last of himself.....His eyes will be perfectly focused, his gaze clear and he won't use very many words...but it will be lasting, this I know.

And then...in a coming day I will be left with the defining burning question that will cause me to refine my focus, raise my gaze, and sink me to my knees and decide if what I have given away thus far, has been enough.... and then spend the rest of my life making sure that it is.

Can't Find The Words

Just wanted to let you know... that I am struggling to find the words to connect with all the beauty and blessings in my life.....


                                                 I feel things, but I just can't find my way to the words right now.... 

In Memoriam: Shane Stewart

I lost a friend this week.  Just a few days before Christmas.  We were roommates in college.  We hit is off immediately and were friends for over 25 years.  We loved many of the same things.  We loved going on exploratory bike rides with no plan.....we loved playing the guitar together.  He was from a super small town in UT....Meadow.  His dad was a hay and cattle farmer.  He invited me down there many times.  He taught me spelunking and fishing.  Things I had never really done before.  He grew up on a farm and we helped the family with the calving during the Spring.  We both moved on from school, got married and had kids.  We went to his wedding, we stopped by several times during the years on the way to and from St. George to get a glimpse of his life and family.  He was the consummate outdoors person.  He got his degree in recreation and forestry.  He loved fishing, hiking,  hunting, backpacking and everything outdoors.  I believe that this became his religion.  Although a believer in God, he loved God's creations immensely.  He wrote poems and songs about what he observed through his particular lens.  He wasn't big, he wasn't a jock, he was humble and mild mannered and loved to chat.  Everyone was Shane's friend.... especially if you were over 70.  He loved Meadow..... it was home and it was in his blood. 

His favorite hobby was to go to the local hot springs.  It was an awesome spot in the middle of nowhere.  I remember the first time he took me when in college.... I had now idea where we were going.  He drove the truck out on these unpaved farm roads in the middle of the night and then all of a sudden we were there.  No signs, no rules....it was a small but deep hole.  Perfect for the locals, and for foreigners to never know about.  Over the years I learned that Shane would spend almost every Friday night there where he would play guitar whether there were people there or not. A few Friday's ago he dove in for the last time and didn't come back up. 

I learned this by accidentally reading about him in the news, which I never do.....  It had just happened the day before.  I scrambled to find his parents and siblings.  Finally had a very dear conversation with his Mother Sue.

The funeral was perfect....for us.  I am sure he hated that he wasn't cremated and strewn about in his precious mountains, but funerals are for us, not those that have passed.  This wonderful small town family carried themselves like royalty.   His 7 kids all were incredible.  They inspired all that were there with their laud and honor of their father.   His brother said things that struck to the core.  Although Shane was a troubled soul and had his demons as we all do, it was obvious he was beloved and will be remembered dearly.

I can say that I ever once passed Meadow without thinking of Shane Stewart.  Every single time the voice came ...."You should stop." I can't lie, it hurts a bit to know how many times I pushed the invitation aside.   I do cherish the times I said "Yes".  But there were too many "No's" to ignore...... I will stop more now, and honor Shane by sharing time with Bonnie, his wife and kids and parents.  I will tell the stories that they have already heard over ad over again... reliving the fond, funny and  beautiful memories I was able to be a part of.  I will learn more about Shane through his kids' stories.... Stories that will undoubtedly open my heart so that I can love him even more now in his passing so that when I do visit with him again, hopefully fishing or with guitar in hand he will smile back at me like he did the very first time I met him and know of the love and respect I have for him.

Shane, you were and always will be the light of Meadow and a light in my life.