It Has a Name! The Diffusion of Responsibility

I have been pondering why it is so hard to speak up in a social setting when someone is hurting another.

I know that I have a message to pour out into the Universe to help victims find their voice, and yet, it is actually quite difficult to find my own in group meetings that have turned ugly.

I just learned that social scientists have identified this phenomenon.

It even has a name.

It is called “The Diffusion of Responsibility.”  

These social researchers have described a strong negative correlation between the number of bystanders and the likelihood of someone speaking up.  What this means is that the more people that are present and watching the conflict unfold actually decreases the chance of someone intervening.

This dynamic started to be studied in the 1960’s when a woman was murdered and there were thirty-eight witnesses. No one called the police. No one intervened. Social scientists wanted to find out why.

This social process is very real and very much alive.  Fortunately, there is also a solution!

It seems that if ONE person will speak up, the rest in the group will become supportive. In other words, it takes one person to break the ice, then the rest will follow. Researchers have shown that once someone speaks up, others will too.

Now that you know this social dynamic exists, will you make a decision to be the one?  I am!

Won Without a Word

I didn’t mean to hurt him, yet he was crushed.

Wounded in the spirit.

Unable to speak.

Unwilling to talk through the pain.

Normally, I am the peacemaker. I am the one to apologize—even when I haven’t really done anything wrong. This time I was wracking my memory to recall what I said. I couldn’t figure out how my words could have possibly become weapons of destruction. I still didn’t know.

I was trying to understand. He didn’t want to talk, only accuse.

I prayed for wisdom. I was told it wasn’t my battle, but his.

His last words were, “I think you have said enough.”

I knew differently, but I shoved the conversation I wanted to have back to the innermost recesses of my gut. My prayers would have to suffice.

It was hard to sleep. Unresolved conflict never feels good.

I forced myself to go about my day as usual, avoiding him until I thought he might be able to hear my apology, even though I still didn’t know what it was for.

There he was with a smile. He’d had a breakthrough. He wasn’t mad at me. He wasn’t mad about anything.

Perhaps this is what is meant about the unbelieving being won without a word. I can’t really wrap my head around how problems are solved without talking about them, but then again, I am not the healer of hearts.

 God is.

I Want To Be That Boy

I want to be that boy.  You know the one.

He brought a meager lunch with him. Just a few pieces of dry bread and a bit of protein. He must have heard the grown-ups talking. People were hungry. There were lots and lots of them in the gathering crowd. So many, that they only counted the men.  Five thousand. And that didn’t include him. He was just a boy, after all.

They were all there for the same reason. They wanted to hear with their own ears and see with their own eyes what had been the buzz in the marketplace. People were talking about this man. He was doing things that no one had seen before. People were being healed. People were being comforted. People’s hearts were filled with words that had never been spoken before. They came to hear more. They were hungry. They wanted fed.

This boy must have heard them talking. It was getting late. How will all of these people get food. There were just too many. The man named Phillip said it would take eight months of wages to attempt to feed them, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

The boy probably looked inside the pouch that he had with him. It wasn’t much. Just the cheapest grain made into small loaves. A couple of small fish. Really just enough for his lunch.

I am guessing God was leading this young lad. He showed what he had to Andrew. Maybe he thought that if everyone brought what they had it could stretch and at least help out.

I wonder if that boy knew his giving heart would fill up maybe twenty-thousand people. I wonder how he felt when the miracle took place. Everyone ate. Everyone was filled. And the leftovers filled up twelve baskets. One for each of the men with Him.

I want to be that boy. I want to give what I have, meager as it is. I want to see how He takes what I have and turns it into something so amazing, that people will talk about it for centuries.

Let me be that boy. Let me bring my offerings—small and insignificant as they are.

Let Him use what I have for His mighty plans.

I want to be that boy.

Pursued or Pursue?

            Today I was pondering why I am not feeling the presence of the Lord as fully as I had been just weeks earlier. I’ve done the “right” things with praying in the spirit, searching the scriptures, worshipping privately and with others as well. It is an empty feeling and I really don’t like it.

I like being pursued. I like hearing Him call my name. I am comforted in visible proof that I have been purposely chosen. By Him. For Him.

Then I realized that maybe it was just my turn. I need to pursue my true love. I need to earnestly seek Him. The Message version of Hebrews 11:6 says,

“It's impossible to please God apart from faith. And why? Because anyone who wants to approach God must believe both that he exists and that he cares enough to respond to those who seek him.”

I am long beyond questioning my beliefs about God’s existence, and frankly, I think I have always known that He loves me enough to respond to me when I come looking. Maybe that is why this rather silent season is so strange and difficult to understand. When He is this quiet, I am left wondering what happened.

I am reminded of those days when my children were very young and would not even allow me a moment of privacy to use the restroom. They needed to know I had not left them. Nothing I did would ever have given them the impression that they would ever be abandoned. They were my life, the very core of my existence, and yet a closed bathroom door seemed like an impenetrable ten-foot barbed wire wall to them.  As soon as the door opened, they would go back to their own play. They didn’t really need me. They just needed to know they had round-the-clock access. Just in case.

Is that what happens when we forget to seek God?  I mean earnestly seek Him. It’s not just reading some Bible verses or singing some praise music. I’m talking seeking His face. The staying-in-prayer-until-He-speaks kind of presence.

Psalm 63:1 says, “You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water.”

I am parched when I don’t feel Him close to me. I need His flowing rivers of water to literally flood my soul again. I will continue to seek Him until my thirst no longer overwhelms me.

I am guessing that won’t happen until Christ returns.

Find Your Voice or Fear?

This week I was in a meeting that turned very ugly. I didn’t speak up or put a stop to the character assassination that was taking place. I have dedicated my life to helping others find their voice to create a culture of kindness and caring, and here I was—unable to find my own.

I have been pondering why that happened.

There were some social dynamics in place that may have played a role. First the verbal abuser was a leader and in charge of the meeting. It has been ingrained in my very essence to be respectful of authority. In this meeting, at least in my mind, the leader had some level of authority over me. Looking back, it seems beyond ludicrous, but that dynamic was present—real or imagined.

Another factor was that the person being criticized was also in the meeting. Not only is this person also a leader, but is the leader over the entire organization. Once again, my indoctrination of social practices overruled my heart. It wasn’t “my place” seemed to take precedent over doing what was right.

I am shocked at this revelation. How can I preach to others to find their voice?  How can I tell others to stand up and speak out to make things right, and then be so stuck in obeying made-up social rules?

It is so easy for me to tell others how to speak up, and yet when the eyes are on me, my strength and resolution to do what is right are overshadowed by meaningless human protocols.

Of course, another factor in this situation was that the criticism was subtle, and sugar-coated in feigned helpfulness. Had this been obvious and outrageous abuse, I know I would not have hesitated. Instead, I was trying to understand this meeting leader’s intentions, expecting them to be good. Wanting them to be good.

It wasn’t until the meeting was almost over that I realized they weren’t.

I don’t want to believe that I operate out of fear, but evidently I still have a ways to go. Learning to find my voice means getting to the heart of what is really going on more quickly. It also means letting go of six decades of ingrained social processes.

No more can we say to ourselves, “it’s not my place.” When someone is hurting another we all have an obligation to speak up. Silence means agreement.  Thankfully, now I am more aware and will do better next time.

Forgiveness

Today I am pondering how one learns forgiveness. Some recent events took place where I found myself like Paul, doing what I know I shouldn’t and not doing what I know I should. Yet instead of finding grace and forgiveness, I was struck with the reality of a person whose hurting heart was unable to forgive. The pain was deep and will be long-lasting unless God intervenes.

I am once again reminded of Jonah. His anger toward God ran deep for so easily forgiving the Ninevites.  God tried to teach Jonah through the gourd vine and the worm about his misplaced self-righteous anger because it was God’s decision as to how He would handle the people of Nineveh.  God asked him twice if he had the right to be angry (Jonah 4:4 and 4:9).

I wonder if Jonah actually became more forgiving after this experience? I wonder if he started to believe that people can and do change?

I also am wondering why it is usually easy for me to forgive.

I have not ever been one to hold a grudge. My mother, on the other hand, was quite the opposite.

Once I had a friend that really hurt my feelings. She and I had made plans for her to spend the night with me. When she didn’t show up at the expected time, I walked over to her house and found her outside playing with the grandchildren of her neighbor’s. I casually asked why she didn’t come over to my house as we had planned. She replied that she had changed her mind and would rather play with the young children instead.  Needless to say I was hurt. She didn’t call, and she didn’t even try to soften the blow that she would rather not be with me that evening.

My mom insisted that I write her off as a friend. She forbade me spending time with her anymore. I was able to last about a week, but I wasn’t really mad at her anymore. I wanted her back in my life, so I would sneak over to her house. When my mom asked where I had been, I lied and told her I was elsewhere. This went on for many weeks before I was able to be honest and let my mom know that I had forgiven my friend.

So if I didn’t learn forgiveness from my parents, where did it come from? I wasn’t a Christian yet, so it wasn’t from a work of the Holy Spirit in my life.  I guess it really must be a character trait to be able to get over the anger and the hurt more quickly.  I know my grandfather always did, so somewhere I guess I inherited his un-mad gene.

I understand that forgiveness is easier for me than many others, but that doesn’t remove the pain of being the victim of someone else’s unforgiveness. The reality is, I am not perfect. I make mistakes. I say and do things that I shouldn’t, but my heart’s intention really is to always be a blessing. 

I am grateful for the people in my life that actually take the time to see my heart. I am also praying for the Jonah’s I encounter. May they learn the freedom of forgiveness for themselves so that perhaps they might then be able to offer it to others in their frail and raw human-ness.

Memories From My Childhood

            My earliest memories are very explicit, and in my attempts to understand my current frame of the world, I will describe some of these very early memories from my childhood.

1.              I remember visiting Mrs. Baker’s house.  She was our childless, elderly next door neighbor on Ben Avon Street, where I lived until almost my 4^th birthday.  She had this beautiful china with a blue Wedgewood design that I just adored.  I loved looking at the china and I remember thinking how very special it was.  She would pour me some milk in a tea cup and saucer, and give me some cookies or graham crackers and we would “have tea.”  I remember so much about her home.  Pretty pictures on the wall and delicate figurines were on shelves and tables throughout the house.  Intricate lace doilies lay a top most of the furniture, and there was a scent of perfume, dust, and “old” in the house.  I particularly remember the basement – a very dank, and dark cellar, with a dirt floor.  It smelled musty and was such a contrast to the pleasant kitchen where we had our tea.  I remember doing my best to not touch anything, but what I treasure most is the undivided attention that Mrs. Baker gave me when I came for tea.  I knew that she adored my brother Harry, but when I came, she made me feel special too.  I loved her for that, because at home, I felt like Harry was the prince of our house and could do no wrong and I could do no right.  At Mrs. Baker’s she loved me for me, and did not try to correct me or tell me what was wrong.  She just allowed me to be who I was.

2.              I remember going to Huckleberry’s with my Dad on a Sunday morning while my brothers were in Sunday School.  I was not yet in Kindergarten, so this was special Daddy and me time.  He would hold out his pinkie for me to grab as we walked to the restaurant, and I was his princess.  He let me choose whatever I wanted for breakfast, and showed me off to all of his friends.  Some of the men would ask him who was “his date,” and he would tell them that I was his “best girl.”  When breakfast was over, we would go to the train station and wait for a train to come into the depot.  He and I loved waiting for the trains and hearing all of the loud sounds that they made.  Sometimes, in the spring and summer, we would visit a little deer farm, and I would feed some fawns with a bottle or give some grain to pheasants.  I remember not wanting the morning to end, but it always did, and we would have to go pick up my brothers and then I was just lost in the crowd again.

3.              I remember a time when I was about two and half, and I was supposed to be napping in my crib.  I climbed out (got my bed for my third birthday), and saw my brothers and parents outside on the swing set.  We were supposed to go to Conneaut Lake Park when I got up from my nap.  I saw a bottle of baby powder on the corner of the dresser and a penny.  I put the penny in my mouth, and then shook the baby powder all over the floor of my room.  I don’t know why I did it – I just liked seeing it come out of the bottle and it smelled good.  I heard my Mom and jumped into my crib again, but I swallowed the penny.  I was so scared she would find out that I swallowed the penny, that even when she started yelling at me and telling me that we couldn’t go to the Park and that I ruined the day for everyone in the family because of the powder mess that I had made, I remember being more worried that she would know I put the penny in my mouth.  My mom told me several times that I ruined everyone’s plans, and that I needed to think about how every one else felt.  In later years,   I told my Mom this story, and she always says there was no penny.  But I recall swallowing it.  I even remember what it felt like sliding down my throat when this sense of horror came over me that I would be in so much trouble.  I had a picture of Hey Diddle Diddle on the wall in my bedroom, and I remember thinking that the cow jumping over the moon was disappointed in me too.

4.              When we moved to Charlotte, I was almost 4.  I remember losing my glasses and when I tried to tell my Mom that I couldn’t find them, she locked me out of the house and told me that I could not come back in until I found them.  I looked everywhere I could think of around the house, and tried to go back inside.  My Mom asked if I found my glasses, and I told her I hadn’t.  She said that I couldn’t come in until I found them.  I remember feeling that I would have to live outside by myself for the rest of my life because I couldn’t find them.  I cried and cried and she did not come to help me.  She hollered out the door to keep looking.  I remembered that I had visited a neighbor that day, and I went up the street to her house.  My glasses were on the seat of her sandbox, and I remember thinking that now I don’t have to be outside all by myself forever and my Mom would be happy.  But she yelled at me some more when I came in, and told me that I had to take care of my glasses, and she barely spoke to me until dinner.  I remember wondering why she wasn’t happy that I found my glasses, but still mad that I had lost them in the first place.

5.              Another Charlotte memory was when a boy named Peter who lived up the street from me decided it would be fun to cross a six-lane highway to get to a school with an open gymnasium. He wanted to play basketball there. We crossed that road three different times before we got caught. A police officer saw us crossing the highway and picked us up. Peter’s mother thought I was a bad influence so she didn’t let me come over again for many weeks. Although I was only four, I knew I had made a bad decision. If that had been today, my mother would have probably been arrested, but back then, the responsibility was placed where it belonged—on the one who made the mistake. That was me. I remember being relieved that we got caught because I didn’t like crossing that road, nor did I like basketball anyway.

6.              One day in Charlotte, there was a big snowstorm.  I was at Nursery School and the carpool mom told me that she couldn’t take me home because of the hill we lived on and that I would have to go to her house.  I really don’t have the actual memory, but my Mom tells me that I gave her explicit directions to get to my Nana and Grampa’s house, and I spent the night there.  What I do recall about that night was my worry that I didn’t have my pajamas there.  Nana gave me one of Grampa’s undershirts to wear, and I was horrified.  I kept telling her that my brothers would laugh at me because I looked so funny in Grampa’s undershirt.  Nana kept telling me that my brothers couldn’t see me in the undershirt, but I just felt like they would KNOW.  I was so embarrassed and humiliated and Nana tried to reassure me that I was just being silly.  I remember thinking that she was just trying to make excuses for not having any girl-stuff at her house for me, and that my brothers would indeed know how ridiculous I looked, and I would NEVER live it down.

7.              I was 2-1/2 and our dog died.  My dad and brothers were going to bury her in the ravine across the street from our house.  I insisted on tagging along.  It was winter, and the path down the steep ravine was covered in ice and snow.  I slipped and tumbled all the way down.  My Dad was so worried. It really upset him.  I thought it was funny and wanted to do it again!  I think it is odd that I don’t remember anything that my brothers said or did, but I do remember somersaulting all the way down.  I also wasn’t really sad about the dog either, but we hadn’t had her very long.

8.              I remember singing in the car.  When we sang songs, I always felt alive and a part of something important in our family.  Everyone was kind to each other, and we didn’t argue when we sang.

9.              My Mom read Mr. Popper’s Penguins to us when I was 4.  We were in Charlotte, and I remember being in the den with the shiny paneling on the walls and sitting on the sofa next to my Mom, snuggled close to her.  She did enjoy reading to us.  I know she read other books too, but I only remember this one.  I asked her to read more, and it seemed it was always time for bed.

10.           When I was in Kindergarten, I remember meeting my friend Davey Kirkpatrick and we would walk to school together, picking up others on our way.   I remember his Mom asking him if he “made a tinkle” which he would do, and then we would kiss each other before heading out the door.  Davey was the valedictorian of our graduating class and never gave me the time of day past 4^th grade.  But I stole many kisses from him in Kindergarten!

11.           The best part of kindergarten was playing at the sink.  If we were very, very good, we would get coloring in the soapy water, and we could wash the toy dishes.  I loved washing dishes.  The water felt so good, and washing the suds off of the toy dishes was so satisfying.  When no one would play with me, I would just go wash dishes.

12.           I wanted Mom to teach me to read and she told me I would learn to read at school.  I remember the first day of First grade when we finally got our reading book.  I opened the cover, and was so disappointed to learn that the reading on the first page was:   “Oh.”   The second page—“Oh!  Oh!” and the third page “Oh! Oh! Oh!”  I was angry at my Mom.  She said that I was going to learn to read!  Like Mr. Popper’s Penguins and Heidi and Nancy Drew.  This was NOT reading!  I made up my mind that day that I did not like reading (and never really did again until college).  Who says, “Oh! Oh!” anyway?

13.           My first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Spencer.  I loved her dearly.  She had such a sweet tone of voice and always treated me like I really was somebody special.  Then she broke her back and we had a substitute from October to May.  When Mrs. Spencer came back in May, I was angry at her.  She let me down by not being there.  I remember thinking that I should have been happy that she was back, but I was just too mad at her.

14.           The summer after first grade, I coerced Kenny Kuhn to walk all of the way (almost three miles) to our county fair with me. He was only five. We spent the entire day at the fair – a five year old and a six year old, without any adult supervision. I made Kenny get in a ride that scared him and he cried. I thought he was a big baby, but I didn’t like it that the coins that had been in my pocket came out and were flying all around the little rocket we were in. When we walked home, I thought I knew a shortcut, but it took way longer than I thought it should. We both started crying because we thought we were lost and would be in trouble. After a rest and a good cry, we kept on, and we finally ended up where we knew the rest of the way home. Kenny was mad at me for a long time for making him go with me. No one ever knew we spent the whole day at the fair all by ourselves.

15.           Miss Lewis was my second grade teacher.  I loved her too, but for a more important reason.  Miss Lewis taught me about trust and forgiveness.  We were supposed to read a book every week and write a book report.  Since I hated to read, I made up my book reports.  I vividly recall walking home from school, running author’s names through my mind and trying to come up with a first and last name that would sound realistic.  Then I would work on a title hoping that Miss Lewis would never know that I really hadn’t read a book.  One day, Miss Lewis read my fake report, and said that she had never heard of this book before.  I told her that my Mom took me to the Public Library, which was the truth that she did, but of course I was trying to deceive Miss Lewis into believing that the book was one I actually read from there.  She looked kind of side-ways at me, and right then, I KNEW I was busted.  I knew she knew that I had lied and I felt so ashamed, but didn’t know how to get out of it.  I hated myself for letting her down.  But instead, Miss Lewis took my hand and led me back to her book table and said, “let me introduce you to a friend of mine,”  She handed me “Curious George,” and showed me some of the pictures.  She then told me that she thought that I would really like to read about him.  Of course, I was delighted in the story, and even happier that I actually read a book and didn’t have to lie on my book report.  Miss Lewis taught me about dignity and the need to save face that day as well.  I love you Miss Lewis!

16.           When we lived in Charlotte, we had a crawl space under our house with an entrance in the back.  Harry loved to crawl in there and just sit by himself.  I wanted to go with him, but it was his special place and he really didn’t want his baby sister there.  So he told me that there were snakes and rats in there, and I cried because I didn’t want him in there with snakes and rats.

17.           My favorite memory of playing with my brother Harry was on a very rainy day.  We couldn’t go outside, and he invented this game with rubber bands and the box of plastic figurines that my grandfather had given me.  These were tiny hard plastic figurines representing many different countries and cultures, and I loved playing with them.  However, from a brother’s perspective – they made a great army.  We divided them up, and lined up our army on our side.  Then from a prone position, we would shoot rubber bands to knock down the opponent’s army.  Of course, Harry always won, but I loved playing this game with him.

18.           A bad memory that I have is when I was about eight, Harry had some of his friends over, and they paid me a quarter to show them my naked body.  I did it and I remember running into the bathtub to hide.  Harry was angry at me for doing what they said, and he made them go home.  I remember being sad for upsetting Harry, and I don’t really think I was ever really ashamed of what I did.  I just wanted people to like me, and thought that if I did what they asked, I would somehow fit in.  I tried to get Harry to not be mad at me anymore, but he didn’t want to ever talk about it again.

19.           We used to play a game called Inky Binky Boo.  It was an indoor Hide and Seek game that my brothers made up.  Harry always had the best hiding places, and I could never find him.  I remember hiding in the same exact place he had used for his turn (it was in his closet), and he was so annoyed with me.  He called me stupid and said he didn’t want to play with me because it wasn’t fun. 

Somehow, writing these memories helps me to make sense of my world. While filled with so many emotions, I know that these are so much a part of what has made me me. Grateful!

So Hard to Wait

I am being told to have more patience. I wonder why waiting is so difficult for me. I know that so many better things happen when the timing is aligned with God’s plans and not my own, and yet, I am excited to get my next book into print.

This new one is a Christian-based book to help children deal with the bullies in their lives. It is full of scriptures put into kid-friendly terms that address a different aspect of being a victim of bullying – one for each letter of the alphabet. It is called,

“The A B C’s of Bullying and What God Wants Me to Know. My 7^th grade friend Riley did another outstanding job with amazing illustrations, and I really want this book in print.

It has been accepted at a vanity press, but that requires more capital outlay upfront. The manuscript has been sent to multiple literary agents. I have had three rejections, and haven’t heard from six others. One acknowledged receipt, but said it could be six weeks before a decision is made. I want the book in my hands.

The Holy Spirit is telling me to wait. It is a bit easier to do since I really don’t have the funds anyway, but my heart is anxious about getting the publishing process underway. I am pondering why the wait is so hard for me.

My piece in the latest Chicken Soup for the Soul came out this week. I should be so thrilled that more of my writing is out in the world, and yet, all I can think about is this embryo waiting to be birthed.

Thank you, Papa for helping me to stay my mind. I want to remain steadfast on You and not on the results in my life. Thank you for reminding me that this is all about You anyway.

Precious Moments

            Now that I have retired, I am able to substitute as a principal several days each month. Being a sub has provided a whole new perspective for me. Since the doors of the school buildings are now locked for safety precautions, and I don’t have to attend the bajillion morning meetings that consume a principal’s time, I am able to stand at the door and greet the children as they enter the building. I am able to just be present without the hundreds of thoughts swirling through my brain about all of the “stuff” in the life of a building administrator. 

            Yesterday, I had the opportunity to greet our district’s kindergarten and first grade students as they separated from their parents to come into the school. It was fascinating to me to see the different ways parents chose to say their goodbyes. Some dropped them at the street and allowed their children to walk the entire walkway to the front door unescorted. Some held their hand right up to the door. Some carried their children’s bookbags for them. Some had to remind their child to give a kiss goodbye. One father hid around a corner to watch as his daughter entered the building, not wanting her to know he was still keeping his eyes on her. A mom had some special kissing routine that I had never seen before. She kissed her son’s face in every location – the eyebrow, the chin, the cheeks, the nose. I had to wonder how much longer he will let her do that in public, but it sure was touching!

            The one theme that resonated with me, however, was that no matter how the drop-off took place, the message I heard over and over again, was “I love you.” School personnel sometimes think parents don’t really care about their children because they do not hold the same values about education as typical middle class families do. But those values really have nothing to do with love. It warmed my heart to see children hear those precious words as they entered the building, separating for the next seven and a half hours. It was a wonder to behold to see these five and six year olds move from home to school with a hug and kiss and a quick “I love you,” knowing it would sustain them until the end of the school day.

            Precious moments do hold much power and I was grateful to be able to spend some time actually noticing!

            

It's All About Relationship

I was reading my John Maxwell Bible this morning, and a piece on leadership smacked me in the face. Maxwell described leadership in three ways. He said that leadership from a distance could, if done effectively, produce an amount of influence.  Leadership up close can create a state where followers want to emulate the leader. However, leadership through relationship creates an impact, in other words, growth and positive change happen through building trusting relationships.

This is such a valuable framework for all leaders to understand. If we want to see positive changes take place, we simply must invest time to know those we lead. When relationships are formed, people are willing to stand in the gap. They are more willing to overlook shortcomings. They are more likely to speak words of support.

I have witnessed leadership from all three views. I have personally experienced the value of building relationship. I know what it means to have others help fight my battles out of respect and belief in my core values. I also have witnessed leadership from a distance where no effort is made to connect with those within the organization. Then when there are trials facing the leader, few are willing to stand in defense or be supportive. Greater division ensues, and the “us” vs. “them” becomes magnified.

It is all about relationship. Current research tells us that nothing is more important. It makes me wonder why some in leadership positions cannot understand how the simple act of connecting with others will reap mountains of benefits. Relationship building is the greatest win-win and of course, having others who really care and value one’s leadership is a treasure beyond measure bonus.

Who Is Responsible?

            Today I found out that a high school student who recently made a terrible decision that resulted in tragedy for many others was one that I had at my school when he was very young.  While in first grade, he made a calculated and very bad decision that put him in a very dangerous situation.  When his family came in to discuss what we planned to do to ensure this never happened again, I quickly realized that they would not allow the six year old to own any of the responsibility. I did my best to apologize for our part, but I also knew in my heart that he also played a role.  He waited until his teacher was out for the day, and he created a multi-level plan to carry out his bad decision. I knew he had to understand his responsibility in what happened, but his family kept saying, “he’s only six.”  So in other words, young children don’t need to be responsible for their decisions.  We did not have a good resolution to this situation and the family moved him out of our district.

            This brought to mind something I did when I was four. A boy in my neighborhood thought it was a great idea to go across a very busy, six-lane highway to a school that had an open gym in the summer. When we crossed that highway, we could play basketball. I remember thinking how wrong this was, and I was very worried about getting caught. We didn’t get caught until the third time across the highway. When the police officer took us to our parents, his mom thought I was the bad influence and forbade him from playing with me for many weeks. I don’t remember my punishment, but I know it wasn’t my Mom that was in trouble – it was me. Of course it was a different era then. Today, a parent would be held liable for a four year old running across a busy highway unattended, but back then, the responsibility was placed where it belonged. I knew, even at four, I was making a bad decision, and frankly, I think I was relieved that we finally did get caught.  Yes, I was “only four”, but I knew the wrong decision I had made, and I knew there were consequences for that bad decision.

         Last night, my daughter and her family were at an ice festival. The temperature was unseasonably warm and the sculptures were quickly melting. She saw a young child running her hands over a dripping sculpture and gently told her that her hands would make the sculpture melt even faster.  Her mother glanced over and said, "she's four and she doesn't understand no."  Really? I think a 15 month old understands the word no!

            So back to this teenager. I am wondering how these recent events might have played out differently had his family reacted in a different way when he was six. He did play a role in that bad decision, but was told it wasn’t his fault. It was the fault of the grown-ups in charge. Thus the seeds of wrong belief are planted. When we blame those around us for our own actions, we never grow up into the kind of responsibility necessary in life.

            I am so sad at the news of these recent events, and I take no pleasure in knowing that I saw reason to be concerned many years ago when accountability was not taught, but my plea is that parents must understand that once a child is able to make a plan to do what they know they should not do, we must teach that actions have consequences and we must own the responsibility for our decisions.

Hope #3

Guard my life and rescue me;

do not let me be put to shame, for I take refuge in you.
May integrity and uprightness protect me,
    because my hope, Lord, is in you. Psalm 25:20-21

Today two things happened that gave me cause to continue exploring the topic of hope. 

First, I was offered the opportunity to publish my latest book with a vanity press. I really like this publisher and I like the people and the detailed support that they offer. However, it is a vanity press, which means I front the money. I have done this five times already with two different publishing houses, and have yet to break even with any of my books.

Secondly, I received a rejection from a literary agent.

Now, I could be very sad about the rejection, but I really am not. I am so grateful that this agent actually took the time to respond back to me in less than twenty-four hours. I have been waiting in silence with four other agents for the past three months.  I so appreciate his kind words to encourage me to continue my creative path.

That said, I am standing in a place I don’t like.  I can get my book out there with this vanity press. They will do a great job and it would be such a blessing to have my book in my hands and the hands of others.  Yet, I was reminded of something very important:  This new book is not my offering to the world, but rather a gift from God to use me for His purposes. I know I am to wait for the right agent. I know I am to stand in my integrity because I know where I place my hope.  If it is true that God gave me this book (which I believe that He did), then I guess it is up to Him to open the doors for that to happen.

With that said, I will wait in hope (and with much patience) for the door to open.  Either an agent will find me, or the sum of money to self-publish will land in my lap.  I can bask in the comfort of knowing that it isn’t my problem any more.

Then I remembered—It actually never was!

Hope -- Day 2

Guide me in your truth and teach me, for you are God my Savior,
    and my hope is in you all day long.

 Psalm 25:5

As I am pondering the topic of hope on this, Day 2 of my quest, I happened upon this lovely verse, Psalm 25:5. I began thinking about what it means to hope in God all day long, and I quickly realized how I fall so short of the mark here. 

I have hope in other things besides God. I really don’t want to think that I do, but it is the truth.

I hope that my broken elbow will stop hurting so I can get back to a normal routine.

I hope that I make a good meal for my husband and the house gets cleaned.

I hope that the bank account can stay full enough to pay the bills this month.

I hope that my children will call me.

I hope that the work I have to do to prepare for my University class will go smoothly.

I could go on and on and on.

There are many other places that I place my hope, yet the Psalmist is telling us to put our hope in Him alone.  It is when we do this, that we are guided by His truth and His teachings. 

He is God my Savior.  What am I saved from?

I am saved from the agony of physical pain, the monotony of everyday life, the tyranny of finances, the fear of broken relationships, the nagging lies of not being worthy or good enough.  Again, the list could continue forever.

The point is – as we place our hope in Him and Him alone, the other stuff just falls into place. 

I know when the angst of life gets a hold of me, it is a strong cue to reconnect. That gnawing feeling is evidence that I have traveled away from the vine and am not abiding there.  When I remember the proper order—God first, then the other stuff, all of the negativity seems to vanish, and what may have looked like overwhelming problems are now in balance once again.

It is a simple thing.  My hope is in You, Lord—all day long. It is really that simple!