Why It's Hard to Serve Others

Photo by Fernando Venzano on Unsplash

Hurricane Katrina pounded the US Gulf Coast with relentless ferocity for 8 days in August of 2005. It caused an estimated $125 billion (or more) in damage — including the destruction of 300,000 homes — across 90,000 square miles of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. More than 1,800 people lost their lives during the storm.

The White House Office of Faith estimated that 550,000 volunteers flocked to the area in the hours, days, and weeks following the storm. In the second year following the storm, another 50,000 people were added to that number as people continued an unparalleled show of support for those impacted by the worst hurricane in recorded history.

I live in a city 1,700 miles from the hardest-hit area, yet organizations near where I live were the first to respond with relief supplies. 14 semi-loads of food, water, and other life-sustaining items were deployed within hours of the call for help with millions of dollars of additional supplies and tens of thousands of volunteers to follow.

It’s one of those periods in US history that reminds me what has made the United States of America such a wonderful place to live. The selfless service given by so many inspired and humbled me.

I remember watching from afar, wishing I had the kind of job where I could just drop everything and go help in a crisis.

It’s true that grand gestures of service like this require a measure of sacrifice from the giver. Given the numbers involved, it’s possible, even likely, that some among the ranks of volunteers quit or lost jobs because of their service.

On an unusually warm day in October, my youngest son played his last basketball game of the season. We arrived a few minutes late, and as we approached the school where he plays, a woman approached behind us carrying a large number of items awkwardly perched in her cradled arms. I pulled the door open and stepped aside to let her in, quickly following her to open the second door.

“Thank you,” she said. “I definitely couldn’t have done that today.”

Of course, if I hadn’t been there, she would have figured it out. People have a remarkable ability to conjure solutions to problems on the spot. I’ve been in her situation before, and have carefully used my foot to hook the door handle and fling it open. She also had the option of setting her load down, opening the door, then holding the door with her body as she collected her water bottles, blankets, and purse.

The service I rendered is less remarkable than the service rendered by those 600,000 people who served the victims of Katrina. It’s the apparent disparity in the luster and publicity of the service that often causes us to lose sight of the fact that opportunities to serve others abound every day.

I didn’t save that woman’s life by opening the door for her but I did make her life a little bit easier for a brief moment. Service, after all, is simply an act of helpful activity.

Mahatma Gandhi’s quote, “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others” is probably the most quoted statement on service ever spoken. I also like this statement from Charles Gill, “There are many wonderful things that will never be done if you don’t do them.” And, for those who believe in God, the words, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God”¹ will likely resonate.

The reality is that service isn’t hard. What can be hard, at times, is recognizing when we’re actually serving someone else. We look at service given during terrible disasters and lose sight of the fact that service opportunities exist everywhere. We serve coworkers when we go out of our way to compliment them. We serve family members when we pick up a dish that they left on the counter. We serve neighbors when we say hello to them on the street or stop to talk to them in the grocery store. We even serve others when we choose not to engage in conflict even when their opinion differs from ours.

In the past, I’ve engaged in meaningful reflection on my day which included two important questions:

• What is one way that someone served me today?
• What is one way I served someone else today?

In my reflection, I would take a minute or less to write down the answers to those two questions. I was often surprised by the thoughts that came to mind.

One notable example occurred a few years ago when I was on an early morning run with a friend. We were talking about things of great importance to us. Something my friend said pulled a core memory from deep in my mind that struck a surprisingly tender chord. Turns out, running hard and crying harder don’t go well together. I ugly-cried in front of my friend; something that few people have witnessed. I was momentarily embarrassed for myself until I remembered how much my friend loved me. Embarrassment fled faster than we had been running, as we paused on that dark stretch of road.

That experience became a new core memory for me. I’ve reflected back on and written about that moment many times.

My friend had no idea that his comment would stir so profound a response from me. After that, he didn’t have to say anything. His presence alone was a simple, yet remarkable, act of service.

If you’re struggling to recognize the service you give for what it is, I invite you to take on the two-question challenge and ask yourself every day, “what is one way that someone served me today” and “what is one way I served someone sle today.” I think you’ll be surprised just how often you’re touched by the small and simple things of everyday life.

¹ The original text for this quote can be found here.

A Mark of True Leadership

 

Photo by Daniil Silantev on Unsplash

I realize the title of the article is a bit on the nose since I’m going to talk about a great leader I knew named Mark, but the opportunity was just too good to pass up.

Mark was an unassuming man, a carpenter by trade. He was also the leader assigned to our little group of scouts with the Boy Scouts of America when I turned twelve. I joined the troop, excited at the prospect of becoming an Eagle Scout as fast as I could.

Mark loved his profession, and while he didn’t make buckets of money doing it, he was good at it. His quiet nature belied the fact that he had the physical strength and mental fortitude to accomplish just about anything he put his mind to.

In our area, there were a lot of boys that belonged to our troop. Mark, along with two assistants, planned and carried out innumerable activities for our band of misfits. To the best of my recollection, at its peak we had something like twenty boys in our troop. That was probably small compared to some troops in other areas of the country, but our group also met four times more than other troops and mixed in camping almost every month.

Mark and his assistants pulled that off while maintaining their employment and still finding time for their own families. Mark, in particular, had a young family that needed his time and attention.

Back then, the BSA worked hard to give as many young people opportunities to lead as possible. I think I was perhaps thirteen when I was asked to be the Senior Patrol Leader of our group. The Scout Handbook did a good job outlining responsibilities, but it took leaders like Mark to really help a boy learn what to do.

Mark and I met roughly once a week with either of his two assistants so I could learn about my duties as the Senior Patrol Leader. A young man’s responsibilities were tailored to the capacity of a person with little to no leadership experience; one who may not even have any natural leadership ability. The responsibilities were designed to help young men grow into those roles. It was usually about the time a person got good at it that the responsibility was given to another young man.

It seems that we’re all anxious to be heard these days, and people who are placed in positions of authority often feel the need to do whatever it takes to enhance their own position. None of us likely has to think hard to come up with examples of people who use others as stepping stones to achieve their own aims.

People like Mark are becoming increasingly hard to find. Mark was the kind of guy who exemplified the notion that a true leader does what they can with what they have to help other people become better.

Mark didn’t have much by way of financial means, but he gave his best efforts to building up the people around him. In particular, he expended tremendous energy to help young men gain practical leadership experience.

There’s a closely related trait that real leaders have, and that is they rarely seek personal attention or gain for their accomplishments. They just quietly go about doing what they see needs to be done. In particular, as he supported the young men in our troop, Mark helped to create and nurture leadership qualities in each of us.

Mother Teresa said:

Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.

Consciously or otherwise, that’s a sentiment that I’m sure Mark patterned his life after.

While I haven’t thought about Mark in years, jotting down this little missive reminded me that his influence helped established a pattern in my life for how I’ve approached a number of leadership opportunities. Mark taught me that leaders don’t need to shout to be heard. Real leaders are the kind of people who elevate themselves by lifting others.

Ownership Is Accountability, Not Control

 

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Years ago, I was in a Central American country as a member of a large volunteer organization. We had strict rules about where we could go and do while we were there, and sightseeing wasn’t generally on the approved list of things to do.

One day, I was driving a carload of people from the organization around the capital city. Knowing there were some amazing landmarks only a few blocks away from where we were, I decided a quick detour wouldn’t hurt.

Those few blocks happened to take us into an area of the capital where we were not allowed to go.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the National Palace and everyone jumped out of the van. We all took turns climbing up on a small security post, getting a picture in front of the historic structure, then we piled back into the van and went on our way.

Of the twelve or so people in the van, my friend and I were the only ones who knew we weren’t supposed to go near the historic district of the capital. The two of us made the great miscalculation of telling the other ten not to mention it to our group leader — a man we referred to as El Jefe (the boss) — that we’d gone to the national palace because it was in the off-limits area.

The existence of off-limits areas was as much for our own safety as anything else. Strict adherence to the rules was also paramount. Almost as soon as I told them we weren’t supposed to be there, whispers started drifting to the front of the van.

One of our group finally spoke up. He said the right thing to do was to let El Jefe know what we had done.

I was immediately sick to my stomach because I knew what they would all say: that I had knowingly taken them outside of our allowed travel zone for the sake of getting some pictures.

My friend and I were the only ones left in the van when a message came over our pager from El Jefe (yes, this was in the days of pagers) that we needed to return to the office immediately.

For our group, the consequences of breaking rules ranged from gentle correction to being sent home before our volunteer time was complete.

My friend and I were almost certain that this particular violation, and the “tone” of El Jefe’s message, would be grounds for both of us getting sent home.

My stomach was twisted in knots when we arrived at the office. The elevator ride to the fifth floor of the office building was one of the longest rides of my life.

No sooner had we opened the main office door than we heard El Jefe shouting for us to come to his office.

With our heads down, we walked into his office, assured our travel papers would already be in process.

“Look at me.” He said, sternly.

It took me at least twice as long as the elevator ride to lift my gaze to meet his.

One relevant side note is that I had been working with El Jefe for a long time, and I respected him deeply. I never wanted to do anything to disappoint him because his approval meant everything to me.

My eyes met his. I was the instigator, so I knew whatever the punishment, I would bear the brunt of it.

“I’ve got a bunch of guys out there who feel terrible about breaking the rules.” He said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

That was it. He didn’t say another word. He just returned to whatever he was doing before we came into the office.

Stunned, we walked slowly back to our van and returned to our apartment.

I continued working closely with El Jefe for almost a year after that experience and he never brought it up again. He never used that experience to remind me of the importance of following the rules or of my “failure.”

As part of that volunteer organization, I had certain assigned responsibilities. I knew what was expected of me, and El Jefe only got directly involved when he needed to.

He had high expectations of me and gave me his complete trust. He also never asked me to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. Because of the rugged terrain of the country, as volunteers moved around, I was often assigned to pick them up from bus stations in the middle of the night. It didn’t matter the time of day: if I was up, I knew El Jefe would also be awake. That single fact gave me a lot of confidence because I knew, in an emergency situation, he would always be available.

El Jefe understood well what it meant to lead by accountability rather than control. Training for my responsibilities came with implicit understanding of the accountability associated with those responsibilities. After that, he focused his efforts on the things for which he was accountable and let me do my part. He rarely intervened in anything unless I asked for his help.

It’s been a lot of years since that experience. I know I disappointed El Jefe that day, but he never shamed me. What I learned from that experience is the trust that El Jefe placed in me. He wasn’t controlling, and he never used fear or micromanagement to get what he wanted. He made it clear that I owned my responsibilities and that I was responsible for my actions.

If I can be so cliché for a moment. Leadership isn’t about having power over others; it’s about empowering them through clear expectations and accountability. El Jefe gave me room to take the training I had been given then grow into my responsibilities. Of course, he knew I was going to screw it up sometimes. It’s interesting that his approach gave me a sense of responsibility that carried a lot more weight than punishment ever could.

Accountability isn’t about control. It’s about creating a space with well-defined boundaries — founded on trust — in which a person can thrive and grow.

That’s real leadership.

A Sense of Where You Are

 

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My dad remarried in 1994 not long after my mom passed away following a lengthy battle with cancer. My dad and bonus mom decided it would be fun to send the kids to Disneyland — a chance to get to know each other better, I suppose—while they had their honeymoon a little closer to home.

My dad handed the keys to our family van to his parents, and my five siblings piled in with them. I don’t remember the circumstances why I had to fly to California while the rest of the family drove, but I left the day following the rest of my family’s departure.

I was always a nervous kid and remember my dad emphasizing to his dad the importance of being at the airport when I arrived the following day.

I flew to San Diego where we would stay the night then spend the following day at Sea World before driving north to Anaheim.

My flight was scheduled to arrive in San Diego at around noon. The instruction: I would exit the airport at the appointed terminal where my grandparents and siblings would be waiting for me.

In 1994, the Salt Lake City International airport was nothing like the bustling hub it is today nor were any of the companion restrictions in place that were imposed after 9–11. My parents walked me right to the gate, I hugged them, and got on the plane.

I arrived at the San Diego airport to a scene I’d never witnessed.

People were everywhere!

It took all the maneuvering skills I had learned playing basketball to avoid crashing into people at every turn.

I followed the signs carefully and made my way out of the airport onto the crowded sidewalk. There was no sign of my grandparents or siblings anywhere in the immediate area.

I walked up and down the length of the sidewalk in front of the airport for more than an hour, looking for signs of our maroon-colored van or any familiar face, my anxiety growing with each passing minute. Mind you, this was all before the ubiquity of cell phones so there was no possibility of texting someone or sharing my location.

Ninety minutes in, I tried calling home, collect, from a pay phone but my parents weren’t around to accept the call.

Over the loud speaker, I kept hearing notifications that such and such a person should pick up one of the white courtesy phones and dial a particular number.

After about two hours, I decided to give the courtesy phone a try. The attendant I spoke to was very friendly but indicated there was no way she could ask my grandpa to meet me somewhere for safety reasons. However, they did say they could page him to call a number on the white courtesy phone.

I identified myself as a minor when I spoke to the attendant, so in retrospect it does seem really strange that airport security (pre-TSA) was never involved. I was literally left to my own devices.

Every few minutes, I heard the airport paging system page my grandpa to pick up a white courtesy phone and call the indicated number.

No response.

More than three hours had passed and I was on the verge of panic. Then, at a distance that seemed like miles from where I was (it was probably less than 1,000 feet), I spotted my grandpa. I still remember the muted pastel shirt he was wearing when I saw him.

Giving up concern for bumping into people, I pushed my way through the crowd then practically started screaming his name when I thought I was close enough for him to hear me over the noise of people and cars. I continued pushing and yelling until I finally caught his attention.

Breathless, I reached my grandpa and threw my arms around him. I tried hard not to cry, but the relief I felt was almost overwhelming.

My grandpa was not a great driver, and it turns out he had caused a minor accident during a busy time on a busy road which turned into a long delay getting to the airport.

It was the first time I had ever traveled more than a few miles from home without family or friends. I knew, however, that a carefully-made plan was in place to ensure I would be able to make my way from airplane to grandparents without any issues.

Even though there was an accident, the plan didn’t change. It was just delayed. They arrived, and with an interesting story to tell. Once we were all safely together, my anxiety disappeared (eventually).

We still got to enjoy Sea World and Disneyland, and we still arrived back home to our parents on the appointed day.

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” John Lennon gets credit for this though I’m sure the general sentiment predates him — probably back to our hunter/gatherer ancestors.

I can reach back and judge the delay I had as a minor one. However, I’m speaking from 30+ years of experience since that happened. To my 15-year old self, it was a traumatic experience.

In life, some people get really good at navigating the inevitable delays — long and short — while others will always struggle. We all know people (or perhaps are people) who lose patience quickly when something doesn’t go according to plan. I used to be that way all the time, but as I’ve aged I’ve started choosing not to let delays ruffle my feathers (as much).

Some experiences in life are really hard. Some of the inevitable delays come in the form of prolonged health challenges, loss of employment, inability to care for loved ones, or even death.

At fifteen years old, the emotional toll of my experience was significant. Major delays and setbacks in life often come with a high emotional toll. Having a sense of where we are, metaphorically speaking, is the only way to navigate those experiences without allowing ourselves to become the experience.

How we respond to life-altering experiences (both good and bad) comes with, well, experience. After all, experience is what we get when we don’t get what we want.

Looking forward, my fifteen year old self couldn’t know that the experience in San Diego was only a preview of the delays and detours of life, but plans rarely unfold how we want.

When we’re open to the possibility of learning from those “undesirable” experiences, we often end up with the ability to help someone else better navigate similar experiences in their own lives.

Those delays and detours will always be part of life. The question is: what will you do with the ones you encounter?

I have another really funny story from that same Disneyland vacation with my grandparents that I’ll tell another time.

Take Care Not to Give Too Much for Whistles

 

Photo by Jakob Braun on Unsplash

Until I was 12 years old or so, my prized possession was a small, stuffed lion that I had for as long as I could remember. When I made my bed in the morning (I really did make my bed most mornings), that little lion would sit proudly on my pillow until night came when I would tuck it into bed with me.

When my older brother and I decided to convert our bunk bed into a trundle-style bed, there wasn’t room for my little lion on the pillow when I pushed my bed under my brother’s for the day. So, I would place him atop the mound of stuffed animals in my “pet net” that hung from the corner of my room. He would watch over the room majestically until I’d pull him down again each night.

That lion was my favorite non-human companion for years, and thinking back on my little lion reminds me of something Benjamin Franklin once wrote. In November of 1779, Franklin shared a story in a letter to a Madame Brillon, which came to be known as The Whistle. In it, Franklin recalled how, when he was seven, he eagerly spent all the money in his pockets to buy a whistle that had caught his ear.

He reported going home, whistling all over the house, but recounted:

My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

In his letter to Madame Brillon, Franklin shared that the lesson he learned was “when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don’t give too much for the whistle; and I saved my money.”

Most kids don’t think about things in terms of monetary value. Whoever purchased that lion for me probably spent under $5 for it in 1979. $5 today won’t even buy a lousy meal at [insert the fast food restaurant of your choice].

That little lion was a major fixture in my life for more than 12 years. I took the relatively little amount of money someone spent and stretched the value of what it purchased out over more than a decade. While they likely didn’t know it, I would consider that $5 some of the best money they ever spent.

Like Mr. Franklin, eventually I grew up. I don’t remember at what point I stopped sleeping with that careworn lion in my bed. Eventually, he was sent off — along with the rest of my stuffed animals — to the thrift store.

Cherished (and difficult) memories from childhood often serve to define our character as we age, but as we age there’s opportunity for each of us to find those dusty memories that aren’t at our core, clean them off a bit, and learn something valuable from them.

I haven’t thought about that little lion in decades, but apart from the people that surrounded me in my earliest years, that lion was something I loved like a dear friend.

From his whistle experience, Benjamin Franklin made the observation that, in life, far too many of us give “too much for the whistle,” whatever that whistle might represent in our lives.

The parting thought in recounting his story is this:

In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.

Franklin’s lesson is a valuable one that raises the question, how many of us pay too much for our own whistles. We exhaust ourselves in the pursuit of status, stuff, and social validation, investing far more than what things are truly worth. Sometimes, it takes years for the reflection to sink in to realize just how much we’ve sacrificed for things that, in the end, don’t bring much lasting joy.

Of course, hindsight brings the clarity we don’t enjoy in the moment and helps us see the things we might have overvalued.

Look, Franklin’s lesson isn’t just about misplacing our priorities or spending too much money on purchases — it’s about understanding what really matters to us. My stuffed lion had little monetary value when it was purchased and far less when I donated it to goodwill, but the intrinsic value is incalculable.

It begs asking ourselves the question, Are the whistles I’m chasing today worth the cost?