Are You Ready for Act Two?

The date is June 24, 1859. Suddenly, there he is, atop a hill overlooking the plain of Solferino. The troops of Napoleon III (Louis Napoleon) prepare for battle with the Austrians below, and Henri Dunant has a box-seat view from his place on the hill. Trumpets blare, muskets crack and cannons boom. The two armies crash into each other, as Henri looks on, transfixed. He sees the dust rising. He hears the screams of the injured. He watches bleeding, maimed men take their last breaths as he stares in horror at the scene below. Henri doesn’t mean to be there. He is only on a business trip – to speak to Louis Napoleon about a financial transaction between the Swiss and the French. But he arrived late and now finds himself in a position to witness first-hand the atrocities of war. What Henri sees from his hill, however, pales in comparison with what he is soon to witness. Entering a small town shortly after the fierce encounter, Henri now observes the battle’s refugees. Every building is filled with the mangled, the injured, the dead. Henri, aching with pity, decides to stay in the village three more days to comfort the young soldiers. He realizes that his life will never be the same again. Driven by a powerful passion to abolish war, Henri Dunant will eventually lose his successful banking career and all his worldly possessions only to die as a virtual unknown in an obscure poorhouse. But we remember Henri today because the Swiss humanitarian and activist was the first recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize (in 1901). We also remember him because he took his country’s flag, a white cross on a red background, reversed the colors and founded what was to become a worldwide movement – the Red Cross. Act One of Henri Dunant’s life closed June 24, 1859. Act Two opened immediately and played the remainder of his 81 years. Many people’s lives can be divided into Act One and Act Two. The first performance ends when one decides to ultimately follow a new direction or passion. Henri’s old life, driven by financial success, prestige and power, no longer satisfied. A new Henri Dunant emerged in Act Two; one who was motivated by love, compassion and an overriding commitment to abolish the horrors of war. For many people like Henri, Act Two begins with a defining moment - it may be an experience, an important insight or perhaps even a rite of passage, such as a birthday. However it comes about, Act Two begins when the “old self” is laid to rest and a new self is born. At its best, this new self is one governed by different priorities and a renewed passion to live differently.  Act One might be closing in your life. If so, are you ready for Act Two? Something exciting may be about to begin.

-- Steve Goodier

Image: Flickr.com/Sarah Stierch

Look Upon Them As Wounded

After vaccinating a young boy with an injection in the arm, a doctor wanted to stick on a bandage. “Please put it on the other arm,” the boy pleaded.

“Why do that?” the doctor asked. “This will let everyone know you have been vaccinated and they won’t hit your sore arm.”

“Please put it on my other arm! Please!” the boy begged. “You don’t know the kids at my school.”

But the boy did. And wasn’t about to let them at his arm.

Adults, too, are pretty good at hiding pain. Not usually physical pain, but the kind of pain that’s harder to see. They like to appear as if they are in control; they can handle whatever life throws them; they’re on top of it. And, too often, they end up going it alone. No one understands. No one is there to help.

Susan Muto, in her book Blessings That Make Us Be, tells a story of a great ruler who needed a second-in-command to help manage his kingdom. When he finally selected the right person, he took him outside onto a balcony of the palace where they could gaze over all the lands under his jurisdiction. His assistant asked the king, “Master, what must I remember most of all if I am to carry out your wishes?”

“My son,” the king replied, “there is only one directive to follow − and that is to look upon the people as wounded.”

The wise king knew that everyone is in pain in some way. Wounds may not show, but they are there. 

Discover where people hurt and you can reach them. Learn where the invisible bandages are and you’ll know how to help them. How to heal them. 

Look upon them as wounded − and you’ll know what to do.

-- Steve Goodier

Image: flickr.com/Andrey Zhukov

Live Your Love

Imagine four Army chaplains during an icy storm at sea; four men in uniform holding hands as they gaze over the rail of their sinking vessel. They are watching lifeboats pulling away from their reeling ship, the U.S. transport Dorchester. The story of these chaplains is a remarkable account of love and sacrifice. 
    
The scene takes place February 3, 1943, off the southern tip of Greenland. The winter night covers the ship like a blanket. Most of the 909 aboard ship are asleep below the decks. 

Suddenly the Dorchester jerks and shudders. A German torpedo has smashed through her starboard side! In a raging torrent, the sea spurts through the gaping wound. The Dorchester has been dealt a mortal blow. She is sinking. 

An order is given to abandon ship. Aboard the dying vessel, men – many of them injured – search frantically for life jackets. Some stand in shock, not knowing how to react to the catastrophe.

Amidst the chaos stand four pillars of strength, four Army chaplains: George L. Fox, Methodist; Alexander Goode, Jewish; Clark V. Poling, Reformed; and John P. Washington, Roman Catholic. They calm the panic-stricken, help the confused search for life jackets and aid the soldiers into the lifeboats swinging out from the tilting deck.  

When no more jackets can be found, each chaplain takes off his own and straps it onto a soldier who has none. The lifeboats pull slowly away from the doomed vessel. Only 299 will finally survive this night. 

As the Dorchester slides beneath the icy water, some can see the four chaplains, hand in hand, praying to the God of them all. The chaplains’ different theological opinions did not seem to matter much on a sinking ship. All that mattered was that, at a time of crisis, they lived their love. Yet even for us, every day in lesser ways, I suspect that’s all that ever matters.

-- Steve Goodier

freeimages.com/Rebecca Phillips

Grow Antennae

A story, which may appropriately belong to the files of “urban legends,” tells about a Philadelphia legal firm that sent flowers to an associate in Baltimore upon the opening of its new offices. Through some mix-up, the ribbon that bedecked the floral piece read, “Deepest Sympathy.”

When the florist was informed of her mistake, she let out a cry of alarm. “Good grief! Then the flowers that went to the funeral said, “Congratulations on Your New Location”!

It is difficult enough to offer comfort without mixing up the sentiment. So difficult, in fact, that many people simply don’t know what to say to someone who has just unburdened grief or emotional pain. Not unlike the new clergyman who, when a distressed young woman confided that she was pregnant, blurted out, “Are you sure it’s yours?”

Too often, we want to help, but find that our attempts to offer comfort, solace or hope fall short of the mark. But there is something we CAN say to those who hurt that can be helpful and comforting.

One man, whose grandson died accidentally, found genuine comfort when he shared his pain with friends shortly after the tragedy. Of all the well-meaning words of support, two statements helped to sustain and comfort him through the grief more than the rest. They were: “Thank you for sharing your pain,” and “I grieve with you.” After hearing those words, he no longer felt alone in his suffering. He felt as if his friends embraced his grief. He felt better.

“Thank you for sharing your pain” is an honest acknowledgment of another’s suffering. It also expresses an appreciation for the effort it takes a wounded soul to open her emotional wounds to others.

“I grieve with you” is an expression of empathy. It is a way of saying that I am willing to share some of your pain, even for a time.

We can’t fix it. We shouldn't try to offer advice. And we may never know how someone feels who is hurting in a way we have never experienced. But we can give some comfort.

I think James Angell, former president of the University of Michigan, got it right when he was asked the secret of his success. “The secret of success?” he replied. “Grow antennae, not horns.”

-- Steve Goodier

Image by Phil Hilfiker

Let It Shine

While attending a conference, I returned to my motel room late one evening. The overhead light outside my door was burned out and I had difficulty finding the keyhole. When I managed to open the door, I felt around the wall for a light switch. I found a plate where a switch was once installed... but no switch.

Not discouraged easily, I remembered spotting a lamp by the bed when I deposited my luggage earlier in the day. I found the bed in the dark and felt around until I found the lamp, but when I switched it on, nothing happened. Now what?

Though I knew that it was dark outside my window since the outdoor light was broken, I thought that perhaps if I opened the curtains I might be able to use the light from the street to find another lamp. So I made my way slowly across the room to the drapes and... no drawstring! (Have you ever had days like that?)

I finally stumbled around until I found a desk lamp I could turn on and, once again, my world was lighted. 

Physical light is important, of course. Especially when you’re in an unfamiliar space. But there is another kind of light that is even more vital -- inner light. Inner light shines from love and compassion and faith. It illuminates and warms a world that, for many people, can be dark and lonely and confusing.

One December I received a letter from a reader in Mexico City who said this about the darkness around her: “Yesterday I bought a Christmas decoration. It’s a plastic star, maybe 18 inches across, strung with small white and gold Christmas lights. I hung it in my living room window last night. It looks so beautiful from outside – even better than I had hoped! I live on the second floor of a five-story government housing project building. The building where I live is tucked away where few people go. Not a whole lot of folks see my lighted star. As long as I have it plugged in, that star shines bravely and brightly out into the cold night. It shines on regardless of whether anyone is around to see it or not. And I know that anyone who does see it must be heartened by it – it’s that lovely.”

She ended with this observation: “I got to thinking, ‘Isn’t that the way we should be? Shouldn’t our lives in some way shine out into the cold night – regardless of whether or not anyone admires them? It’s certainly nice when someone notices us and is encouraged or heartened. But, after all, isn’t it the shining itself that is most important?”

It is the shining that is important, whether or not you feel as if you are making a difference. For someone today just may be stumbling in discouragement or sadness or fear and in need of some light.

So let your light shine. Whatever light you offer may be a beacon of hope and encouragement in someone’s darkness. And if you feel that your light is no more than a candle in a forest, remember this – there isn’t enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of one small candle.

Will you let your light shine?

-- Steve Goodier

Image: flickr.com/Leland Fransisco

A Beautiful Heart

Image by Robert Proska

One grandfather quipped about his grandchildren: "My grandkids are four and six. The Pulitzer Prize winner is four and the brain surgeon is six."

Parents and grandparents are understandably proud of the quick minds and impressive talents of their little ones. But let me tell you about another quality, perhaps even more important. A grandmother wrote to me and told me this story about her four-year-old granddaughter Skylar.

It was Christmastime. Skylar had saved coins in a piggy bank all year and decided to buy presents for her family with her savings. But she also learned from announcements on television about a local homeless shelter called "The Road House." She repeatedly asked her mother what "homeless" meant and why those children needed coats and warm clothes. The concept of people in such physical need deeply affected her.

Skylar’s mother took her to the store to buy Christmas presents. But instead of buying for herself or her family, she decided to use her savings for somebody at the shelter. They learned that there was a little girl staying there about Skylar’s age, and she purchased a warm coat, socks, gloves and crayons for the child. She also wanted to buy her a doll (a "baby," as she called it), but when she discovered she didn't have enough money, she left the doll behind. When Skylar got home, she selected one of her own much-loved dolls to give away. The baby went into a box with the other items.

She could hardly wait for Christmas. Skylar was not thinking about Santa Claus or any presents she might be getting. She was thinking only about going to the shelter and giving her carefully selected gifts to a little girl she had never met.

On Christmas Eve she and her family finally made the trip Skylar had been anticipating for so long. They drove to the shelter. There she presented her Christmas box to a grateful child. She was so filled with joy at truly touching someone else’s life that her family decided to make the journey to the shelter an annual tradition.

"Perhaps it's good to have a beautiful mind, but an even greater gift is to have a beautiful heart," says Nobel Laureate John Nash ("A Beautiful Mind"). He would have appreciated young Skylar’s heart.

Beautiful hearts don’t just happen. Nash calls it a gift, but it’s a gift in the way that faith or hope or love are gifts. And I’m convinced we have each been endowed with a beautiful heart. We may not always see it. We may not even believe it. But it’s a gift that came with birth and, every time we act selflessly, it grows a little.

-- Steve Goodier

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Three Important Things to Know

Do you know what they are?

Can you be too nice? I heard of a woman who is a hard core believer in the adage “it's nice to be important, but it's important to be nice.”  She likes to tell about when she first started to referee children's basketball games. Her grown son stopped by to watch her officiate one of her first practice games. Afterward he suggested that she be more forceful. “You know, Mom,” he said, “you don't have to say 'I'm sorry, dear, but you stepped out of bounds.'”

I think that U.S. industrialist Charles M. Schwab may have gotten it right. At age 72, Schwab was sued for a large sum of money. Many high-profile personalities would have settled out of court, but Schwab went through with it and eventually won the suit.

Before he left the witness stand, he asked permission of the court to make a statement of a personal nature. This is what he said:

“I am an old man, and I want to say that ninety percent of my troubles have been due to my being good to other people. If you younger folk want to avoid trouble, be hard-boiled and say no to everybody. You will then walk through life unmolested, but…” and here a broad smile lit up his face, “you will have to do without friends, and you won’t have much fun.”

Maybe that’s why author Henry James said, “Three things in human life are important: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.”

What if today you gave yourself permission to be outrageously kind? What if you extended as much goodwill and kindness as you can possibly muster to every person you meet? And what if you did it with no thought of reward? I'm sure of one thing: it will be a day you will never regret.

-- Steve Goodier


Image: freeimages.com/Crystal Church

Purveyors of Hope

Are you one?

Have you noticed that you feel better around some people than others? You smile more in their presence and afterward feel a little lighter, a bit more cheerful? I think of those people as “purveyors of hope.” They help me to know that beyond every mountain I face there is a path...even if I can't see it from the valley. I need those kinds of people – those purveyors of hope – in my life.

John Chapman, born in 1774 in Massachusetts, was a great purveyor of hope in his day. In the early 1800's he got in on the opening of land in the Northwest Territory, as it was then called, of the new United States. He found small plots of land suitable for farming and cleared them by hand. He bought fruit seed in Pennsylvania every year and carried it to his many apple orchards, usually on his back.

When the trees were large enough to transplant, he sold them to settlers homesteading the West. Eventually, he had little apple orchards spread around what would become the states of Ohio, Michigan, Illinois and Indiana. Most people forgot, or never knew, his real name, and took to calling him Johnny the Apple Man or Johnny Appleseed.

Johnny was a gentle man with a big vision. He was liked by most people who knew him, the native Indians and white settlers alike. His vision was to spread the goodness of apple trees everywhere people settled. Apples, he believed, gave the promise of harvest and hope that the wilderness would become home. Every tree he grew was a symbol of hope.

Johnny had another curious habit. He loved books, but did not have the means to carry more than two, usually a Bible and a book of inspiration or theology. The books he chose were full of hope. Because Johnny wanted to share his books, he carefully cut chapters out of whatever inspirational book he had available and loaned one or two chapters to families that wanted to read, or simply needed a lift. He'd later swap those chapters for others when he came back through. In this way he spread some hope and encouragement wherever he traveled.

His grave can be found today in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It says, "John Chapman (Johnny Appleseed). He lived for others."

Johnny was a great purveyor of hope. This old world could use a few more of his ilk. You?

-- Steve Goodier

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Who Rekindles Your Spirit?

Image by Sun Designs

An insightful woman, who had lived through numerous dark nights and days, once taught me about getting through difficult times. "I appreciate your outlook on life," I commented to Mrs. Tucker. I was in my twenties and she was fifty years older. In the short time I knew her she became a significant teacher for me. I learned from her remarkable attitude and her unshakeable strength of character, both of which undoubtedly buoyed her through treacherous waters.

"Well, I have been through a lot of tough times," she told me. "In fact, sometimes it was awfully hard for me and my husband. He couldn't always find work. Some days he would come home horribly depressed and say, 'Things are so bad I don't know if I can take it.' And I would say to him, 'Well, you know, things could be worse.' And once he said, 'I've heard that so many times I think I'm gonna die!' I was hurt...but I just hated to see him so depressed. I didn't know what to say. Later he confessed that if I would have wept in despair, he wouldn't have been able to make it. He needed me during those times."

It occurs to me that HOW she responded to her husband's pain was probably not as important as the simple fact that she was there and cared. He knew he could always count on her to be a ray of light in his darkness and a strong hand to lift him when he stumbled or to soothe his hurts. He needed her...and for similar reasons, she needed him, too.

Albert Schweitzer said so well, "Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light." During those difficult times they rekindled one another's light.

Who rekindles your light? Who blows your light into flame when it threatens to flicker out? Sometimes this person is a relative, sometimes a teacher, or a pastor, or a close friend. I've learned that if I need the light of my spirit rekindled during a bleak time, there are a few special people who can do it.

I admire some people for their brilliance and I respect others for their strength. But I am indebted to those who can rekindle my spirit. I hope I can be such a person for others.

– Steve Goodier

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A Desire to Help

One mother was jogging through the park, pushing two toddlers in a stroller. As they approached a hill, she said, “OK, now I need you to help me.” And they did! As she started up the hill, they each said, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. . .”

Sometimes it just takes the desire to help and you can find a way.

One person known for his desire to help was Fiorello LaGuardia. LaGuardia was mayor of New York City during the worst days of the Great Depression and all of WWII. He was adored by many New Yorkers who took to calling him the “Little Flower,” because of his name Fiorello and the fact that he was so short.

In many ways, LaGuardia was bigger than life – he rode the New York City fire trucks, raided city “speakeasies” with the police department, took entire orphanages to baseball games and, when the New York newspapers went on strike, he got on the radio and read the Sunday funnies to the kids.

One bitterly cold night in January of 1935, the mayor turned up at a night court that served the poorest ward of the city. LaGuardia dismissed the judge for the evening and took over the bench himself. Within a few minutes, a tattered old woman was brought before him, charged with stealing a loaf of bread. She told LaGuardia that her daughter’s husband had deserted her, her daughter was sick, and her two grandchildren were starving.

But the shopkeeper, from whom the bread was stolen, refused to drop the charges. “It’s a real bad neighborhood, Your Honor,” the man told the mayor. “She’s got to be punished to teach other people around here a lesson.”

LaGuardia sighed. He turned to the woman and said, “I’ve got to punish you. The law makes no exceptions. Ten dollars or ten days in jail.” But even as he pronounced sentence, the mayor was already reaching into his pocket. He extracted a bill and tossed it into his famous hat, saying, “Here is the ten dollar fine which I now remit; and furthermore, I am going to fine everyone in this courtroom fifty cents for living in a town where a person has to steal bread so that her grandchildren can eat. Mr. Bailiff, collect the fines and give them to the defendant.”

The following day, New York City newspapers reported that $47.50 was turned over to a bewildered woman who had stolen a loaf of bread to feed her starving grandchildren. Fifty cents of that amount was contributed by the grocery store owner himself, while some seventy petty criminals, people with traffic violations, and New York City policemen, each of whom had just paid fifty cents for the privilege of doing so, gave the mayor a standing ovation.

Sometimes it just takes the desire to help and you can find a way.

Someone beautifully said, “Sympathy sees and says, ‘I’m sorry.’ Compassion sees and says, ‘I’ll help.’” When we learn the difference, we will make a difference.

-- Steve Goodier

Great Teachers

Did you know that ninety percent of the world's ice covers Antarctica? This ice also represents most of the fresh water in the world. Yet Antarctica is the driest place on the planet, with an absolute humidity lower than the Gobi desert.

If you’re into biology, you may know this about the Mayfly -- after hatching, it takes up to three years to grow up, and then spends only one day as an adult. During that day it mates, lays eggs and expires. That last day must be absolutely spectacular.

Next time you dust your house, you may be interested to know that most of the dust particles you are removing are actually tiny bits of dead skin. Don’t even ask how much dead skin has made its way into your favorite pillow.

Did you know that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows?

Or that that 80% of your brain is water? Well, mine anyway.

You’ve heard the expression "having a lark." Those who are interested in language might want to know that group of larks is called an exaltation. A group of owls is called a parliament. A group of crows is called a murder. A group of rhinos is called a crash, which seems to make some sense. But here’s the best of all: a group of Unicorns is called a blessing.

As interesting as all of these facts are, I doubt any of them is bound to significantly change your life. The stuff we need to know in order to live happier, healthier and more meaningful lives does not usually come from tidbits of knowledge. More often it comes from people; and especially, people who mean something to us. Let me explain.

For Ross Perot, the kind of knowledge that made the greatest difference in his life was actually gleaned from his mother. The American businessman and one-time presidential candidate made billions of dollars from the technology industry. But his mother, who raised him before the phrase "computer age" was ever coined, taught him how to live. She taught him one of the greatest lessons of all: she taught him about compassion for the less fortunate.

Perot remembers the days of America’s Great Depression. "Hoboes" regularly knocked on their door asking for a little food. It puzzled young Ross that his house seemed to be singled out on their street. One day he learned why. On the curb in front of their house someone had etched a white mark, indicating to fellow travelers that this house was an "easy mark." This fact disturbed the boy and he asked his mother if she wanted him to erase the signal. She told him to leave it there. It was a lesson in compassion he never forgot.

Some of the most essential life lessons and wisdom young Ross acquired did not come from a book or a classroom. They were lessons that came from those people closest to him. Many concerned themselves with the heart and spirit. They taught him about the world and the best way to live in it.

Our greatest teachers are usually those who did not volunteer for the job. They are parents and friends, spouses and children. Much great wisdom is learned best from the example of those closest to us.

And the remarkable fact is this: you are a great teacher. You teach powerful lessons every day of your life. You teach them simply by the way you live; by the way you respond to the world; and, by the little decisions you make. I wonder -- who’s watching and learning?

--Steve Goodier 

Image: flickr.com/Mike K

Steel and Velvet

An unusual tribute was paid to Abraham Lincoln by Carl Sandburg. The poet wrote, "Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect."

Lincoln demonstrated then and now how a person can possess both a will of iron and a heart of tenderness. Nothing deterred the president during the American Civil War from his "noble" cause, and few persons have ever endured more criticism and detractors than Lincoln. Yet he was no more a man of steel than one of velvet.

When General Robert E. Lee surrendered his army, contrary to the advice of some of his generals, Lincoln sent an unexpected message to the enemy commander. "Tell your men they may keep their horses; they'll need them for plowing," said the president. Then this: "Tell your men they may keep their rifles; they'll need them for hunting." When Lee read those words he wept.

For each of us there is a time for toughness and a time for tenderness. A time for resolve and a time for compassion. An iron will is not the same as an iron spirit. Another courageous American, Martin Luther King, Jr. some hundred years later encouraged us to exhibit tough minds and soft hearts... not the other way around.

I know that mental toughness, particularly an iron resolve and determination, will often be needed if I am to get where I want to go. But I also know that a soft heart – compassion and love – will make the journey worth it.

-- Steve Goodier

Image: flickr.com/Kevin Burkett

Good People

A doctor said to his patient, “You have a slight heart condition, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Really, Doc?” the patient replied. “Well, if you had a slight heart condition, I wouldn’t worry about it either.”

We can sometimes get the impression that most of the world is more or less out for themselves and that people care little about the plight of others. But I choose to believe differently. I believe that a lot of people are basically concerned about others, even if they don’t always know how to express it. That is perhaps why a certain story, clipped years ago and filed away, has remained one of my favorites to this day.

A trucker relates that he was traveling through rural North Carolina on I-95 when a brown sedan merged onto the highway. It weaved back and forth between lanes, causing the driver of the truck to shift into a lower gear. At first he thought the driver was drunk, but when he came closer, the trucker saw an old man shaking uncontrollably behind the wheel. He noticed a Citizen’s Band aerial whipping to and fro as the car jerked between lanes, so he called on the radio: “You in the brown Chevy, if you can hear me, pull over. Pull off the road!”

Amazingly, he did! The trucker pulled up behind the car and climbed from his cab. The elderly man staggered from his auto and fell into the trucker’s arms. He poured out a story of months of fear and pain that accompanied the illness of his only daughter.

Now he was returning from the hospital where it was decided that she would cease any further treatment. In the hospital he remained “strong” and stoic for his daughter, but out on the road he fell apart.

The two men talked for the good part of an hour. The father eventually decided to share his pain with his daughter and said he felt good enough to drive home. The men embraced and the trucker followed him for 50 miles. As they drove along, the two talked together on the radio.

The older man finally acknowledged that his exit was ahead and thanked his new friend again for the help. The trucker asked if he could make it home all right and, suddenly, a third voice broke in on the conversation: “Breaker 19, don’t worry, good buddy. Go your way. I’ll see him home!”

Glancing in his mirror, he saw a livestock truck move into the exit lane behind the brown sedan.

I think there are good people the world over. People who will gladly give that caring touch, a needed warm embrace or a patient and listening ear. They are like angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.

Look around. You're sure to see one. And look in the mirror. You might spot one there, too.

-- Steve Goodier

Cool Heads and Warm Hearts

If you've ever struggled making the right decision, you may appreciate this story:

A young man seemed to take an unusually long time to place his order at the flower shop. When the clerk asked how she could help, he explained that his girlfriend was turning 19 and he couldn't decide whether to give her a dozen roses or 19 roses -- one for each year of her life.

The woman put aside her business judgment and advised, "She may be your 19-year-old girlfriend now, but someday she could be your 50-year-old wife."

The young man bought a dozen roses. He made his decision from both his head and his heart.

Abraham Lincoln has been considered one of the greatest leaders of all time. He maintained a cool head, even under personal attack. Though constantly criticized in public, he rarely answered back. “If I were to try to read, much less answer, all the attacks made on me, this shop might as well be closed for any other business,” he said. He showed courage in the face of unjust criticism. He refused to retaliate and chose instead to quietly do the very best he could.

At the same time, Lincoln was also widely known for his compassion. He made difficult and tough decisions during America’s Civil War, but at the same time showed great leniency. He pardoned more prisoners than any U. S. president before or since. And when a general asked Lincoln how the defeated Confederates should be treated, Lincoln replied, "Let 'em up easy." He was both cool-headed and warm-hearted.

Too many people get it the other way around. They have hot heads and cold hearts. They react in the heat of anger or passion. They are cold and unfeeling. And they invariably make poor decisions.

A cool head asks the hard questions. A cool head thinks it through. A cool head fairly weighs the options and asks, “What is the logical thing to do?”

A warm heart empathizes. A warm heart considers feelings and relationships. A warm heart asks, “What is my spirit telling me to do?”

Some decisions we make with our heads. Others with our hearts. But I think it takes both to get it right.

-- Steve Goodier

Glimpses of Greatness

Greatness is too often defined by an unusual act of courage or a life of extraordinary merit or virtue. But glimpses of greatness can be seen all around us, and especially in those who genuinely care for others.

Father Albert Braun was such a man. After his ordination, he requested to live amongst some of the poorest of the world’s poor. He was sent to the Mescalero Apache reservation in south central New Mexico (USA). Father Braun learned to love the Apache. And as he lived with them, he learned from them and they learned from him. They became family.

He stayed many years on the reservation but left it twice to serve as a chaplain during both World Wars. He almost died in World War II when his Allied forces tried to defend the Philippine Islands from attack. Many of his comrades died during the fighting and Father Braun risked his own life to comfort the wounded and give the dying Last Rites. He was forced to march with no food and little water. Along the way, many more of the men died. And in the prisoner of war camps, more lives yet were lost to disease, cruel physical treatment and malnutrition.

Father Braun had learned much from the Apache about surviving off the land. When he went out on work detail, he found fruit and edible vegetables that he smuggled back into the camp to help supplement the men’s diets. Once he acquired the vaccine for diphtheria that he also secreted into camp, but it wasn’t enough. They drew lots to determine who would get the medicine. Though afflicted himself, he gave his portion to a young soldier. Before long, he suffered simultaneously from diphtheria, malaria, dysentery and beriberi.

He barely survived the war. Later, he asked to be returned to New Mexico to live once again with the Apache. When he knew that his own death was near, Father Braun requested to be buried on the reservation, surrounded by his Apache “family.”

Today, at the church of St. Joseph, one can see portraits of the Apache’s greatest chiefs and warriors. There is a portrait of Geronimo, one of Cochise, a picture of Victorio and a portrait of Father Albert Braun, who came to live among them as a true friend.

Father Braun showed a certain greatness, not by any one heroic deed, but by the sum total of a life of caring. I believe we can catch glimpses of greatness in the lives of anybody who genuinely cares.

-- Steve Goodier

Image by Jorge Elías