A Personal Story

http://www.allposters.com/-sp/Depressed-Man-Sitting-in-Dark-Room-Posters_i8654375_.htm

A Personal Story 

Let me tell you a personal story.

Several years ago a friend of mine was driving me someplace. I don’t remember where, and it doesn’t matter. We were laughing and talking about who knows what. Probably the kind of things men talk about when it is only men, which means sex. It was a perfect summer day. The sky was crystal blue without a cloud from horizon to horizon and the sun was warm, but not hot.

As he was driving he began to steer the car toward the curb and decrease his speed. Since I was always on the alert, due to the kind of life I was living, I immediately began to evaluate the situation. I know he sensed the rising tension within me, because his next words were, “Relax Steve, I only want to ask you one question.”  I still wasn’t entirely convinced, but this was my best friend. He knew all about what I did to earn my seven-figure a year income, because he was my right-hand man in the organization I had built. While I always kept at least a few things to myself as insurance, he knew enough, and was as deeply involved as I was, which was a kind of insurance in and of itself. Of course there was always the threat he might want to take the quick route to the top of the food chain, but I didn’t believe he had it in him to pull the trigger, at least not at close range in the front seat of his car. Nonetheless, it was always good to be cautious, so my right hand inched slowly to the inside of my jacket.

When the car had come to a stop, he reached over and shut off the engine. The stereo died and all I could hear was the rush of traffic along the freeway and my heart beat, pounding a mile a minute. He shifted his weight in the seat and turned to face me. The look on his face is still crystal clear in my mind over three decades later, as I heard him ask,

“Steve, don’t you think it would have been better for all of us, if you had never been born?”

I felt like all the oxygen had suddenly been sucked out of the car. There was a ringing in my ears, more than likely from the sudden surge of adrenaline. I was engulfed in the most complete silence I have ever experienced. I no longer heard the cars as they whizzed by. Nor did I hear the birds chirping in the nearby trees. It was just the ringing and the vast silence.

I don’t recall what I stammered out, but his question hit the mark. I carried that question with me. During quiet moments I would take it out and think about it. What was my worth? Why am I alive? What is this thing we flippantly refer to as life? What am I doing here? Why am I here?

It would be many more years before I would have my “life revelation” and find the answer to those questions.  Those were dark years. Not that I didn’t learn from them, I did. But I learned the hard way.

Now I am far removed from the events of those years. I have created an entirely different person from the one who lived in those times. One of my readers once wrote and said I was “plagued” by my past. I’ve given considerable thought to that sentiment. I believe the reader is/was wrong. I am not “plagued” by the choices I once made. I am well aware of them and the impact they had on me and others at the time.  But the operative word in the last sentence is “had.” No longer am I governed by those actions. I have a deep passion to help others find their True Path in life. I have discovered we only get a set number of years and wasting them by floundering around seeking our direction is counter productive to what we want to accomplish.

But plagued? No way! I have triumphed over that life! I have come out on the other side victorious! I did so with the patience and love of the one I am now married to. She saw the possibilities. She had/has the faith.

This post is difficult to end. I don’t have a nice and tidy wrap-up. I am not inclined to rally the troops and lead you in any type of charge. I just want you to know if your love is filled with drama, more or less it doesn’t matter, there is hope. You can change. I can show you how.

Or if you have that person in your life who no matter what you do, they never change. You have poured time, money, effort, prayers, and everything else you could think of into their lives and they never change. I can tell you not to give up hope. There is and always will be the possibility, even up to and including the moment they draw their last breath, that they can change.

I know…I use to be one of them.

I am always available to talk…stephenedwards922@gmail.com or 812-314-1358.

Be encouraged!

 

Virtue #2 – Accountability

The above poster was found at http://tradingphrases.com/Definition-Designs.html

Accountability is nothing more than taking responsibility for your thoughts and actions. If you did it, own up to it.

Sounds all nice and easy doesn’t it? Pretty much one of the first things our parents try to affect deeply into our young impressionable brains. It is one of the few bedrock beliefs we all seem to agree on.

Then why isn’t it happening?

Probably all sorts of reason, but the one that strikes me from personal experience is…it is hard to do.

Several years ago when I was new to the world of manufacturing I carried a tub of parts to the mainline assembly area. As a member of management I was not “officially” supposed to do that. It was my job to make sure the parts got there…not actually do it. So when I was on my way to a meeting at the other side of the plant and happened to glance over and see the guy in the process running out of a particular part I should have reached for my radio, found the appropriate channel, called the assembly line Team Leader, told him the issue (always issue, never problem), then he would have called the Team Leader in Material Handling, he would have called an Assistant Team Leader in Material Handling, who then would have found the person responsible for delivering parts to this particular process, told the associate about the issue, and then that associate would have delivered the tub of parts the twelve feet to the process guy. Instead I picked up the tub of parts and carried them to the process, but because I was in a hurry (I was always in a hurry) when I went to set the parts down, instead of setting them all the way down on the workbench I dropped them then last foot or so. When the tub hit the workbench, one of the metal parts jumped up and struck me in the corner of my nose. I felt it, but I didn’t think too much about it. Besides I had a meeting I needed to get to and I was seriously getting worried about being late and with this company the very first thing they told you, after there would be no discussions of unions, was to never, ever, never be late for a meeting.

Then it happened.

Another manager came running up to me with this look of horror and asked, “Steve, what happened?” Immediately I knew I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t just explain what happened, because it would it mean I had broken one of the rules and I like I said I was still new at the company…so to buy some time while my mind raced like a frazzled bunny in front of a Hummer, I said with as relaxed smile on my face as I could muster, “What do you mean?” She gasped back, “My God look at yourself, you’ve got blood everywhere.”

At this point I should explain I tend to bleed from any wound on my head like a stuck pig, as the saying goes. Yes, I understand all head lacerations tend to bleed more than when they are inflicted on other parts of one’s anatomy, but I spout blood like Mt St. Helens spouts ashes.

So I look at myself…and even I am a little frightened. My shirt is literally soaked in bright red blood. Now the wheels in the old brain are really turning. No more frazzled bunny, I am nearing freakout stage. I stammer, “Uhhhh, I don’t know.”

Yes that is what I said.

She says we got to get you to Med-Check (the in-plant emergency care facility). I think, “Christ there goes my meeting.”

But wait it gets better.

As she is hustling me across the plant to a qualified health care provider, we round a corner and there stands the Plant Manager. Now the Plant Manager is a man who, rumor has it, could break brass balls with his stare. One look at me and he breaks into a jog (this is remarkable because behind his back, off property, in sealed rooms, we would call him Sloth, because of the rate of speed which he usually moved through the plant at).

Here comes the question.

“Steve, what happened?”

I am doomed. Sweet Jesus! I had imagined such a good career with this company.

Again my brain can produce no better reply than, “I don’t know.”

His eyes peer like laser beams from underneath his bushy eyebrows. They lock onto mine, I find it impossible to turn away. He says, “Get his ass to Med-Check before he bleeds to death and I have to fill out even more paper work.”

They didn’t fire me, nor did they order any psychological exams, because they were concerned they had hired an idiot. Years later (when I was considerably more secure in my career with the company) I confessed to the female manager and the Plant Manager what had actually happened. The Plant Manager roared with laughter and then said, “Yeah, you damn fool I watched the whole thing from the other side of the line.”

Be accountable, while it may be painful at the time, people will respect you more. Maybe, more importantly, you will respect yourself more.

Be encouraged!

What Me Worry?

Image from http://www.worshiphousemedia.com/mini-movies/14588/Worry

WORRY

I’ve got a confession and from the title of this post you are probably well on your way to guessing what it is. Yes, I worry. It all started back when I was about three years old. I was born and raised in small farming community in central Illinois. I believe my hometown’s total population at the time was 630 people, it is even less now. My hometown’s claim to fame was from being at the crossroads of Rt 136 and US 66. Before the invention of the interstate this was a very big deal. Truckers traveled both roads extensively and we were the home of Dixie Trucker’s Home.

It started out as this..

http://www.cart66pf.org/66caravan/roadlog47.htm

But by the time I came it looked more like this… 

Image from http://www.route66university.com/photos/postcard_46/slides/dixie2_mcl.html

 It is hard to imagine, but behind the photographer is US 66, on the other side of the restaurant is Rt. 136 and the road you see connects the two. Beyond Rt 136 and two houses up on the right would be the home my Dad brought Mom and I to, after my birth. The house was nothing fancy (not much in hometown is), but it was a great place to grow up. Not shown in this photograph is the huge semi-truck parking lot directly to the right.  Hundreds of semis parked there and depending on their destinations they would pull out on the road you see in the photograph and either head to the left for US 66 or to the right for Rt 136.

For me those turning right to proceed to Rt 136 were the problem. Somehow in my young mind the concept of brakes and their function hadn’t taken root yet. So for my little three old mind when I would be playing in the front yard and the these huge semi trucks pulling 48 foot long trailers would come roaring down to the intersection, I was never completely convinced they wouldn’t keep on coming up my street veer to their right and run me over. Why I thought this I don’t have a clue. I never worried when I was in the car with my Dad that he couldn’t stop at each stop sign, nor did any truck driver ever give any indication at all that he might barrel on through the intersection and head my way. Nonetheless, each time a semi came toward Rt 136, I would run over and hide behind the front porch, watching carefully, completely convinced of the inevitability of my imminent demise.

That was the first worry I can remember and I was greatly relieved when we moved from that home at the age of five to a home that contained no death threats. Since then I have had more worries than I can count. Some have been warranted, such as when our youngest was deployed during two tours of duty, one to Iraq and the other to Afghanistan. Others, I am ashamed to admit, have been just as irrational as the first.

As I’ve gotten older and more in tune with how I function in life, I have tried to weed out those irrational worries. Sometimes I’ve been successful and other times, well let’s just say, occasionally my worries seem to have long talons. I’ve listed some ideas below that experts recommend:

1. Address the worry. Put a name to it and know why you are worried about it.
2. Indulge the worry. The idea being if you analyze it enough the worry loses its powerful grip.
3. Get uncomfortable. Do the uncomfortable thing that is making you worry.
4. Make a decision. Is it a good worry, like you need to get something done or is it a bad worry you can’t do anything about.
5. Don’t rush it. Many times you feel you need to do something, don’t make a rash decision, take your time.
6. It is never as bad as you think it is. This is a big one, our minds can reach for some far out ideas when we are worried.
7. Talk about it. Sharing your worries tends to lessen their impact.

Think about what has you worried in life. Talk about it to someone you trust. I know everyone reading this knows that life is too short to lose precious time to worrying, yet we do. All of us do, but join with me, and let’s try to do it less and stop frittering away anymore of the time we have left.

Be encouraged!

Sometimes There Is A Gorilla

http://www.earthtimes.org/scitech/gorilla-genomes-hopes-hominids/1859/

SOMETIMES THERE IS A GORILLA

I am currently reading a book (when am I not?) about how we think. The book is Thinking Fast & Slow by Daniel Kahneman,  (ISBN 0374275637 / 9780374275631, Publ. Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2011). Dr. Kahneman, who won The Nobel Prize in 2002 for Economic Sciences, writes a very interesting book about what influences our thoughts and beliefs. To give you a thumbnail sketch, he breaks our thinking down into what he identifies as System 1, which is our fast thinking (e.g., how we immediately know someone is angry by looking at their face) and System 2, which is our slow thinking (e.g., how much is 34 x 19). While most of us like to think we are governed by System 2, our slow, reasonable thinking side, he extrapolates by way of sound reasoning, that our thinking may be guided by System 1 far more than we realize. If you get a chance, read the book. Dr. Kahneman, thankfully, uses almost no technical jargon so the read is easy, enjoyable, and fascinating for those of us who are interested in how and why we think the way we do.

In the early pages of his book, Dr. Kahneman relates a psychological study from a book by Christopher F. Chavis and Daniel J. Simons, entitled, The Invisible Gorilla: And Other Ways We Deceive Ourselves (ISBN 9780307459664 / eISBN 9780307459671 Publ. Random House, 2010). The study is a video of two groups, one wearing white shirts and one wearing black shirts, passing a basketball on a court. Those viewing the video are instructed to count the number of times the members of the group wearing white shirts pass the basketball. They are to ignore the black shirted group. During the video a woman wearing a gorilla costume walks through the video, thumps her chest and moves on.

This video has been shown to thousands of individuals…about half never see the woman in the gorilla costume.

About HALF you say?!

Amazing isn’t it? Not only do they not see the gorilla, but when they are told about the gorilla they are initially positive it wasn’t there. Hence there are really two issues here:

1. They are blind to the obvious.
2. They are blind to the fact they are blind.

Makes you wonder what we are blind to our in our own lives, doesn’t it? What gorillas do we have wondering around, that others see, yet we don’t have a clue.

I know I’m pretty good at spotting them in other people’s lives.

Think I’ll spend some time today trying to locate some gorillas walking about in my life.

Be encouraged!

Virtue #1 – Acceptance

I have gone to that universally recognized bastion of higher learning and wisdom…Wikipedia, to retrieve this snippet of knowledge…okay actually I just  thought it was a good definition.

Acceptance in human psychology is a person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest, or exit.

Go back and re-read the definition again.

Actually you might want to s-l-o-w-l-y read it a third time.

Notice there is nothing in the definition that prescribes a need to agree with what we are accepting.

I believe therein lies the rub (as my Father was fond of saying). This is where we stumble. We believe if we accept something we must agree with it. Especially as you look at the last portion of the definition “without attempting to change it, protest, or exit.” If we don’t make any attempt to change  or protest isn’t that just basically laying down.

No I don’t think so. We can still talk. We can begin a dialogue. We can enter in and begin to see why a person or situation has developed a certain way. Far more times than I wish to admit I have, on first take, been repulsed, disgusted, or otherwise disagreed strongly, but after closer inspection, I’ve changed my mind.

Why is that? What is it which causes us to have that almost knee-jerk reaction? At times it nearly feels instinctive.

I’ve given this considerable thought over the years and here is what I’ve come up with. I am convinced we must let go of something deep within us.  A thing which gnaws at the root of our thoughts and poisons our reasoning. That thing is fear.

I can nearly hear the screams now…what with the mad fumbling for the mouse so they can scroll down to the bottom of this post, whip off some insightful comments about how this time I have swerved too far into the touchie-feelie world of the ultra left, then hit the POST COMMENT button.

But I’m holding steady on this. Time over time as I’ve talked with friends, co-workers and others, when we have been open, transparent, and honest, I hear about fears.

Maybe the best place to start with acceptance, is with our own fears. The research I have done provides an overwhelming amount of data about how we should overcome our fears. Here again I’m about to go against the flow. I don’t think we should overcome our fears per se. It is my contention we should expose our fears, then use them. Some fears are good fears, such as my fear of burglary (our home has been broken into three times), consequently my wife and I exercise certain precautions. Other fears are not so good, such as fear of success. That fear causes more entrepreneurs to fail and careers to stumble than I ever imagined. Recognizing and acknowledging fear of success (I have it-long story-just trust me) goes along way in harnessing it to my advantage.

Acceptance of fears…try it…let me know how it goes.

Try to keep those toughie-feelie ultra left comments to a minimum…lol…please.

Be encouraged!

Hello Readers,

I found this story truly remarkable. I got it from 52 Weeks, 52 Pounds, I believe he got it from Keeping Off 200 Pounds. Awesome story and well told.

Have a great weekend.

Be encouraged!

First Lie

I still remember the first lie I ever told.

I grew up in a tiny farming community population 650. I was in the second grade and the class  consisted of about 28 students, so we were divided into two classrooms each with their own teacher. Although I am now foggy as to the exact nature of the issue, as best as I can remember it involved something of one the teachers turned up missing. At the end of the day each teacher addressed their students on the subject of honesty and asked for whatever was taken to be returned and there would be no questions asked.

When I got home from school I told Mom about the missing whatever, but I added something. I told her, as I was leaving school, the other teacher said, “Why don’t you return it? We know you took it.” What possessed me say that, I don’t have a clue. I don’t know if I was trying to show off, which is something I was known to do from time to time. I didn’t dislike the other teacher. Maybe I was just trying to inject a little drama into my small town, second grade life. Well let me tell you, drama I got.

My Mom was mad. Nobody messed with her one and only child, nobody. Who did this teacher think she was? She had no right to accuse me. She didn’t have any proof and besides it wasn’t true. For Mom, I was simply incapable of doing such a thing. In this case Mom was right. Later in life, however, I sorely abused my parents trust, but that is another story (and much, much longer). My Mom decided to call in the ultimate fire power, my Dad.

This was before the age of emails and cell phones. My Dad worked trimming trees underneath electrical lines for a rural power company and the only way to reach him was call his company’s office, leave a message, hope they would give it to him, and wait for him to call back. My Mom called and asked for the operator to notify my Dad to call her when he arrived back at the end of the day. This time the procedure worked like a charm, Dad called a few minutes before four o’clock. I heard Mom heatedly telling him the lie I told her and then lots of “hmms”, “that’s right”, and finally “sounds good to me.” When she got off the phone she said Dad was on his way to the school and would talk to the teacher and set this straight.

I broke out in a cold sweat.

I had never lied to my parents before. I had never even embellished the truth. I hadn’t told a white lie. I had never told a lie of any sort, for any reason, ever. Until now. Now I was sweating. I didn’t know what to do. I went outside. I walked around the yard. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking, but probably something along the lines of wishing for a car to veer off the street in front of our house and run over me, or a plane to crash-land on me. Anything to get me out of this jam. I couldn’t think of a single way to get my butt out of what I had heard my Dad refer to as a “rock and a hard place.” Suddenly, I had a whole new appreciation for that phrase.

About an hour (seemed like an eternity) later my Dad drove up. Everyone at the school had been gone except the school secretary. Dad was one of those type of guys who only talked to those he had a problem with. If the next door neighbor’s son was a problem, Dad only discussed it with the son. The parents would never know. So when the teacher wasn’t in, Dad simply made an appointment to see her after school the next day.

I don’t know if this is when I first began to believe in a Higher Power answering the pleas of us sinners or not, but it had to be close. I would live and breathe for another day.

I ate dinner in a stupor. Rather than going outside to play, I went to my room. My bedtime was 8:00 pm, I was in bed, pretending to be asleep by 7:00. I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t think of a single way to get out of this mess.

The next day I was a zombie at school. I had slept less than a couple of hours. I was exhausted, my insides had liquefied, I wasn’t talking to my friends, and I had no appetite. I was still hoping for the car or plane to hit me.

As I was dragging my self home wracking my brain for the 1,670,942,428 time, I had an epiphany. It was like in the midst of all the darkness a sudden spark of light erupted. I was in shock.

I would tell the truth.

I would tell Mom I lied, she could call Dad, Dad wouldn’t go and confront the teacher, and when he got home they would take turns beating my butt into bloody oblivion, but it was better than what I was currently feeling. I wanted physical pain. Especially if it would alleviate this internal hell I was going through.

I got home and before I kissed Mom, or threw my books on the bed, or asked for milk and cookies, I looked her in the eye, opened my mouth…and began to cry my eyes out. Tears shot out of my eyes like a horizontal water fountain, snot started running out my nose, and I began to shake all over.  God, why didn’t that car run over me? Mom was stunned (to say the least). She came across the room, bent down on one knee and pulled me into her. Let me tell you, there are few things in life that feel as good as your Mom hugging you, especially if you are a lying little snit and you wonder if your parents are going to kill you when you confess.

After cooing over me and getting a tissue out of her pocket (Momma was old school, she always carried tissues) to attempt to clean me up, she held me out at arm’s length, looked me in the eye, and asked in that soft southern draw, “Honey, its okay, what’s the matter?”

In between my sniffles and shaking I blurted out, “Momma, I lied! The teacher never said I took nothing!”

End of cooing, end of wiping tears from my face, end of soft voice, end of being on one knee. Mom jumped up and shot me “The Eye.” The one where you know you’ve done wrong and all that remains is your execution. I remember a flash going through my mind wondering if that would be the last time Mom ever hugged me (thank God it wasn’t).

Her voice was like ice-cold hardened steel cutting through warm tender flesh (to be read: my heart). Her eyes narrowed and through lips you couldn’t have pried apart with a crowbar she hissed, “I hope I can reach your Father.” and off she stomped to the phone. I went into the living room sat down and whimpered some more. God, I’m not doing this again I thought, no matter what. This is crazy, stupid and dumb. I hate feeling this way and it looks like I’ve got a long way to go before things start getting any better.

I don’t know how long it was before Mom came into the living room and said in the same hissing voice, “They got hold of your Dad, he is on his way home.”

I figured that would be when I would die.

Dad came home, we set down for dinner, and Dad talked about everything under the sun, except my lie. I picked at my food like a condemned man awaiting his final walk. Mom and Dad talked, I kept my eyes glued to my plate. After dinner Dad helped Mom in the kitchen and I went to watch TV with my eyes, while my ears stayed tuned to the low soft murmuring coming from them as they stood in front of the sink. I knew they were talking about me, but I couldn’t make out a word they were saying. Later they both came in and joined me in front of the TV. Nothing was  said to me, their son, the liar.

Next day, and the next, and the next, same thing. Dad came home, we did the family routine, and I did not get massacred.

On the following Saturday afternoon Dad and I were wrestling around on the living room floor. There was brief lull in our tumbling and goofing and he said, “You know Bud (he always called me Bud, don’t know why and he never said) you really ought not to lie.” I mumbled something back like, “OK” and we went back to rolling around, but my little seven-year old mind was reeling.

YOU GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

I’ve been spanked for traipsing into the kitchen with mud on my shoes. I’ve been set in the corner for bouncing a rubber ball off the side of the house. I’ve not been allowed to play outside with all my friends because I rode my bike off the sidewalk into a neighbor’s yard. But for telling my first biggest whopper ever in my young life, I’m told not to do it again?, while Dad holds me in his arms?

YOU GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

For four days of sheer terror, in which I thought the life I loved was going to end for all eternity I get told not to do it again.

Hmm, this is different. I’m going to have to think about this. To my pea brain this could only mean one thing.

Telling a lie wasn’t all that big of a deal.

I figured it was kind of important. But nothing like having mud caked on your shoes, while standing at the sink getting a glass of water, and the water somehow dripping down on your shoes causing the mud to turn into this kind of oozing dirty slime, or riding your bike a few feet into the stupid neighbor’s precious yard through her yucky flower beds. It wasn’t even as bad as bouncing a rubber ball off the asbestos siding on the house and chipping out a couple, or more, silly divots. Heck, if you were a few hundred feet away you could hardly see them.

Telling a lie wasn’t all that big of a deal.

That is what stuck in my seven-year old mind.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

First a few clarifications. I am not laying the blame for all the lies I’ve told in my life at the feet of my parents. Seeing as how my mind developed during my teen years, I am quite positive if they had sawed my tongue out with a rusty corroded razor blade, I would still have went on lying either by writing or conveying them via ASL. I would have found a way. I take full and complete responsibility for every deception, lie, and half truth (if there is such a thing) I have ever told. Nobody held a gun to my head.

Second, my parents would have been horrified at the way I have interpreted these events. This was never their intention, nor could they have ever imagined such an outcome. They were loving parents with a rowdy child. They had been married for thirteen years when I was born and I am an only child. So they were set in their ways, so to speak. They did everything possible to insure I had what I needed for a well-rounded life. It just took until I was in my late thirties for it to all take effect. I’m afraid I am a card-carrying member of  “The Late-Bloomer Association.”

I want to foster a conversation about why we start lying. Why did you start? Do you remember your first lie? What was it? How did it make you feel? Think about it and let me know. And if this is one of those things you don’t want the whole world (not that this blog has quite that large of a readership, but you never know) to know then send it to my email http://www.stephenedwards922@gmail.com and I will keep it private.

Again, thank you for reading these long posts. God, I wish I could write 300 words and they would hit like a sledgehammer, but I don’t think it will ever happen.

Be encouraged!

Readers,

 

Found this post  by Stephanie at http://www.cafeforyourthoughts.wordpress.com and thought it was very much worth reblogging. I hope you will not only enjoy reading, but also apply as needed.

 

Thanks as always for taking the time out of hectic lives to stop in. I hope you always find bits of wisdom to add value to your lives.

 

Be encouraged!

Cake for Your Thoughts

I couldn’t really think of anything to say today. When that happens, there is usually something that someone else has said that needs to be said again, and I should stop rambling–kind of like the whole “80-20 Rule“.
(Get used to me saying redundant things like that, because I love it.)

Most of you have probably seen this somewhere.
We have a plaque thing hanging in our hallway that I read often. (See the proof?)
Different things stand out on different days, but all of it is so good and so true.

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.

View original post 114 more words

Let’s Go the Other Way

This lying thing seems to have set off a firestorm.

I am glad.

I have had comments from literally hundreds of people who are simply sick and tired of being lied to on every level of their life. From the nurse at the doctor’s office who tells them, “Please have a seat, the doctor will see you momentarily.” to “Yes, Darling, I do love you.” to “Please hold, all of our operators are busy. Our next available operator will be with you shortly.” They have been lied to by family members, lovers, church members, grocery store clerks, ministers, funeral home directors, teachers, coaches, authors, politicians, governments, in short, by nearly everyone they come in contact with during their daily life.

People have  emailed, phoned and stopped me in restaurants to share their thoughts on why people lie. Their ideas range from fear of name your subject, pride, the environment, genetics, DNA, chromosomes, gender, income, geographical location, age, race, life style, income, mindset, weather, religion, sexual preference, hair color (!), and nearly every other type of demarcation you can think of.

But I wonder if we are not looking at the wrong end of the stick.

By that I mean should we be concentrating our efforts on not lying or should we be focusing on telling the Truth?

Several years ago I took up mountain biking. I had been an ultra-distance runner for several years and after running across the United States I had retired. I stopped doing anything resembling exercise. I didn’t watch my diet. I did nothing to break a sweat and ate whatever I wanted, which meant a lot of fast food. Predictably, after a few years, my mid section began to expand, the muscle tautness said good-bye and I started to look like someone who eats a lot and is allergic to exercise. So one of my friends called and said, “Hey you are getting fat. We have an extra bike, why don’t you go ride with us?” So not having any excuse, other than, I don’t want to, I went.

I loved it. It was fun to grunt up a hill and bomb down the back side like I did when I was a kid. The rush I got from the exhilaration of flying downhill like a maniac was balanced by the intensity and effort it required to get up the hill. the only drawback was my riding skills were a little rough, but considering I hadn’t been on a bicycle since I was 16 years old and received my driver’s license, I felt his was understandable.

On the last downhill I scanned the trail ahead and noticed a deep rut in the middle. Immediately I understood I needed to avoid the rut and here is where I learned my first mountain biking lesson. You do not look at what you are trying to miss, you look at where you want to go. So as I stared at the rut, I inexplicably rode right into it. The front wheel twisted, the bike came to an abrupt halt, the rear end came up, and I went head first over the handlebars. This is when I suffered a repeat of mountain bike lesson #1. You don’t watch where you don’t want to go. On the other side of the rut was a an egg-shaped rock, about the size of my head, with the small pointy end sticking up facing me, embedded in the ground. As I watched, my chin made a bee line for it. BAM!!!

You don’t concentrate on where you don’t want to go.

So if lying is what we want to avoid, shouldn’t we focus on telling the Truth? Instead of having a NO LYING DAY, we should have a TELL THE TRUTH DAY.

TELL THE TRUTH DAY!

Seems like a good idea to me. Please comment and let me know what you think.

Be encouraged!

Before We Go Any Further

PLEASE LOOK AT THE DAY & DATE

OF THE LAST POST

THEY DON’T MATCH

Here is my point…lying and believing are intertwined. Someone once commented they believed people wanted to hear a lie just as often as they wanted to be told the truth. While I”m not ready to whole-heartedly embrace that philosophy, I do believe there is a connection between lying and what we want to hear.

Do I believe there should be a NO LYING DAY? Absolutely. I would love to see the concept reported on CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, the news wires, and go viral. What a great concept. The realty will probably fall far short.

Why? Because many of us are simply comfortable in our lies. It is where we live and work. Our lies are no more a distinct separate part of our existence. They are part and parcel of who we are. We have lived and breathed them for so long, that our lies feel like the truth, and the truth now feels as strange as lies once did.

We operate in a world that not only encouraged the use of falsehoods, but actually, it many respects rewards it. Whatever the reason for lying, we are masters at justifying it. All the way from “everybody does it” (which is probably true) to “it wasn’t REALLY a lie.”  If we want to, we can find an excuse.

I have received several emails and comments about this subject. Many writers were intrigued by the question of morality it raises, others were more interested in the philosophical underpinnings. There were writers who complained of my over-simplified explanation. The point is, the issue of lying, deserves to be a topic of conversation. It needs the light of us blog writers, the press, think tanks, TED talks, church groups, and folks sitting around having a few beers. In my heart I believe change bubbles up. Only when we the common folk, the 99%, the silent majority, or whatever it is we are going by now, rise up and say, “Wait a minute! This is an issue. Lets talk about it.”, we are going to continue to experience an erosion of truth it all its forms.

I hope this post causes you to think. After you think about lies, and truth, and the role you play in it, maybe you will talk. Start a conversation with a loved one, or your child, the neighbor, your pastor, those in your study group, or any one who is willing to listen. With all my heart I believe change bubbles up. And, just maybe, some day we really will have a day of NO LYING.

Be encouraged!