Author: Don McMinn

Finding temporary and specific causes for misfortune is the art of hope. Finding permanent and universal causes for misfortune is the practice of despair. Boyd Clark

Years ago I counseled a husband and wife who were having severe marriage problems. Sitting in my office, they clung to opposite sides of the couch; the physical distance they maintained reflected the deep resentment they had for each other. At the end of the first session I gave my assessment: “You have a toxic relationship.”

I didn’t hear back from them for several weeks, so I called the wife to see if they intended to return for another session. She said, “No, Don, we’re not coming back. The last thing you said to us was that we have a toxic relationship. That seemed to be your final conclusion. We left with no hope.”

I learned a valuable lesson that day—I must always be a purveyor of hope.

I think hope is most helpful when paired with an understanding and acknowledgement of present struggle; otherwise, words of hope can sound glib, naive, or even patronizing. But when we fully embrace present difficulties, expressions of hope become believable. Regarding the past, be a realist; regarding the future, be an optimist and spread hope.

Leaders must be purveyors of hope, always giving an honest assessment of present reality but predicting a brighter future. Winston Churchill was realistic about the perils of World War II but conveyed a stubborn optimism about England’s future. After the fall of France to the Nazis, many in England felt defeated, and a sense of resignation and impending doom hovered over the populace. In a speech given to the British House of Commons, Churchill embraced the gravity of the situation—“The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us”—but he also spoke a message of hope and optimism that promoted a firm resolve and determination in the hearts of his countrymen—“Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, ‘This was their finest hour.’”

When was the last time you spoke words of hope to a discouraged person or group of people? Well that’s been too long. It’s really quite simple: acknowledge the challenge and then advance a realistic, plausible, and better alternative.

• Our sales for the month are down…but we can still make our quarterly goal.
• You’ve had a hard time finding a job…but I admire your constant effort; you’re going to land in a good place.
• Your business failed…but this will not define your life. You’ve learned a lot, and I have no doubt that you will succeed in the future.

Maintaining hope comes from seeing the potential in every situation and staying positive despite circumstances. G. Campbell Morgan tells the story of a man whose shop burned to the ground in the great Chicago fire. He arrived at the ruins the next morning carrying a table and set it up amid the charred debris. Above the table he placed this optimistic sign: “Everything lost except wife, children, and hope. Business will resume as usual tomorrow morning.” [John Maxwell, Developing the Leaders Around You, p72]

[reminder]What are your thoughts about this essay?[/reminder]

Expressions of arrogance and pride are distasteful, almost comical.
Expressions of humility and modesty are attractive and honorable.

I am deeply moved by expressions of humility.

• I have a friend who is President of a private bank. When he introduces himself in public he says, “My name is _______ and I work at _____ bank.”
• I have a friend who was President of a major university. When he speaks of that time in his life he says, “For several years I served on the leadership team at ___________.”
• I have a friend that I knew for four years before I discovered he has a Ph.D. in geology from a major research university.

These men and women are exceptional in their character, credentials, and experiences. They have accomplished a lot in life. But it takes a long time to discover their depth, because they are so humble. They have a lot more behind the counter than they put out on the shelf.

How about you? Are you eager to tell people what and who you know? When meeting people for the first time, do you quickly try to impress them with your credentials and experiences, or is your discloser slower and more subtle? Do you overstate or understate your strengths and assets? Do you hide your weaknesses and failures, or do you acknowledge them as a natural part of your life’s narrative?

I love the following story because it is utterly fascinating and, the protagonist exemplifies what I’m advocating in this essay.

The 17th century French mathematician Pierre de Fermat proffered a theorem that became the Holy Grail of math problems for 350 years: prove there are no whole-number solutions for this equation: xn + yn = zn for n greater than 2. Some mathematicians spent their entire lives trying to solve the problem; many thought it was impossible.

On June 23, 1993, Andrew Wiles—a quiet, unassuming professor of mathematics at Princeton University—stood before his peers at a conference in Cambridge and for several hours scribbled math equations on the chalkboard. Finally, he said, “I think I’ll stop here,” and put down the chalk. He had solved Fermat’s Enigma. With little fanfare, he had deciphered one of the most complicated problems in mathematics and then simply said, “I think I’ll stop here.”

Understated. Humble. Let’s follow suit.

[The book, Fermat’s Enigma by Singh, tells the whole story; it is a must-read. There are many videos on YouTube about Fermat’s Theorem. For a four-minutes summary click here.

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Summary
What? — Humility is a noble virtue; bragging is not. We should be slow to reveal the depths of our personal assets and strengths.
So what? — Always have more behind the counter than you put on the shelf.
Now what? — If necessary, adjust your thinking about this issue.

[callout]Occasionally, I’ll include in a post, the link to an interesting article which addresses a different topic than the post.

Here’s a great article – The Benefits of Despair – written by Lisa Feldman (June 5, 2016; New York Times) She shares some good thoughts about why “emotional granularity” is beneficial. Sam Harris says, “We read for the pleasure and benefit of knowing another person’s thoughts.” Read and benefit from Feldman’s insights. Click here for the article. [/callout]

Role models provide an effective shortcut to learning. Find someone who is succeeding at what you want to do or who you want to be, study her, and copy her actions.

You can also learn from bad role models. Find someone who is failing at what you want to do or who you want to be, study him, and avoid the undesirable traits.

For instance:

• Recently, I read a book that was poorly written. I was frustrated trying to make sense of the author’s sequence of thoughts (or lack of). I analyzed what it was that made his writing disjointed, and now I want to eliminate those characteristics from my writing.
• I observed a leader who is autocratic, egocentric, and draconian. I don’t want to be like that.
• I was annoyed by someone who talked too much. Do I do that? (Probably not; my wife calls me the king of brevity.)
• I have an acquaintance who is reliably late to all our appointments. That bothers me and prompts me to analyze myself: Am I ever tardy?
• I studied under a professor who was intentionally intimidating. I found it very unappealing.

Young people are particularly susceptible to the influence of role models so, parents and teachers, teach them the value of identifying both positive role models and anti-role models; train them to be selective in whom they idolize and emulate.

[reminder]What are your thoughts about this topic?[/reminder]

[callout]Recommended Article

Occasionally, I’ll include in a post, the link to an interesting article which addresses a different topic than the post.

Here’s a great article – Why You Will Marry the Wrong Person – written by Alain De Botton (May 29, 2016; New York Times).  He shares some good thoughts about why marriage is so difficult. My favorite sentence in the article is: “In a wiser, more self-aware society than our own, a standard question on any early dinner date would be, ‘And how are you crazy?'” Click here for the article.[/callout]

Beginnings are important. First impressions, initial greetings, the commencement of a trip—how something starts is important. The “front door” is critical.

But we should also carefully negotiate endings—that is, how to properly close the “back door” of a relational encounter or event. A proper ending will enhance the experience and bring good closure. A mishandled ending can be awkward and leave a bitter aftertaste.

For instance, how could proper closure be negotiated in each of these situations?

• A phone conversation
• A valued employee leaving an organization after having worked there for many years
• When leaving your house in the morning, leaving behind family members
• A staff meeting
• A lunch meeting with a friend
• A major project
• A vacation with friends

Thoughts to ponder:

• When was the last time you botched a farewell?
• When was the last time you intentionally orchestrated a proper farewell?
• Identify a time in your life when you were personally disappointed by a botched farewell.
• Identify a time in your life when you were blessed by a proper farewell.

An excerpt from the novel—Life of Pi by Yann Martel—provides a vivid illustration of a botched farewell.

Here’s the setting: Following a shipwreck, a young boy named Pi has been on a life-raft for 200+ days with a tiger named Richard Parker. They have developed an interesting and, in some ways, close relationship. The raft finally washes ashore, but the closure of their relationship is awkward and disappointing.

A Disappointing Farewell

When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weak I barely had the strength to be happy about it. We had great difficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. I streamed the sea anchors—what was left of them—full open to keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them as soon as we began riding a crest. In this way, streaming and tripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It was dangerous. But we caught one wave at just the right point and it carried us a great distance, past the high, collapsing walls of water. I tripped the anchors a last time and we were pushed in the rest of the way. The boat hissed to a halt against the sand.

I let myself down the side. I was afraid to let go, afraid that so close to deliverance, in two feet of water, I would drown. I looked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave me one of my last images of Richard Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his mind and spun around. He passed directly in front of me on his way to the right. He didn’t look at me. He ran a hundred yards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several times. At the edge of the jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful, fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life.

I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family, but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn’t. This beach, so soft, firm and vast was like the cheek of God and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasure and a mouth was smiling at having me there.
After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their noses and mouths. I wondered what was wrong with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat onto the sand. They carried me away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they wrenched from my hand and threw away.

I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. When we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. It’s important to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this day. I wish so much that I’d had one last look at him in the lifeboat, that I’d provoked him a little, so that I was on his mind. I wish I had said to him then—yes, I know, to a tiger, but still—I wish I had said, “Richard Parker, it’s over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn’t have done it without you. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life. And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of your life; now you will know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not your friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always be with me, in my heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker, farewell. God be with you.” [Martel, Y. (2001). Life of Pi, Harcourt Books, pp. 284-286]

The next time you approach the ending to a significant encounter or event, carefully orchestrate a good ending.

[reminder]What are your thoughts about this essay?[/reminder]