“We read to know we are not alone.”

–     C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)

There are a dozen or so books that have been “life changing” for me.  Six or seven of them rest in an antique box next to my computer.  The two that matter most are at the front left of my writing desk in the home office.  Multiple copies of some (I give lots of books as gifts), and tattered, worn copies of others — they’re like old friends gathered around me, and the momentos that grace my bookshelves make them seem even more so.

There are another fifty or so in my Kindle app on my iPad.  The best of those get duplicated with hard copies to put on the bookshelves, in case anyone ever wants or needs to borrow one.

There are bookshelves in our houses and our offices, but there are also bookshelves in our minds; the places where we save the stories that shape who we are and who we will become.

One of my favorite moments when people come to the house is when they peruse the bookshelves and ask about specific titles, authors or the replica of David McCullough’s manual typewriter that graces the other corner of my writing desk.

Another of my favorite moments is when I pause to peruse the bookshelves in my mind.  And dust off the stories that got me here, and ponder where they’ll take me from here.

All of our bookshelves are important.  Within them rests the stories, lessons, adventures and mysteries that make us uniquely suited to make a difference.

“If I have the courage to acknowledge my limits and embrace them, I can experience enormous freedom.  If I lack this courage, I will be imprisoned by them.”

–     John Ortberg, in his book, “If You Want To Walk On Water, You’ve Got To Get Out of The Boat”

Dopey thought, huh?

“Embrace my limits?  Whoa, I’ve been taught my whole life to either run away from them or work relentlessly to overcome them.”

Wrong.

As Ortberg says in this book (one of my favorites) and as Marcus Buckingham teaches in his Strengths-based leadership approach, the key is not to “fix” our weaknesses and limitations, but to be aware of, and yet not afraid of them.

Difference makers play to their Strengths, and hire — or team — against their limitations.

Freedom or imprisonment?  Motivation enough?

“And we’ll remember this when we are old and ancient, though the specifics might be vague.  And I’ll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta when in fact is was a nappy bluish gray.”

     –     Lyric from “July, July” by the Decemberists

I wonder if it’s human nature that makes us romanticize our memories? Or is it just that they need time to mature, like a really good Bordeaux.

The drive home from baseball tonight was kinda tense.  It could have been celebratory.  I mean, after all, The Middle broke out of his hitting slump, going 2-for-3 with a triple and a single, and he made a couple of SWEET digs at first base.  But the ride was not celebratory.  

You see, we missed the block party.  

Now, consider my context.  When I was a kid, if we’d have A) had a block, and B) if that block would have had a party and C) if that block party would have conflicted with a baseball game — there would have been no choice whatsoever, and by that, I mean there would have been no block party.  I’d have called Child Services (if there had even been Child Services back then) had my folks even considered making me miss a baseball game for a stupid block party!

The Middle, though, was genuinely sad about missing the block party.

The conversation ended up getting to the first high school baseball game I ever lost as a starting pitcher — in the first round of the state tournament, 1978, at West Des Moines Dowling.

“Did you cry, Dad?”

“Well, you gotta understand, I was 16 years old then, not 11, Bud.  And yes, I cried like a stinking baby!”

“How would you feel if you would have missed the block party?”

And the truth is, I don’t know how I would have felt.  Not only did we not have a block (they’re hard to come by on farms), or a block party — we remember things differently over time.

We still remember them, but when we’re old and ancient, the specifics get vague.

Had it happened though, I think I’d remember how I felt.  Feelings are more permanent and less subject to color change and romanti-fication.  I remember the events of the game, just a little differently than some of my teammates or others who were there.  Not big differences, but maybe my “magenta” is their “gray” or vice-versa.

But I do remember exactly how I felt after that baseball game.  I remember like it was tonight feeling that I had I let my team down.  That I had let my parents down.  Like I had failed.  I remember wondering if my girlfriend was gonna dump me or if my friends would even want me on the bus on the way home.

But I also how it felt when my folks — a farmer and his wife — asked me if I had done my absolute best — and I remember saying that I had.  I remember them both saying, “That’s all you can do,” and “We’re proud of you.”  And I remember how that felt, too.

So, tonight, frustrated that it was just a stupid block party and tempted to say, “In 30 years, you’ll never even remember that you missed the stupid block party (you know, that class they teach you at Parenting School, “Incredibly Stupid, Insensitive Things to Say When Your Kid Just Needs You to Say, “I Understand”) — instead, I just said, “I’m sorry, buddy.  I know the block party is something that you were looking forward to.  I am proud of the way you played but I also know you’re sad, and I understand.”

“No, you don’t!”  he said.

“I don’t understand why you’re sad, I just understand that you are, and I’m sorry.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can we get Whattaburger, since I missed the block party because of a stupid baseball game?”

“Yes, we can.”

And a sprightly light magenta hue may have just crept in to a nappy gray night for the world’s tallest 11-year-old.  Or, if I’m really lucky, a difference might have been made.

Thanks to yet one more lesson a farmer and his wife laid down pretty well 36 years ago — that might just tonight have finally sunken in.

You see, sometimes we don’t know we’re making a difference.  Until way after the fact.

“A leader is one who knows the way, goes the way and shows the way.”

–     John C. Maxwell

Influence.  It’s a pretty powerful thing, ain’t it?  And, it’s available from many unexpected sources — and it’s in each of us, if we’ll only find a way to let it out.  Leaders teach, sell, and influence — interchangeably and also simultaneously — setting an example for people up, down and across their spheres of…well, of influence.

Recently, a member of one of my teams really set an example for many of his more experienced teammates, and, candidly for those of us with responsibility for leading those teams.

Following is an excerpt from a note my friend and partner, Marty Sunde, who’s President of BancVue, Ltd. wrote that young associate.

“One of the most important qualities key leaders refine is the ability to favorably influence people. Leaders have followers. Followers align with leaders because of their actions AND BECAUSE OF THEIR WORDS. Their words are sincere, inspiring, they call people to action, and the actions improve the world around them. 

Leaders are ‘selling’ all the time, but they don’t necessarily call it that. They call it inspiring, persuading, or influencing to name a few. The reason they don’t call it selling it because (too many) people associate selling with a lack of integrity or authenticity. In that definition, NO ONE (in our company) ever “sells.” But our best leaders (I don’t mean just people leaders) regularly persuade, inspire, and influence. 

Congratulations on the inspiration and persuasion you delivered !!!! Keep it up. It will make your career more rewarding and enriching.”

Think THAT made a difference for a young professional?  I hope it made one for you today, too.

“Well, I been up and down this highway, far as my eyes can see; No matter how fast I run, I can never seem to get away from me…”

–     Lyric from “Your Bright Baby Blues” by Jackson Browne

“No matter where you go, there you are.”

–     Dick Heston (1933-2002)

There we are.

Right here.  Right now.

Do we ever wonder if the pursuit is worth it?  Or what the pursuit is actually in pursuit of, anyway?

If we’re going toward something, we’re making a difference.  If we’re running from something, even if it’s us we’re running from — especially if it’s us we’re running from, then we not only aren’t making a difference, we’re making it harder for the difference makers around us to help us.

No matter how fast we run.  No matter where we go.

There we are.

Might as well make a difference.  Right there.  Right now.

“To one who has Faith, no explanation is necessary.  To one without Faith, no explanation is possible.”

–      St. Thomas Aquinas

At the end of the day, what we believe dictates what we can accomplish.  What we Believe, dictates who we are.  What can be explained – well, that’s a sole product of the Faith we have in what we Believe.  That’s true in the work context, and it’s true on the broader canvas of life.

This quote, my Good Friday / Easter Sunday staple, is a good one for us to consider.

A friend of mine and Brother in Him suggested the Twitter handle “#itisdone” for Easter.  And, it is.  He’s right.  He’s 100%, absolutely, positively right.

It.  Is.  Done.

And no greater gift could we ever be given.  And no level of appreciation could ever be enough.

Yet we’re not called to appreciate.  And we’re not called to reciprocate.  We’re called to follow.  To believe.  To live with the knowledge that with one, incredible, heroic feat borne of love — nothing else matters.

Whether no explanation is necessary, or whether no explanation is possible, it is done.

And no greater difference will ever be made.

“Not only weren’t they discouraged by failure, they didn’t even think they were failing.  They thought they were learning.”

–     Carol Dweck, PhD, in her book, “Mindset; The New Psychology of Success”

And, there you have it.

Whenever we think we’re failing, we probably aren’t.

If we’re learning, then we’re growing.

If we give up, then we’re failing.

“Every time you compete, try harder to improve on your last performance.  Give nothing short of your very best effort.”

–     Elgin Baylor, former NBA great

Granted, I sound more like Dad or Starky every day, but Elgin Baylor was a ‘baller, during a time when the team mattered more than the Twitter feed.

Watching Jordan Spieth’s performance today — he played at UT and The Middle and I saw him briefly at The UTGC shortly after we joined — was to watch a young guy who simply tries to get better all the time.

It made Michael Jordan even greater than he would have been.  He not only out-talented everyone, he out-worked them, too.  He gave his very best effort every time.

I get a kick out of people that throw around terms like “give 110%,” or “1,000%.”  Um, do the math.  100% equals all you got, bud.

But 100% is what we ought to give.

I watched The Middle battle on the mound today — and give the best he had, and it was pretty cool to see him compete, and win, with his teammates.  I watched The Eldest literally fight tooth and nail against the other soccer team’s best player — to the tune of a headache, a sore set of ribs, grass stains and scraped knees — and I watched her walk off the field, with her teammates, victorious.

Lombardi said, “I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is the moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle – victorious.”  It’s easy to remember that Lombardi talked about winning, but he always — always — talked about it in the context of leaving nothing unspent.  Not talent.  Not intelligence.  Not experience.  Not effort.  That last one is important.  If we end up lying on the field, with nothing left unspent, and we didn’t win — we gave it all we had.  We competed.  

An 11-year-old boy.  A 14-year-old girl.  A 20-year-old professional golfer with ties to the land about 250 yards from the back door of the house.  A team of people in Tampa, schlepping ice cream in the name of a better way of banking.  A sister preparing for her 40th dance recital, on behalf of 100+ kids who show up every week, trying to get better.  I am surrounded by competitors, and they make a difference for me.

I love competitors.  I love competing.  I love Masters week.

“Get a life… Find people you love, and who love you.  And remember that love is not leisure, it is work.  Pick up the phone… Write a letter.”

–     Anna Quindlen, Pulitzer Prize winning author, in a Villanova University commencement speech

–     Courtesy of my friend, Jim Gordon

With apologies in advance for a rambling post that may, eventually, be one of my literary worst, but that comes from the heart.

Sue me.

I truly love Masters week.  Phil missed the cut, Jack stopped playing years ago, but I don’t care.  I still love it.  It is good to see Freddie near the top of the Leaderboard yet again, but I can’t stomach the idea of him breaking Jack’s record as the oldest to win a major.  Yet here I sit at 10:03 PM, watching the replay, just feeling like it’d be wrong to be doing anything else.

Middle is asleep, after icing an ankle, resting up for two baseball games tomorrow.  Younger is working to go to sleep, so I pause the DVR every ten minutes or so to go up and “check on her.”  Eldest just got home from a lucrative babysitting gig.  And as they settle in, I am enjoying the memories that accompany the second week of April every year.

“What memories?” I wish you would ask.

1986, returning from an extra-inning softball game with a few buddies, only to flip on the TV to find Jack walking up the 18th fairway, with tears in his eyes.  (Shoulda.  Stayed.  Home!)  1998, when the first words out of Jim Nantz’s mouth when the telecast came on the air were something like, “You are not going to believe what you are about to see…” as the 58-year-old Nicklaus mounted what would be his last Sunday charge.  In 1998, there was extra context, as I grudgingly left the telecast to meet my friend, Jim Gordon (who provided me the quote referenced above) to grant a Make-A-Wish kid what would be her last chance to really live a dream.  Jack’s surge suddenly seemed pretty insignificant — albeit no less thrilling.

2004, when I jumped about six times as high as Phil did when his putt to win settled in to the hole, and Jonnie Mac’s dog looked up at me like, “Dude, you just jumped over me…”

Like hunting used to be, like golf still should be and like life is meant to be, Masters week is about the people that it brings to mind, or that it brings me in to contact with.  There have been traditions, and there will be new ones.  There is something fundamentally wrong with the fact that I wasn’t perched somewhere, with a beverage and a buddy or two, this afternoon, watching in HD this event that reminds me of people I love.  This working for a living is sometimes a real buzz kill.

But being with, or reminded of people we love — that’s key, really.  People with whom we keep — or get back in touch with.  People to miss.  To write letters to and to look forward to contact from.

The people for whom we’ve made a difference, and who have made a difference for us.

I like Masters week.  Every year, it reminds me of good people and thoughts — and it provides me a boost.  It makes a difference for me.

Dopey, huh?

Sue me.