The Thing About Trust

Many years ago, I went out to dinner with my brother and his family.  His youngest, now married, was in a high chair.  She said her food was too hot and pushed it towards my brother.  Dutifully, he took it and blew on it to cool it off.  When he felt it was sufficiently cool enough, he pushed it back in front of his daughter, who picked up a spoon and began to eat it without testing the temperature herself.

Trust.

As a first year teacher, I gave my students an assignment and walked around the classroom helping this student or that student.  I worked my way towards the back of the room and overheard two students talking.  One said, “I don’t get this.”  The other student looked over at his paper and said, “Ask Joe.  He’ll help you with it.”

Trust.

My first year as a head coach, we played for a state consolation championship.  It was close: a one or two point margin.  In my quiet, subtle manner, I got on the ref who graciously gave me a technical foul- with a smile, as I recall.  The other team put their best player on the line who missed both.  They tried to inbound the ball, but we intercepted and we scored.  In fact, we scored the next six in a row and we won.  After the game, my senior captain, Tony, came to me and said, “Nice game, Coach.  That technical foul?  Brilliant!  It fired us up!”  Um . . . okay.  Not what I had intended.  I actually thought I had lost the game for us.  Actually relieved that we had won it despite my stupidity.

Trust.

Kids are fearless.  It doesn’t matter if they are fearless in and of themselves or if they are fearless with respect to others.  They do things that we, adults, cringe at.  We did things that, looking back, we cringe at and hope no one ever repeats or finds out about.

The Thing About Trust is that it is earned, not commanded.  Sort of like respect in that regard.  Once that trust has been damaged, it is hard to earn back.  Once we’ve been burned, it is hard to give that trust back to the one who burned us.  We might forgive.  But, honestly, do we really ever forget?

Trust is sort of like a mustache.

I had one once or twice in my lifetime.  It takes a long time for it to look good.  In my case, it could be argued whether or not I ever looked good with a mustache.  But while it takes a long time to grow in, trim and take care of, it only takes two or three minutes to shave it off.  A week or two or more to grow.  Two or three minutes to shave it off.

Trust is like that.

It needs to be taken care of.  Respected.  A precious commodity.  Treated as if it were gold.  Because the reality is, Trust is more valuable than gold.

Trust is a belief between two people that we’ll take care of each other.  That we’ve got each other’s back.  Once that Trust is damaged and broken, do we ever feel that way again?  It takes a long, long time for Trust to develop again . . . if it ever does.  Don’t ever treat it lightly or take it for granted.  Once gone, it’s gone!

The Thing About Trust is a genuine care and concern for another.  The Thing About Trust is a belief that I’ll be safe with you and you can be safe with me.  All of me and all of you:  my ideas, my strengths, my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities.  All of me.  All of you. 

The Thing About Trust is that it matters!  Treat it as such.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Importance Of A Campfire

Several weeks ago, my youngest had to write a descriptive essay for her English class.  She wrote about the nightly campfire at her favorite spot in the whole world: her grandparents’ cabin in Northern Wisconsin.  That got me thinking, which is not necessarily uncommon, and can be considered dangerous . . .

I thought about Campfires.  For many years, we camped as a family.  As we grew older, several families would camp together. We’d pitch a tent or those who didn’t want to rough it, opened up their trailers.  A line would be stretched from one tree to the next to hang a wet towel and swimsuit.  Sleeping bags laid out.  The cooler strategically placed under a picnic table bench so the wily raccoon wouldn’t get into it.  Families in easy walking distance to one another’s campsite to share a cup of tea or coffee, a homemade cookie or brownie or piece of cake.  Play a game of cards or a board game.  Visit a bit.  Laugh a lot.

And when groups of us camped together, there would be the campfire.

Each night the kids would gather the wood and kindling and we’d build the fire.  Sometimes we’d cook over it.  Other times, we’d do s’mores.  We’d pull up lawn chairs and as the night grew darker and colder, we’d pull our chairs closer to the fire for warmth and comfort.  There would be jokes, and drinks, and snacks.  There would be stories of “Remember when . . .” The kids would lean in and listen closely, hoping for a tidbit to tease their parents or aunts or uncles with.

And of course, the Campfire. 

It was Important.  A ritual.  A rite.  One of the things we did.  There wasn’t a grand announcement.  No formal training.  It was something we thought was Important and needed to be done.

Warm.  Inviting.  Peaceful.

Watching for falling stars.  Pointing out the various constellations.  Listening to crickets, bull frogs croaking, fish and turtles splashing, the call of the loon.

Comforting.  Relaxing.

Somehow, we’ve gotten away from the rest and relaxation a Campfire can bring. 

We eat on the run, not necessarily eat as a family . . . together.  We watch a thirty minute sit-com where the “problem” is solved with two commercial breaks to push the good life.  Have a headache?  Take this pill because it lasts all day.  Have laugh-lines or wrinkles?  Use this cream or inject some Botox or have a face lift.  Out of touch?  Text.  Facebook.  Instagram.  Twitter.

I think we need a Campfire or two . . . or five or six.  We need the peace, the tranquility.  We need the warmth, the gentleness, the comfort.  To feel the night wrap around us gently, softly.  To wish on a star.  Dream.

We need to gather together.  Be together.  To talk.  Perhaps more importantly, to listen.  Perhaps to be silent with each other.  A gentle touch.  A hug or two.  To be present and in the moment.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

Corinne, Mom

I can still smell the homemade bread and buns baking in the kitchen.  Can’t wait until they get out of the oven.  Eight or ten hands waiting impatiently armed with a knife for butter to wipe over the top or coat the inside.  Maybe just grab it while it’s hot and eat it.

I remember the time she baked pies.  Loved to bake.  Mince Meat, I think.  For dinner, she cut a huge piece for my dad and a tiny sliver for her.  After many questions as to why the difference in sizes, we find out that at one time, there were two pies, and now only one.  Hmmm . . .  And they laughed, Dad with his hearty roar, Mom a bit sheepishly.  But they laughed.  Laughter is good.  Always good.

In the early years before I was born, there was always one or two in diapers.  Donna and Judy.  Mary and Betty.  Joanne and Jack, I think.  Camping trips using the trailer that dad built himself.  The tent that leaked.  At Christmas riding through town so Mom could see the lights on houses, and always finding a road that would take us to the A & W Root Beer. 

All of us packed in the green station wagon.  A Plymouth.  The radio didn’t work so we sang in three and four part harmony.  Still remember those songs and the older ones angry at us younger ones if we missed a note.  Mom turning around and winking at us that it was okay.  More than okay.

Ten of us.  Not easy raising a family during the depression, World War II.  One bathroom.  Ten kids.  One salary.  Hand-me-downs.  Recycled toys.  Mostly, we had each other.  Mom and Dad.  That was enough.  More than enough.

Saint?  Not by a long-shot.  Sinner?  Probably, but who am I to judge?  I have my own sins, my own transgressions to worry about.  And worry I do.  Perfect, no not really.  Except maybe to me.  Did the best she could with what she had in her backpack.  We all do, and she no less.

Hurts and sharp words?  A lot.  It happens.  We do the best we can at the time.  No guide book, no manual that says . . .

Saw her husband, my dad pass away in ’78.  Saw her daughters, my sisters pass away.  Saw a son-in-law pass away to join his wife, my sister.  Saw . . .

She’s 98.  Seen a lot.  Watched even more.  Listened and heard and laughed and cried.  Me too.

When I visit, I have to remind her of who I am, not just once or twice. Maybe three or four times.  That’s okay, because maybe she won’t remember my unspoken words, or even my spoken words.  Maybe she won’t remember what I did, or even what I didn’t do.  That’s okay.  I hope.

98.

She tried and did her best.  She succeeded here and there, failed here and there.  We all do.  All do.  She did the best she could with what she had.  We all do.  All do.

One of these days, Judy, who has now assumed the role of family matriarch will call.  Maybe it will be one of my sisters, a brother-in-law.  More than likely, Mom.  Mom, who will start our family all over again.  With Dad, with Donna, with Joanne, with Jackie and Sue and Jim.  One of these days, but not now.  Not now.  Not yet.

Don’t know quite how this will end.  Don’t quite know where I want to go with this.  Perhaps that’s as it should be.  How it’s meant to be.  Mom.  My Mom.  Your Mom.  For Better or Worse.  For Right or Wrong.  And I, we, should be so lucky.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!

The Thing About Legos

I’ll be the first to admit that I am a mechanical and technological idiot.  Truly.  No exaggeration.  I barely know the difference between a screwdriver and a wrench and a hammer.  I have zero aptitude and zero interest and zero patience with those things. 

On the other hand, my older brother, Jim, is one of those individuals who can make something out of anything.  He knows what to do, how to do it, and somehow has this gift to see a result before he even begins.  Give him something we’d consider junk and he turns it into art.  Something of beauty, of purpose.  Gifted, by any measure.  He has designed houses, buildings, and created works of art.  He is an artist and architect by trade but wanted to teach.  His students loved him.  His ability to laugh at himself.  His sense of humor.  His wit.  His “Jim-ness”.

When we were little, he had an Erector Set.  Remember those?  Different metal pieces of different sizes and shapes with tiny nuts and bolts and wires.  If you had the deluxe set, you even had a tiny motor that could make the pieces move this way and that way.  In the right hands, in Jim’s hands, it was magical.  Me?  It was better that I watched from afar.  My very presence had the possibility of destroying it.

Erector Sets and Tinker Toys gave way to Legos.  Those little plastic pieces of different shapes and sizes that you’d snap together to make something.  They used to come in one big box of different colors.  Now, you can get a Lego Kit with directions on what to make and how to make it. 

Well, directions are another topic for discussion for some other Tuesday or Friday post. 

Jim didn’t need directions.  He’d scoff at directions.  He’d toss them aside as an annoyance.  Like I said, he could make something out of anything.  Me?  Well . . .

The Thing About Legos, Erector Sets and Tinker Toys is that each piece is significant because without it, you can’t put together what you set out to make.  You need each piece.  Each piece is important to the whole.

One piece by itself is nothing more than junk.  You can’t do much with it. (Except step on it with bare feet and scream bloody murder as you dance one footed around the living room, right?)

One piece is insignificant by itself.  But one piece is significant to the whole.  Without that one piece, the whole ceases to exist.  It doesn’t become. Without that one piece, something is always missing.  Without that one piece, the whole is incomplete.

In an early post, A Drop In The Ocean, I quoted Mother Teresa as saying that, “Without that one drop, the ocean would be less.”

The Thing About Legos . . . The Thing About Us, is that each of us is significant and important to the whole.  Unlike Legos, each of us is significant of and by ourselves. 

But Like Legos, how much more significant are we to the whole?  Very.  We bring a different color, a different perspective, a different view to the whole.  We contribute to make that whole.  We are significant.  Each of us.  Little or small.  Young or old.  Each of us.  Believe that.  Something to think about . . .

Live Your Life, and Make A Difference!