Truth. I did a quick search of my collection of posts this morning and discovered that the word “truth” has made an appearance many, many, times. It seems to be a subject of which I never tire, or perhaps something that unceasingly troubles and fascinates me. I find that seeing things as they really are remains challenging regardless of vigilance, education, or the humbling effects of life’s corrective movements. The more we see, the more we realize how imperfectly we see it.

The iconic line from 1992’s A Few Good Men recently came to my mind. You know the one: “YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!” A line delivered by Jack Nicholson with a devastating gut punch of contempt. Facing charges in a military tribunal, Nicholson’s character was accusing his accusers of not only not seeing things clearly but also being unable to accept the dark reality of the truth. Click here to watch the classic scene.

Though Nicholson’s Machiavellian means of dealing with the truth as he saw it was proven to be immoral and illegal by the court, the story explores a dark zone of compromise in the both and of upholding moral order in the natural law and the need to be aggressive in protecting a country’s interests in a dangerous world. Wherever we find ourselves in our day-to-day existence, seeing things as they really are often eludes us.

The fact is that most of us spend quite a bit of time traveling between reality and delusion. The truth is frequently beset by the lies that others tell us, the lies that the world tells us, and the lies we tell ourselves. Lies, empowered by our belief, fuel delusion – the place where what we see as reality is not what those around us see. I’m not talking about delusion in the form of true mental illness, but the self-delusions we hold closely for myriad reasons.

The reality is that we’re often quite comfortable in the familiar of our self-delusions. Delusions which frequently appear in the conclusions we draw about others and the world around us and in the assumptions we make about their intentions. In this place, we can become fixated on perceived wrongs and transgressions or the fear of them. They are very often lies. Lies spoken to us or lies spoken to ourselves.

Why are such lies so much more believable than the truth?

One reason is laziness. Sloth. Pursuing the truth takes effort. Work. Discernment. It is so much easier sitting in the big easy chair of our own preconceived notions or the whispers of others. We allow it because digging to the bottom of anything not obvious takes mental, emotional, and perhaps even physical energy. Why seek to understand the reality of something if I can have the lie served up effortlessly? With the onslaught of social media, 24 hour media sources, and now AI, there is no end to having every conceivable thought served up to us with zero effort.

Granted, such noise makes truth difficult to discern. After all, whose reality is the right reality? But that too becomes a slothful path as we abandon reason for ease or feeling. Sorting through it all is its own demand. It’s far easier to just let it happen.

Sometimes the lie feels good. There is a rush of pleasure in the feedback loop that tells us we are right. Yes, feeling right is a powerful elixir, akin to the euphoric intoxication of a drug. Even the moderately plausible creates the rush. This is so insidious that we even get the fix of being right even if it’s a negative about ourself. Think about that – we derive some weird pleasure in the validation of a lie about ourself…even if it’s negative. And yet, we kind of knew this all along.

We often accept lies at face value because they fit our pre-written narrative. We see what we want or expect in them. Sycophants and charlatans haunt our days and nights, appearing in our media, our social media, our causes, our workplaces, and our friendships. We open the door to the lie because it’s what we want to hear and the world around us senses it. Lies are not always passed with nefarious intent. Some of the most destructive lies hide behind noble intentions.

The problem with truth is that it might demand something. Recognizing the truth might cost us. It might cost effort to discern it. It might cost the sacrifice of long held beliefs or sacred cows. It might force change that we really don’t want. It might demand humility or forgiveness. It could cost us dollars or time or pain…physical or emotional. It could cost us relationships or belonging or status.

We invite lies into our lives because they enable us. We endure liars because they deal in delivering the fix of what we want to hear. Even that liar sitting between our own ears.

What are the signs of a lie? Victimhood, groupthink, and anger from perceived slights can be smoke rising from the ember of a lie. Words and story that are so easily received that they remind you of a deliciously refreshing beverage on a hot day – just what you needed. A lie may be hidden in information that affirms your suspicions or titillates your imagination. Or, there may be half-truth in the data that gives you permission to keep doing what you’ve been doing…telling you that you were right all along. Conclusions that lead you to loneliness and isolation are major signals of a lie. Even the misery of despair offers its own strange comforts.

A really tricky thing about a lie or self-delusion, is that there may be truth in it. At least partially. Given the slightest hint of truth, supported with our own perceptions, and we can be convinced to see any number of mixed realities. Particularly about ourself. The mirror on the wall offers some of the greatest lies we’ll ever hear and we fall for them every time as they appear in the dulcet tones of our own voice.

Truth must be pursued. It must be discerned. It takes effort and time and energy. It may be uncomfortable and can hurt but it really does set you free. Truth is often quieter than the lie, harder to see, and far less insistent…at least on first glance. Once you see, it can become quite demanding.

The truth of the matter is: we can handle the truth…if we want to to. We must be willing to hear, see, and accept it. We have to surround ourselves with honest inputs and resonators, rather than the mirrors that echo merely what we think we want. What’s a resonator? Anyone or anything that helps you rise to your best, your true, pitch. You know, the one that is joyful and flourishing.

Seeing things as they really are is a journey of self-awareness, prudence, and heart, which allows us to receive the truth and reflect it. The truth is that we will finally know it when we see it, sense it when it comes near, and feel it move us, when we have done the hard work of seeking it rather than being swept-up in the flood of lies that surrounds us. The truth will set us free, if we want it to and allow it to happen.

Sally and I recently attended an event that featured “dueling pianos,” a fun way to experience talented musicians in a more personal, interactive form. The evening was driven by audience requests and included a bit of karaoke, lots of crowd singing, and a closing time finale that saw the original audience dwindled to just four audience members, including yours truly. Perhaps a story for another time.

Amid all of the nostalgic music, one particular line from a song really struck me and has stayed with me for a number of days. “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of livin’ has gone.” Growing up in Indiana in the 80’s, John Cougar Mellenkamp’s music was background to dances, dates, and the slow process of coming of age. That line from Jack and Diane reverberated long past its release in 1982. As I heard it the other night, I thought to my self: is that true? Perhaps more accurately, do I believe that life is thrilling for a season, then reality happens and enduring becomes the mode of existence? Perhaps for a 31-year-old Mellenkamp, on the edge of stardom not-yet-achieved, it was written with a wondering eye toward a time when everything was still in front of him.

A few days later, I found myself in a conversation with Sally in which she shared a story of coming to a profound insight. Reflecting on the conversation, I wondered about truth, belief, and the process of coming to them. Was the insight true? Did I believe it? Why? Beyond that, I considered the journey of the conversation. What moves us to believe some things rather than others?

Fear not, I have no intent of taking us on an epistemological journey into the nether regions of sense and sensibility. What really struck me about the conversation was the notion of “bearing witness.” In the encounter, I saw two things happening: 1) Sally shared the journey to the insight, bearing witness to a truth to which she had come and 2) I received her witness in my listening and in my agreement. What is it to “bear witness”?

Bearing witness is often associated with faith but it is really just sharing the truth of our own experience. In its purest sense, it is not concerned with convincing but with revealing what has been discovered. To bear witness is the carry our discovery to others, offering it for their discernment. The motto of the Dominican Order (attributed to St. Thomas Aquinas) is “contemplata aliis tradere” – which means “to contemplate and to share the fruits of our contemplation.” Sally’s “witness” was to share the fruits of her contemplation – an insight she came to, then offered in love.

As I thought about it, I realized that she was not trying to convince me of the truth of her discovery, she was merely sharing. Though she likely wanted, maybe even expected, that I would agree or see the truth in it, the bearing of her witness was to the process of her learning, then the offering of its fruits which she had received. Reading 1 Peter 3:15, “Always be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope…”, this morning reminded me of our conversation. Sally’s witness was a reason for her hope, for her discovery – she was sharing her experience of truth.

There is the witness, the truth of our experience which we bear, or bring, to others. But there must also be the receiver. Bearing also refers to receiving, or tolerating the delivery of a particular witness, or discovery. We can choose not to bear it, rejecting it because we don’t believe, don’t want to hear it, or simply are not paying attention. To bear witness in sharing a discovery is a gift to the other. To listen and receive that discovery is also a gift. For it to be efficacious, we must be willing to accompany with an openness to the experience of the other.

In the Christian tradition, the word Gospel comes from early Greek works meaning “good news” and the word evangelization means to proclaim the good news. Sharing the good news of Jesus Christ is central to the Christian faith and bearing witness is frequently associated with the notion of evangelization. However, there are broader lessons here for how we come to belief in the truth.

Discernment is the process of determining truth. Do I accept or believe this witness? Perhaps more importantly, am I moved by it? This gets to the heart of human change which must ultimately be a change of heart. Change rarely occurs instantly. Coming to believe the witness of another is a process. There is convincing done by reasoning but we often resist reason; we have our own powers of rationalization which may reason otherwise.

Truth often begins as a seed which must find fertile soil and be allowed to grow. Bearing witness is offering the seed which must then be born, tolerated/received, by the other to be planted. Some element of the truth must be glimpsed – then we must choose to bear it or reject it. But discernment is also a process and time is necessary for hearts to change – coming to believe required space for the roots to grow.

Such is the process of belief and it applies to anything that is not immediately obvious to us. Whether coming to some form of faith, a shifting of our conclusions on a person, or any other entrenched belief. Change often begins with the bearing of a witness of the other – their experience or reason for hope – and our own soil. Are we willing to receive? Can we glimpse truth in their witness?

Bearing on the receiving end is caring enough to give it a chance. That may stem from some basis of trust, either in the character or the credibility, of the other. It may stem from something moving within us – our own experience which often prepares us to receive. The ground of our hearts is prepared in the challenges, barriers, and possibilities, opened and closed along our own journey, which ultimately determine how we accept or reject what is presented to us. We come to belief, and ultimately truth, through our experience.

We can intuit this for things of faith – religious beliefs that form and flow in so many ways. But there are many things we hold, and reject, as truth that are really matters of faith. Pillars of belief that are fixed through the witness of our experience or the phantom of our assumption. Perhaps that pillar is actually a preference – a comfortable acceptance that fits what we want. Truth may set us free but it will likely cost us something that was once very comfortable and only after a process of discomfort…possibly significant discomfort.

To what truths are we bearing witness? What discoveries are we sharing? More importantly, what significant truths are being shared with us that may be getting stuck in the filter of our intolerance? Intolerance which may be born of an unwillingness to listen or of conclusions calcified into the foundation of our heart? No, not all witness shared with us is truth. We must be alert to all forms of deception and misdirection. However, we are gifted with special powers of discernment, which applied prudently, can guide our hearts and minds toward truth. We come to find that we sense it in certain places, at certain times, with certain people.

Returning to Mellenkamp’s line, I sense an element of truth. Life might in fact go on past its thrills. But experience has taught me that there are many kinds of thrills and the joy of living runs far deeper than the exhilarations that come and go. Such is the tricky nature of truth and belief cast upon the imperfect human lens – we can muddle them so easily. However, it is the witnesses born and experienced over time that create deep roots. Here, we find the gift of wisdom, our surest path to understanding.

The Northwind family gathered to celebrate each other last Friday at the Indianapolis Zoo. A real joy for me was the chance to talk to our team members and their families, meeting spouses, parents, children, and siblings. Making my rounds, I realized how different the dynamic becomes when we step outside of the workplace and interact with each other on a purely social level. I smile as I think of the many kids with whom I spoke, and the delicious awkwardness of their reactions to me: how do I respond to his silly questions? Do I make eye contact? How long do I have to stand here with this guy?

Of course, awkwardness isn’t limited to interactions with children. After talking to a team member and his wife for a few moments, he smiled sheepishly at me and said, “I’m sorry about my geeky awkwardness.” As he said it, I realized that there had been a space of silence in the conversation as I simply smiled at his beautiful family, standing there looking intently at his wife and children. In a large group of people, it can be so easy to to glance across the blur of faces so I try to look into each person’s eyes. The spark always reveals itself but sometimes a moment of silence appears. I found his response endearingly charming and precious. Who says we can’t be innocent in our adulthood?

Driving home from the Zoo later that evening, Alanis Morissette’s song, All I Really Want, appeared on the radio, greeting us with her unique 90’s sound and angst.

Why are you so petrified of silence?
Here can you handle this?
Did you think about your bills, you ex, your deadlines
Or when you think you’re going to die?
Or did you long for the next distraction?

What is silence? Google tells us it’s the complete absence of sound. Thinking about my various conversations at the picnic, some of the most interesting, and profound, moments occurred during or immediately after silence. In particular, my silence. Entering into an interaction, there are the pleasantries, acknowledgements, and introductions. But the best parts happened when I closed my mouth. My silence created space for something else to occur. Someone else could step into it, was allowed room to share, and even if that room opened an awkward moment of hesitation, there was beautiful possibility in it. It really wasn’t awkward…it was profoundly human.

A quick search of the internet reveals many, many, perspectives on silence. One finds posts on the benefits of silence as well as the fears of silence. Silence in social interactions can create awkwardness but sitting in our own private silence can also cause discomfort. Sometimes great discomfort. I think Alanis taps into it: did you think about your bills, your ex, your deadlines? Or when you think you’re going to die? Or did you long for the next distraction?

Silence with ourselves can be a dangerous thing, drawing us into a different conversation, that may force us to confront things we’d rather not confront. Silence draws us into the depths. The voices above become muted and we’re left with the signals in the noise. Silence demands something, causing vulnerability and unease as we come face to face with those things that are easily hidden behind the noise of distraction. Signs emerge in that silence, the unseen paths forward that often lead us back through some rough terrain. Redemption or mission…maybe both. Hiding in those depths are the nudges, some pushing us to deeper reflection, and some calling us to action.

Sometimes they come as regrets, the reels rewound to make us see failure or stupidity, but there is also more. Is that ringing in your ears from too much caffeine or are those alarm bells? Silence may force us to confront something we’re ignoring. Internally or externally. In the stillness, we might hear it: is that our conscience or the voice of God? Guilt is not something to fear and burying it in the noise isn’t helping. Regret offers lessons that must be learned and there is something liberating in turning our face toward it – the path to redemption begins with the prick of guilt.

We may fear revelation in the stumbling and stammering we don’t want to remember or acknowledge, however, there are also glimpses of genius, affection, insight, and wisdom. The rising above that we didn’t notice or reminder of the generosity we’d forgotten. Self-compassion can also be found in the silence.

Silence is also a pathway to decluttering our mind, our heart, and our soul. It’s like cleaning out the junk in the attic. All the detritus that has accumulated over the years. It’s removing too much furniture from the family room, giving the space a fresh, open feel. Or throwing out old paint or wood scraps collected in the garage, or tossing the broken toys sitting at the bottom of the toy-box. Silence can help us remove the clutter and allow something else to occur – creating room for something new or room to move – free space opens the door to other ideas or the freedom of being unencumbered.

Silence opens the door to creative pools lying just below, waiting to be tapped. Solutions to tough problems often appear in the empty space of silence. The mythical “shower brainstorm” is for real – great ideas can appear in the undistracted space of the shower. Running water is not complete silence, but it is effective “white noise,” blocking out other more distracting sounds and soothing us in mantra-like stillness of mind.

In conversation or our time alone, silence creates space for something else to enter. The pause is as important as the note and our frenetic need to get to the next note, or the deep fear of the space between, locks us into the acedia of busyness and distraction. Are we giving others enough space to respond or consuming all the air with our own ideas, our own will, and our own desires? Silence invites others to enter. Are we giving ourselves enough space that something deeper can enter?

Why are you so petrified of silence? Are you afraid you won’t get the chance to make your point, tell your story, or demonstrate your keen insight? Are you afraid you might hear a deeper voice whispering in the stillness? Or do you simply long for the next distraction?

The truth about silence is that it creates the opportunity for us to receive. In the silent mist, the unexpected appears, bringing the possibility of surprise and delight, as well as the danger of the unknown. It may cost us something, or it may reward us infinitely more in the encounter, idea, or the conviction to move forward. Perhaps the silence will bring cost and reward. In all cases, it is taking us somewhere – more often than not, moving us forward.

Reflecting on the many eyes I looked into at our company picnic, I see the spark of the Divine arcing across the space created in the pause, and I’m reminded of similar flashes in the dark silent stillness of my own moments in meditation and contemplation. That spark appears in places where room is made for it and we have the courage to receive what it brings. Perhaps it brings some discomfort, but that’s ok. We’re not made for comfort, we’re made for greatness.

Agency. This word has recently been on my mind – not in reference to a business or organization, or a contractual term. I’m thinking of human agency in what Wikipedia defines as “the capacity of individuals to have the power and resources to fulfill their potential.” Agency in this context is a sociological construct and the Wikipedia article goes on to describe it as “one’s independent ability to act on one’s will.” For me to have agency over my life is to feel control in my ability to influence my thoughts and behavior as well as handle the situations that confront me.

Our sense of agency is a massive factor in our ability to flourish. It is a reflection of how we view our power to affect and respond to things in our lives and underpins how our internal pendulum swings from a sense of empowerment to one of helplessness. In many ways, the frustrations that so often bog us down are born of feelings of low agency, low control and influence, in our lives. Here, we can become victims of our circumstance, caught in a state of helplessness that can lead to hopelessness.

Social scientists pursue such concepts in an effort to explain and work to ameliorate their consequences across groups of people, but I want to focus on its implications for those of us who lead in the context of our responsibility for those around us. Whether we lead in business, healthcare, education, government, our community, or in our home, there are a group of human beings around us who belong to us. Of course, I’m not referring to possession, I’m talking about dominion, a responsibility to and active role in their wellbeing. There are clearly degrees here, but each of us holds a sacred duty to help steward those who are ours to a higher degree of flourishing – a place where they are fully alive in the proper stewardship of their own gifts.

This responsibility is easy to see with our children. Following the arc of their development, we see the gradualness of their growth and development and are clear on our role which is to protect and guide them to a self-sufficient adulthood. We are imbued with the instinct to love and support our children, so it is easy to accept the responsibility to help them flourish. We also possess much of their agency, assuming it completely early-on and then gradually releasing it to them as they mature.

The stewardship and flourishing game becomes far more challenging with our adult child, who we clearly have all the right answers for, and may at times seem unable to find them. With our children, we are moving along our own road of gradualness as we relinquish (often reluctantly) their agency to them. Our role shifts from complete control to less control and finally to where we are not answering, not doing, not assuming agency for them, but guiding, assisting, and anticipating…always meeting them where they are.

What about the others who might be ours? We have ongoing roles in the stewardship of many people throughout our lives. We see this clearly in the development of their functional capabilities. Our responsibility may lie in helping them gain the needed skills or in applying those skills most effectively. But human formation, and flourishing, goes much deeper than skills and adulthood is no magical point of arrival. The journey has just begun.

The whole person must function in many spheres through a lifetime. Who they are matters…who they become matters. We have a role to play for those in our lives. Both our direct dominion as well as those we meet along the way. For those who are ours, what are we doing to foster their complete development? Do we see the whole person? The physical being before us is only the tip of the iceberg. They are also intellectual, emotional, and spiritual beings. They are sharing a journey with us.

In our brave new world of artificial intelligence, a great danger lies in its power to foster a more utilitarian view of others. As AI begins to seem more and more human, we are being trained to expect humans to behave similarly to our demands. This movement might begin to further dull our sense of responsibility to others in both charity, and perhaps more subtly in how we guide and mentor. By its nature, a utility is self-serving and more human sounding artificial servants will further erode the moral boundaries we hold in valuing the person as well as our sense of responsibility to them. We must be on guard against this.

We belong to each other. Some more than others. In these communities of belonging – families, schools, workplaces, neighborhoods, churches, towns, clubs – we have a responsibility to one another. There is a sacred duty to the other, both to see the divine spark within as well as to help them along their own journey of gradualness to becoming fully alive – to flourishing. It is an assistive, supportive, function we play and we are designed to have great influence in the growth of others which is ultimately about their ability to flourish in full agency of their own existence. They are ours, not in a possessive way, but as a sacred imperative – a duty born of love in willing their final good.

This is difficult because we must allow them to grow into it and remember that they are ours, not in a gripping, controlling way, but in an open-handed, releasing fashion. A hand always ready to be grasped but never grasping. Stewardship of this sort is born of presence and influence. The place where who we are and how we are being manifest as the central forms of our power to make a difference. Open-handed influence becomes the deft art of humanity applied and released in the right places, at the right times, with the right amount of pressure.

And so we go, passing it forward as best we can; catching and releasing in unequal measures, as we all stumble along our own journey of growth. The wisdom we gain in snippets, shared unevenly and incompletely, as our own vision of the world shifts in our becoming. But our imperfect apprenticeship is meant to be shared and the world around us is hungry for the few loaves and fishes we bring to it, waiting to be multiplied in their giving. What a beautiful design.

Look around you today. Each of those faces looking back is yours…in some fashion. The call to that face may be casual courtesy or kindness; it may also be loving patience and looking beyond the disappointment. The call may be to see the divine spark within and gently blow on it, fueling it to flame, or it may be to call that human being to more, not because they failed or you need them to get it right, but because you see something more in them than they may even see. It may simply be holding a hand while the tears flow or reminding them of their own duty to the other. But all these are yours, for a moment or for a lifetime. Not yours for you, but yours for them, and your great gift is the unseen becoming within yourself as you give the gift away

With a bit of reflection, we find that this great mystery, and great responsibility, is really not so mysterious. Looking more closely, we find that our flourishing, and sense of agency in our own life, grows correspondingly with our ability to help those who are ours, with theirs.

“You don’t manage chaos, you endure it,” I responded. Our conversation had wandered from business to family to the world and the many threads of doubt and uncertainty that entwine it. My comment was a reaction to the phrase “managed chaos,” a common trope that for numerous reasons really struck me in that moment. Saying that one is managing chaos is like claiming to be an effective multitasker…it’s a logical fallacy that simply is not true. If you were managing chaos, it would not be chaotic, and however well you think you are juggling those tasks, you are actually only able to focus your attention on one thing at a time.

What we’re really saying when we use the term “managed chaos” is that we are surviving – we’re getting by in the middle of a storm. A good analogy might be the actions of an individual soldier on the battlefield. He may a set of orders and a plan to take the hill, but once he meets the enemies plans and the bullets start flying, chaos ensues. Managing is reacting moment by moment to things you cannot control and hopefully surviving long enough to come out on top. If you survive, it’s not because you managed it but because you brought order to it in being a more effective killer in the melee.

Of course, there are moments when chaos explodes upon our life and we can only react. But make no mistake, you are not managing it, your are surviving, enduring, persisting, within it. Chaos is moving you along in its flow of uncertainty and your existence within the reactive precludes your ability to look beyond the maelstrom to any effective degree. You are caught within the grip of necessity and your decisions must be instinctive, built-upon incomplete information, and fueled by the emotive powers of feeling which exist within your fight or flight survival mechanism. Some may be better than others in this sort of hand-to-hand combat, but none of us are operating in our optimal state.

Remember Abraham Maslow? In the 40’s and 50’s, Maslow developed his famous “Hierarchy of Needs” which concluded that human behavior is driven from an ascending hierarchy of needs moving from basic physiological needs like air, water, food, shelter, to safety needs like security, employment, health, to love and belonging, to esteem, and finally to self-actualization – the need to reach our full potential. The lower need must be satisfied before we can move to the higher need.

Chaos is the storm of uncertainty that throws doubt upon the status of our needs. The more we are drawn into our lower needs, the less we are able to flourish in our full potential. Merriam Webster tells us that chaos is a state of utter confusion or inherent unpredictability in a system. It is disorder and by definition, we cannot work optimally within it – we can “manage” only in the sense that we are surviving it.

To live in it persistently is to accept a habitual “survival mode” existence. To claim one is managing it is to rationalize the habit that has formed and become comfortable for any number of reasons. We become attached to our habits as they are familiar and even simply surviving can become comfortable as it is certainly better then the alternative. Claiming to manage chaos is something we tell ourselves to justify a lack of discipline, sloth, or focus. it suggests acceptable degrees of uncertainty and a tolerance for imperfection.

Of course, the world is not perfect, controlled, or certain. But that is the point. Aiming for less than control, for managed chaos, leaves us even further from perfect and resting in justified disorder. The unexpected will come. The chaos will appear at the door…uninvited. It is the ordering of what we do control that best prepares us and those around us to respond rather than just react. Order allows us to meet chaos with our full faculties and intention. We are prepared.

Order is focus and control. Calm. Peace. Predictability. Good operations are about order. Process is about order. Systems are about order. Control. There are plenty of things that push upon our control but we don’t have to help them. Whether in our home, our office, our body – much sits within our control. Chaos puts us in survival mode. Managing it is merely surviving. We cannot flourish when we are just surviving. Accepting it becomes a habit – we learn to tolerate it and we adapt thereby perpetuating survival mode.

Chaos begets chaos. Order fosters order. Look at your home. Chaos is messiness, untidiness, things unkept, not in their right place. Children will adapt and reflect such disorder. Schedules, structure, predictable expectations, all enable children to move and behave with certainty within the system. Chaos is anything goes, defiance, disobedience, and following our passions. It is moment by moment, anything goes, living and it leaves all within its grip feeling uncertain and often unsafe.

We’ve become too tolerant of chaos. We are too comfortable with disorder. We’ve become too accepting of living in survival mode, floating along and reacting to the chaos foisted upon us by our politicians, media, entertainment, social media, and the multitude of other distractions that fool us into believing we’re simply multitasking as we sit in the middle of messes in our lives, our homes, and our workplaces. The photo for this post was taken as I recently drove to my office. What kind of society needs a “hoarding cleanout” service?

I live within the world of health and healthcare, a place where our tolerance of disorder has reached epidemic proportions. As consumers, we endure confusion over our own health and causes of unhealthiness as swell as access to care and its associated costs. As employers funding health benefits, we endure the chaos of options and obfuscation foisted upon us by a system that is so busy feeding itself that it can no longer see beyond its own voracious appetite to the needs of those it is supposed to serve. We tolerate the disorder because we feel there are no good options and we no longer trust what the insurance companies, pharmaceutical companies, or health systems tell us. This is a lie but we’ve been trained to exist within it.

We are made to bring order to the world around us. We are made to live within the tension of chaos pressing upon the order we need to thrive. We intuitively know that we must create order or there can be no flourishing, yet we tolerate the disorder of imposed upon us by the powers and principalities. The answer is to start i our own domains. We must bring order to that which is placed within our dominion. Good stewardship is good order. Order in our homes fosters order in our places of work which fosters order in our communities. Order strengthens the individual which strengthens the organization which strengthens the community and then the society.

It is good and right to desire order in the world around us. It is fitting to defy the chaos we feel pressing-in upon us. It is necessary that we aim for order so that we are prepared when we are assaulted by disorder in a world prone to chaos. It is possible for us to elevate past the habits of chaos that so often grip us; there are options for us whether we’re drowning in the stuff that disorders our homes and our hearts or we faced with the chaos of a disordered health system. We must first decide to address the habits that hold us before we can begin to focus on how we and those within our dominion rise to true flourishing.

Bringing order begins with a decision. You must first decide it is possible, then you can decide to act upon it.

What goals would you be setting for yourself if you knew you could not fail?

Robert Schuller

Remember the last time you got a new toy? You know, the thing that returned you to youthful giddiness…even if just for a while. My Father’s Day gift this year was a pair of serious home audio speakers; big, heavy, boxes that boom like the ones we cranked-up in college to the joy and chagrin of all around us. In this age of mono speakers attached to phones by way of Bluetooth or WiFi, these brand new and completely retro-looking speakers, hard-wired and properly amplified, are a mind-blowing return to the awe and wonder of the highs and lows of full stereo.

Listening to these speakers yesterday afternoon, I was reminded of that Maxell ad in the 80’s that shows a guy sitting in a chair in front of huge speakers, gripping the armrest, with his hair blowing straight back, like the rush of a mighty wind. Though I’m past the days of my hair being blown in any direction, I suspect the huge grin on my face was the emotional equivalent of what that ad conveyed – I was totally blown away. Pandora served-up a great series of songs with Steven Tyler and Aerosmith setting the tempo:

Every time that I look in the mirror
All these lines on my face getting clearer
The past is gone
Oh, it went by like dusk to dawn
Isn’t that the way?

Amid the joy of hearing the music in such a crisply refreshing way, the lyrics jumped out of the speakers in striking fashion, taking me into a moment of euphoria-loaded nostalgia. I sat dazed in the feelings of the song, first heard when I wasn’t old enough to really notice, later when it accompanied me down other youthful paths, and on to this moment where it returned like an old friend – our conversation picked up and carried-on like we just spoke yesterday.

Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay, oh, oh, oh
I know nobody knows
Where it comes and where it goes
I know it’s everybody’s sin
You got to lose to know how to win

Recorded in 1973, Steven Tyler knew nothing of the lines that would come across his face and could hardly have imagined how quickly time would pass. This is part of the genius of the song, it is timeless, aging with its singer and the rest of us, connecting us to that past while touching us in the present.

Half my life’s in books’ written pages
Storing facts learned from fools and from sages
You view the earth

I heard many other songs yesterday, but Dream On is still echoing in my mind this morning. Earlier this week, I found myself in a discussion on Arthur Brooks’ book, Strength to Strength, the first half of which explains the reality of the strengths of youth and how they are fading even as we are just starting to notice we have them, and the second half of the book tries to help us see how we can transition to a different kind of strength in the second half of our life. His case studies center on great artists, engineers, athletes, scientists, etc. who accomplished amazing things (mostly by the time they were 30) and then spent the rest of their lives unable to attain, or sustain, the early glory.

The point of the book is good in that he is trying to help the reader redefine the notion of success and reconcile the fading of youthful strengths with the burgeoning of other strengths through time and experience. I laughed earlier in the week as I encouraged a friend to stick with the book, as the first half is pretty depressing, then gets a bit more encouraging.

One fundamental thing I believe Brooks gets wrong in the book is not acknowledging the way our priorities shift with time and maturity, and the ways we choose to invest ourselves amid a naturally occurring evolution in definitions of what entails a “good life.” He quantifies early achievement in terms of great works of art, scientific discoveries, or feats of engineering, concluding that they are not repeatable because the achiever is no longer capable of thinking, creating, or designing at the same level – much like an athlete cannot sustain physical prowess. I wonder, how might interest, intensity, and necessity, play into his conclusions?

Oh, sing with me, this mournful dub
Sing with me, sing for a year
Sing for the laughter, and sing for the tear
Sing with me, if it’s just for today
Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away

Tyler’s creative genius in his lyrics was tapping into something he intuited but was only just beginning to understand. His was an observation on time’s passing, our passing with it, and the sense that the present is really, really, precious. As I watch others in the twilight of career and life, I wonder about Brooks’ conclusions, our cultural notion of aging, the concept of retirement, and what constitutes a good life. Do we accept the fade too soon? Is life really just a challenging journey of lessening capacities ending in the slow limp to the finish line?

In my working life, I see a general lack of big, bold, ideas. Most never aspire to greatness nor attempt the impossible. Few have the audacity to believe they can solve big problems and many exist in the pattern of survival at worst and maintenance at best. For many, the promise of retirement is really an accelerated fade hidden behind the mirage of a “good life” of comfort and leisure. A fade that morphs quickly into an elemental struggle to simply live for as long as possible.

Half of young Steven Tyler’s life was spent learning facts “from fools and from sages.” What would he say now about the pages he’s written in the book of his life? What would we say about our own pages?

Priorities change. Dreams change. Circumstances change. Maybe our purpose even changes. But our need to live in the greatness of our current moment doesn’t change. Our opportunity to feel the awe and wonder of living doesn’t change. There are still lines to be written, pages to be compiled, dreams to hope, wonders to be experienced, and moments to be shared.

Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away. But not yet. Not. Yet.

A baby changes everything. The nine months of pregnancy are deeply formational for mother and father, however, with that first look at his child, dad begins to truly understand just how much his life is no longer just about him. Having carried the baby and imbued with her powerfully intuitive feminine gifts, mom is way ahead of him. As men, we can try to imagine, project, and process, the concept of the shift into fatherhood, but whatever we think its going to be, falls far short of the reality we encounter the first time we meet our son or daughter. Nothing will ever be the same.

In so many ways, it’s a wildly outsized, unreasonable, responsibility. A little soul is brought into the world and his or her parents find themselves the stewards of this baby’s complete well-being. The helpless child will be completely dependent on mother and father for many years and in some cases, for decades. Care, feeding, protection, intellectual development, and all physical and emotional well-being fall upon the parents. Parenthood is an awesome responsibility.

Today, we celebrate one half of that parenting dream-team, the father. Sitting with my son and son-in-law last night, we did a little pre-Father’s Day celebrating over smoked wings, homemade sauce, laughter…all amid their seven lively children who were actively enlivening the scene. Of course, their brides, the beautiful mothers of their children, were right in the middle of it. The first beautiful thing about fatherhood is the motherhood that enables and complements it. I’m proud to say that these young men learned that lesson early.

During our dinner, all shared some observations on their fathers. Amid the profound thoughts on sacrifice, safety, presence, support, and love, I was reminded of the great responsibility of fatherhood. The father serves a timeless function: his place in the fabric of his child’s life spans all that soul knows. There are the stories before we are born, the stories we make with our fathers, and the stories we remember when our fathers are gone. The presence or absence of our father echoes across our entire life.

Fatherhood is a dominion, an emotional and physical space, to be inhabited, fulfilled, and protected. It is first, the sacred duty to provide for and shelter the little souls who enter the world completely dependent. But that is just the opening chapter. The father must help steward and develop his child to adulthood, preparing him or her for the great opportunities and dangers of life. Fatherhood is about time and tension; the proper application of pressure and release, of correction and encouragement, of mercy and justice. It is the difficult dance of both loving and holding accountable, pushing and restraining, that must be sustained through many seasons. Perhaps all the seasons he has to offer.

Fatherhood demands the last measure of devotion, the high sacrifice of self. The dreams and desires of his boyhood must be realigned to the realities and demands of fatherhood. Often, they are elevated as he realizes the great possibility in the calling of fatherhood. The sacrifice will likely exceed everything he ever imagined as will the appearance of love and joy he experiences with those souls in his dominion. He comes to recognize what he is literally willing to die for.

As I listened to those at the table share anecdotes about their fathers, some of which were about me, I realized that the place we inhabit as father exists far beyond our own time, reach, and even intention. Whatever I hoped or dreamed about being a father, the successes and failings, have moved beyond me and become the possession of my children. That possession will outlive me through time and memory, its formational power flowing generationally. No matter what, we never stop loving, or needing the love of, our fathers, and the great inheritance of that legacy is timeless.

In many ways, the responsibility of fatherhood is unreasonable. It is massively daunting and many would think again before embarking on it if they knew of the permanence of its demanding call. Certainly, none of us fulfill the call perfectly, and there are many who choose to ignore the call. This is a great tragedy. Striving to fulfill the demand of fatherhood presents one of life’s greatest opportunities. It is the self-sacrifice we all need to become fully alive – greater things come back when we’ve given it all away.

In a world with billions of people, there are many needs beyond biological fatherhood. Adoptive and spiritual fatherhood are very real, and for every one of us who falters in our own biological fatherhood, there are others stepping up to fill empty shoes. The call is no less daunting or dramatic; to take on the duty of fatherhood for another’s safety, wellbeing, or development, is beautifully sacrificial and so very necessary in a world hungry for good fathers. Today is also a good day to celebrate those who devote their lives as spiritual fathers to their faith communities and we all benefit from these wonderful examples of fatherhood…even if we don’t realize it.

To all fathers out there, remember today that you are called to be both lion and lamb. You must protect those in your dominion, provide for them, and nurture them. You must do what it takes to keep them safe. You must also be prepared to lay down your life for them and sacrifice your self when necessary. Removing yourself from the center of your life will likely be the greatest sacrifice you ever make but it’s impact will live long past your earthly existence.

There is a great mystery about dogs. Why do they do the things they do? Theirs is a fascination with everything. Every noise, every smell…every little speck of anything attracts their attention as the most interesting thing in the universe. Then, on to the next thing. Puppies chase leaves floating across the yard. My dog actually chases her tail, frequently catching it at full speed across the yard and literally rolling over as she wrestles with herself. The tail-chasing is one of many quirky things about Edie; things that are known and explained-away in the hands-up shrug of “she’s a dog.” A rather meaningless expression summing up all that is seemingly without meaning about this animal while unequivocally giving meaning to the unexplainable.

See what I mean?

Not so long ago, I started our normal daily routine of letting her out to do her business and she bolted out the door as if her life depended on it. This, by itself, is not unusual…after all, she’s a dog. She then proceeded to chase a rabbit, barking loudly and bucking like a wild bronco all the way across the yard. Apparently the bucking adds emphasis to the message in her barking. Minutes later I found myself standing in the wet grass at 6am yelling at my dog to stop barking at the rabbit which apparently had not retreated far enough to convince Edie that it was no longer trespassing within her domain.

Actually, I wasn’t just telling her to stop barking. More specifically, I said, “Stop screwing around and go to the bathroom.” Now, Edie is trained and, as dogs go, reasonably intelligent. However, I’m pretty sure that the specifics of my instructions were lost upon her and though my tone may have conveyed most of what needed to be communicated, I realized mid-stream that there were two animals in the backyard barking and my dog’s barking was likely more intelligible to the rabbit than my barking was to my dog.

Now laughing at myself, I wondered about other conversations I had with my dog and realized that I pretty much always talk to her as if she knows what I’m saying. There is normally the command, “stop,” “go,” “come,” etc. which is followed by more specifics, “over there,” “over here,” “in the back,” often accompanied with pointing, waving, or gritted teeth, depending on her degree of incomprehension.

“She’s a dog” seems to capture the essence of the unexplainable for my dog but what about me? Perhaps “he’s a man” offers more clarity than I realize.

With a bit of reflection, I wonder about other places I may be “barking at rabbits” without realizing it. Driving along, coaching other drivers who clearly need my expert guidance. Reading a post on social media and providing verbal clarity to what is clearly not fully understood by its writer. Providing expert counsel to the Pacers or the officials who clearly could use my unique form of encouragement at key moments. What do you mean they can’t hear me through the TV?

Where else might my barking appear? Are there places where what I think I’m communicating is a bit less clear than what I might hope? Most certainly.

The world around us is often a carnival of headlines, news stories, and strange behavior. There is no end to the bizarre on nearly every front. Stopping long enough to notice, we see caricatures in the faces around us and sometimes hear the absurd in our own voices. Perhaps we’re not always as intelligible as we might think.

As my granddaughter lets Edie out this morning, I watch as the mystery of rope-tugging unfolds. Calling Edie over, I instruct her to sit and look at me so I can get a photo. She runs into the other room and I summon her back, reminding her to get her toy and sit directly here (I point to where I want her to be). Neither Reagan nor Edie see anything odd in my instructions and though the dog does not obey any single command perfectly, we eventually come to agreement if not understanding.

At least I wasn’t barking…too much.

Due to a curious alignment of the moon and stars this week-end, I found myself flying solo in the domestic bliss of fatherhood and grandfather-hood. I say “solo” but that is only in the context of Sally being out of town – I was blessed to have any threat of aloneness banished by a steady flow of grandchildren.

One very dynamic part of living a few houses away from five of one’s grandchildren is the potential for one or more to show up in planned and unplanned forms. This week-end, the sleepover of one turned into visits from the other three the following morning…visits that somehow manifested themselves as non-overlapping and one at a time over a couple of hours, then culminating in breakfast, snacks, and three doing their own thing in different rooms around the house. I’m certain Einstein had some kind of theory about the quantum relativity of this kind of chaos.

At one point in the grandfatherly continuum of my morning, I found myself standing at the top of our stairs as 2 1/2 year old Blair stood at the bottom, arms reaching up toward me, saying, “Poppy, help me.” Apparently she wanted to come upstairs and the ascent she’s completed hundreds of times seemed daunting this morning. Descending the stairs, I asked, “Do you want me to pick you up?” “No, I want you to hold my hand.” There is a beautiful symmetry to the randomness of a 2 year old who is very clear about what she wants.

Later that day, I drove to a chapel for memorial service for my friend, Gay, who passed away in April. As I walked across the parking lot toward the chapel, I didn’t see anyone else and hoped that that there would be a few people there to remember my 87 year old friend. Any concerns about attendance were washed away in the buzz of an unexpectedly large chapel with most sits occupied and a long line of well-wishers coming in from the entrance – apparently, I had somehow found the back entrance to the chapel. I almost laughed out loud as I scanned the room looking for anyone I might know. There were at least 200 people in attendance.

Images of Gay appeared on large screens behind the altar area and I smiled as I saw her younger self, her family, many volunteer events, and images of her adventures around the world on photographic pilgrimages. I was reminded of the movie, “Titanic,” in which an old Rose was shown in her stateroom with photos of her on many adventures through her younger life. I knew her for just a sliver of her life and, though not entirely surprised, found myself shaking my head in wonder at the great journey of her 87 years.

Various family members took turns reciting poems and eulogizing their mother and grandmother. I think they too were a bit surprised by the outpouring of affection for Gay and perhaps some of the versions of their mother and grandmother they discovered in other people stories. The many epithets given to describe Gay were powerful testimony to her person and impact: beautiful, generous, force-of-nature, direct, strong, life-changing…dozens of descriptors were used to characterize her. May we all have a few of these read and written about us at our passing.

I was reminded of the complicated nature of families. The intimacy of family leaves no room for masks or candy-coating. There is no hiding our weaknesses, flaws, and imperfections. All of our strengths, shortcomings, tendencies, and habits reveal themselves in such close proximity over great spans of time. With our family, we see it all. Love and complexity infuse even the most idyllic family relationships and Gay’s memorial was made profoundly real and compelling in the honest reflections on her as both amazing and totally human. Love is made more real when applied equally to our imperfections.

As parents, we want the best for our children. This often means desperately wanting them to be their best. Pushing, pulling, hoping. When they are young, we exert great control and influence over their formation. However, our desire to see them thrive, to be their best, doesn’t end with a degree, job, marriage, or children. Part of the beauty and struggle of parenthood is transitioning as our children grow, molding and preparing them, then letting go as they take agency of their own lives. Then loving them through the joys and disappointments that happen along the way.

What about others who fall within our domain? Those who we nurture, lead, and steward in our roles as managers, teachers, healers, ministers, volunteers? We all exist within an ecosystem of human interactions which brings us into contact with life’s great array of beautiful thriving and dark suffering. Beyond our personal triumphs and struggles, we’re given a variety of front row seats to witness the vast capacity of others to be their best and their worst…sometimes in very close proximity.

A line from one of the eulogies that stood out to me was “she attacked life with a generous heart.” This speaks profoundly to the deep desire in all of us to help and to make a difference. This is especially true for those closest to us but it doesn’t end there. The paternal desire to make goodness happen for others doesn’t stop with our kids nor does the maternal desire to shield them from suffering. Even suffering brought on by their own choices. Many of the laws of our society are built upon the basic notion that most of us need to be taken care of by those who know better than we do – that many of us need to be protected from ourselves.

Thinking of little Blair, I wonder about the many times I want to fix things for those in my life, when I want to pick them up and carry them to a better place. I realize that many of the greatest gifts of my life were the moments I had to figure it out, suffer though it, or turn to my God in faith and trust beyond my own capacities. Right behind those times were the times someone showed up for me with just enough help to get me through – neither carrying me nor shielding me.

Holding Blair’s hand as she walked up the stairs, gave her just enough confidence, security, support – enough accompaniment – to help her through the moment.

The only reason 200+ people show up for the memorial of an 87 year old woman is because she made a difference in many ways at many times over many years. She was clearly loved but she obviously loved first. Being described as a “force of nature” certainly suggests a strong-willed love, perhaps even fierce, but I suspect that is the sort of disposition and energy it takes to show up for so many people over so many years.

And though she certainly had many thoughts on how best to live, how things should be done, or ways others could improve, I suspect that she touched most of those lives by offering to hold their hand rather than carrying them. By supporting rather than fixing.

Reflecting on this, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that it is the wisdom of 2 year olds that carries the day. “No, Poppy. I want you to hold my hand.”

“Look into my eyes Nanny,” he said, cupping her face an inch or two from his. Three-year-old Fulton had just returned to our house after realizing that he had left without saying a proper goodbye by looking deeply into his Nanny’s eyes….and having her look deeply into his. This image from the past found me this morning as I reflected on the things of the present. The many things.

To look deeply into the eyes of another is an extreme act of intention and focus. It is intimate and intense – inquisitive and revelatory. If we surrender ourselves fully to such a moment, we see much and perhaps reveal even more. Such focus is incredibly powerful.

Yesterday morning, I found myself in the midst of the beautiful chaos of six of our grandchildren gathered in our family room. At one point, I found myself pinballed between a barrage of competing questions, requests, and declarations. Unable to respond quickly enough to any single request, I laughed to myself at the pandemonium and its scrambling effect on my brain. There was nothing to be done but to ride it out.

Chaos, even beautiful chaos, has a scattering effect. In diluting our attention, it lessens our ability to bring our powers of focus to bear upon any single thing. Our world feels chaotic right now. There are many things. From the chaos in world affairs to the chaos of end-of-year school schedules to the chaos in markets to the chaos on our roads – we are under assault by the many things seeking to blunt our ability to focus.

Such chaos is exhausting. Ours is an age of scattering: scattered attention spans, scattered resources, scattered desires, scattered time. Such scattering is squandering our effort, our attention, and our effectiveness. It will never serve it’s constituents well.

Considering the chaos of my grandchildren, order could only be returned by focusing on each child and addressing requests systematically. To order something is to bring it under control. The word meek stems from the Greek word praus which originally referred to the taming of a horse – the process of bringing its strength under control. It is a focusing of attributes, strengths, in unity and in a specific direction.

Meekness. Innocence. Focus. Hmm.

Returning to Fulton and the deep intimacy brought as Sally looked into his eyes, I wonder about power. The many things divide, scatter, distract. But focus, attention, intention, love, are all unifying forces. Such unity is powerful.

Considering all the chaos around us. Maybe the meek will inherit the Earth.