Phillip Berry | Orient Yourself

“Once you stop worrying about an exit, you are free to chase the things that matter.” We hadn’t spoken in nearly a year but our lunch picked up effortlessly from that last conversation. Such is the way of meaningful friendships…they become meaningful in time and the easy way they unfold, unburdened by the weight of particular expectations. Our free-range discussion moved lightly among the shoals of family, health, politics, and work. My comment about an “exit” wasn’t an answer to a question but a statement about freedom and purpose.

Now almost 16 years into my own entrepreneurial experiment and leading an organization growing rapidly among the rocks of the social and economic maelstrom we call healthcare, a frequent question I get is about my “exit.” When? What’s the plan? Such an interesting word, “exit” in this sense means both ending and beginning, an arrival, then transition to whatever one may imagine such an exit enables.

My friend hadn’t asked about an exit. We were discussing impact and meaning. He had shared some powerful stories of humanity around his own healthcare delivery experiences and we were exploring the “why” in a space that has many complex problems and no easy answers. “We’re not chasing an exit. We’re chasing the big problems,” I continued. When the primary objective is not maximizing shareholder value, an organization is liberated to pursue answers that might not satisfy the financial expectations of others. The “things that matter” can vary greatly.

A few years earlier, I found myself in a rental car with my wife and youngest daughter, driving a little too quickly on a California backroad. Forty five minutes earlier, we had decided to leave our Napa Valley hotel and make a run to the coast to see the sunset. Traffic getting out of Saint Helena and the winding road we were on made the objective of our mission doubtful; the sun was dipping below the hills and we had nearly a 30 minutes to go. The landscape had become sparse with a few farms and even fewer cars but we pressed-on, fully committed.

We still laugh today as we remember our trek that evening. The whimsy of it. The excitement of time running out. The music (I’m pretty sure it was an 80’s station), laughter, and occasional frustration with less motivated travelers. We were chasing the sunset for no other reason than the experience of it. And that was enough. We pulled into the little parking lot at Dillon Beach to walk out on the cold, windy, and mostly empty beach as the sun was slowly disappearing below the horizon of the endless Pacific Ocean.

I’m currently finishing my second reading of Bono’s Surrender, the story of he and U2 told through 40 of their songs. In the Chapter, Mysterious Ways, he opens by talking about Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon in 1969 and his dad commenting that President Kennedy wanted it to happen “not because it was easy but because it was hard.” He goes on to write: “It’s an image that will stay with me through the years, an image for the impossible made possible by faith and fearlessness, by science and strategy.”

Waking this morning, my mind wandered to the many things. The tasks, problems, barriers, people, politics, etc. The things we chase. Many we don’t even want to be chasing. After a few minutes of chasing them down their various rabbit holes, I snapped out of it as I found myself laughing…at myself. In my world, we call this thrashing but all of us engage in it one way or another. I realized that, if it was helpful, it wouldn’t be thrashing.

Considering our California sunset, my imagination soars into the memory, a capacious feeling of being alive as we moved toward something meaningful, something worth experiencing. And then arriving, the impossibility of that horizon and the wonder of the fiery orange orb seeming to disappear in the dark, endless ocean. Even now, my heart skips at the recollection and my senses are full of the smells, sounds, and sensations.

As I contemplate the things that matter, it occurs to me that an exit is the last thing I’m chasing. Each of our exits will come quickly enough. I think I’d rather chase entries, new doorways to experience and engage with the things that really matter. The people, places, and moments, that cause my heart to soar toward the transcendent, where my imagination can run wild with wonder.

Thinking again of the conversation with my friend, I realize that what really moves us in our work are the human stories, the discovery and flourishing that appear in the great efforts to alleviate suffering, repair brokenness, and solve the impossible challenges. Rather than chasing an exit, perhaps its better to chase the sunset as an “image for the impossible made possible by faith and fearlessness, by science and strategy.” Thank you Bono, I think I’ll keep that one.

January 1, 2025 is just a few days away and we are now deep into that time of year we call “The Holidays.” The mad dash that began with Halloween, accelerated through Thanksgiving, and blurred through Christmas, now culminates in the artificial end and beginning point we call New Year’s Eve. The end of 2024 and beginning of 2025. Over the course of 60 days, we have eaten, drank, celebrated, spent, given, and gathered, possibly more than the entire rest of the year. For Christmas alone, many will have gathered to celebrate multiple times with family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, clients, and even strangers.

Now, many of our eyes turn toward the ascetic purging and reordering of our lives in the hopeful vision of who and what we’ll become in the new year. What a wondrously exhausting, exhilarating, and enlightening time of year! From the religious to the secular, we have gone the distance, saint and sinner uniting within and among to endure and engage the varied faculties necessary to thrive and survive such a focused set of moments.

Watching the chaos of my extended family last night, I was struck by an immense sense of time as four generations gathered for a few hours of revelry marking the end of our formal Christmas gatherings and the distinct turning toward the new year. How appropriate that today, Catholics celebrate the Feast of the Holy Family. Feast indeed! The Church calendar frames time in the form of seasons with titles like “Ordinary,” “Advent,” “Christmas,” and “Easter” with days like today described as a “Solemnity” marking the moments for appropriate feasting, fasting, and the beautiful ordinary that lies between. Time in these seasons takes on special dimension and meaning, much of which spills over into our secular world in various forms.

Time, both a description of distance and duration, takes on special meaning in the context of family. Family – that beautiful institution. The binding unit of society. It’s an unwritten tie, woven in genetics, the blood that connects us physically, underpinning the relational aspects that connect us emotionally and filially. We have the immediate family and extended family. Generations mark time in the humanity of family’s passing, holding the fabric together in a most unique form, as it measures the distance and duration of blood that groups us in such an unseen way.

An interesting thing about family, and the time it marks, is that we experience relationships that span our lives. In family, we literally see the beginning and end, mirrored in the longest enduring relationships most of us will ever know. Over such spans, we get to glimpse the changes that occur to individuals and the relationships that surround them, (perhaps more closely than we might like), as they, and we, come together in the great dance of existence. Looking at that great span of individuals last night, my mind wandered to the new year, the changes that would occur for this group (desired and undesired), and the growth that such changes would produce.

In 1981, Pope John Paul II published Familiaris Consortio, and in it described the “Law of Gradualness” as a way of characterizing the journey of ongoing conversion toward goodness in which mankind “day by day builds himself up through his many free decisions; and so he knows, loves and accomplishes moral good by stages of growth.” In other words, we are all on a journey and change in stages. This is both a obvious and profound way to see ourselves, but even more importantly, to see others, seeking to meet them where they are on that journey.

Relationships often come and go, but family stays…even when we try to get away from it. The deeper ties of family force us to experience one another on voyage of gradualness, our slow evolution to self that morphs over the years. We are all changing, even if slowly, it is happening. We know this by what we see and we intuit it even as it occurs slow enough to be unseen. Yet, we maintain a tendency to see others as fixed, static points marked on cosmic map of stars that revolve our center. Just as we look out upon a universe that seems unchanging to our naked eye, we often see the other person as stuck in the mistakes, ignorance, selfishness, mood, or narrow corner of that place we once or twice saw them inhabit. Our foibles, immaturity, and error, can have an incredibly long shelf life.

The sheer timespan of family helps us see the truth of the law of gradualness as we watch infants become toddlers become little boys become adolescent girls, on to young women, and adult men. Looking across generations, we can see it and its great arc across time. Perhaps we missed it while it was happening but comparing then and now, it is as clear as day. Growth came and the little boy or girl changed. And now, continues to change.

We are becoming. Each of us. That becoming is born of our choices, our reactions to what life, and others, throw at us, as well as what we choose to throw into the mix. We often get impatient for the changes we want; changing that bad habit, changing our situation, changing the relationship, the job, the geography, etc. Slow change is difficult so we look for quick hits for the changes we want. Like jerky lane changes on the highway, we swerve to get around the obstacle or race around the irritant holding us back.

Or, we become impatient for the change in the other. He isn’t getting it. She won’t listen. He’s a selfish jerk. She’s a gossipy mean girl. Faced with such slow change, it’s easier to change lanes, leave the highway, jettison the irritant. We are impatient even as we know that growth and change toward the more of our own possibility can be painfully slow…sometimes taking a lifetime. This is true for others. This is true for ourselves.

This week, we’ll race to 1/1/25. It’s coming. With all of it’s promise of possibility and of pain. Much of which will center on those relationships we find ourselves within. The law of gradualness seems a useful reference point as we plot our own journey into January and beyond. Lasting change is born of a slow conforming to a way of living. A way of being. The small choices, the little steps, the slight redirects, all add up over time and distance. This kind of change is a conversion, a reordering of self toward something more, something greater, than that which centered us before. Growth is the water flowing over stone, forming it in the steadiness of its being.

Perhaps a better way to see the new year is in the context of the long game. The slow path to that greater future. By all means, let go of bad habits. Aim for better choices. See a bigger, better, place for you and yours in the turn of the calendar. Just know that today is just one point on the great journey. For you and the person standing next to you. It is a great beauty of our human experience. Change will happen if we let it. We are not fixed to the place that was. Neither is the person standing in front of us.

Do you ever have those nights when you want to watch something and find yourself spending most of the time you budgeted for watching to scrolling through endless options? In terms of wasting time, scrolling may be the single biggest source of mindlessly pouring our lives away. No social media necessary, the scroll can take us to nowhere in endless variety. But that’s not the point of this post.

Recently breaking from the modern scrolling dilemma, we went old-school scrolling, and physically sifted through the DVD archives to find a movie to watch. It seems we’ve had the same scrolling issue for years, it’s just become more efficient with technology. We finally found success in our agreement to watch 2008’s Yes Man starring Jim Carrey and Zooey Deschanel. Stuck in a rut after a divorce, Carl (Carrey) finds himself at a motivational seminar in which inspirational guru, Terence, (played delightfully by Terence Stamp) challenges him to “enter a covenant” with the universe and say “yes” to anything asked of him. Of course, clever and cringeworthy hilarity ensue as Carl goes all-in on this strategy.

The moral of the story ultimately arrives as Carl discovers that saying “yes” to everything is not a great strategy but that “yes” is a powerful way of opening oneself to the possibilities of life.

Considering Carl’s pre and post-yes self, a curious revelation appears. One might think of his “yes” as a counterpoint to saying “no” to the possibilities of life but that’s actually not the case. Carl’s problem wasn’t that he said “no” to life. His big failing was not choosing. In his avoidance, indifference, half-heartedness, and bland lack of effort, he found himself mired in the middle of nothing in particular. His “yes” was an answer to the sloth that had seized his soul.

Yes, became a decisive antidote to the “I don’t wanna” that had thrown his life into a depressing journey to the bottom. He eventually discovers that even his “no” has power in this context because it is a choice, a commitment to a direction. In between yes and no, we find ourselves tossed about on the seas of life, blown to wherever the wind will take us. A resounding yes, or no, is a cure to half-heartedness and indirection.

Now, clear on the dangers of indifference and lukewarmness, it’s worth looking at the power of “yes” more closely.

Every day, invitations come our way. Invitations to go, to be, to do, to think. Many of them, we don’t even see. Most of them, we don’t respond to. Regarding the scrolling phenomena, consider for a moment how many invitations appear in just five minutes of swiping up and down on our phones. The vast majority aren’t worth responding to. But when we do, something happens. Now, we’re in motion. Our mind and energy move in a direction.

Moving beyond the scrolling, what other invitations might we be missing? Are there little voices whispering to us, calling us to something? Where might we bring the power of our “yes” to bear in response to the right invitation?

Much is written about learning to say “no.” No to commitments. No to distractions. No to the noise interfering with the right signals. There is much to be said for “no” but it’s real power is in allowing us room to say “yes” to the right things. “No” will always be about arresting momentum. “Yes” is about creating it.

This week, we celebrate Christmas, commemorating the great “yes” of a little Jewish girl from the first century assenting to a divine invitation. Mary’s Fiat, her “yes” changed the world. I wonder if that’s the kind of “covenant with the universe” Terence had in mind when he challenged Carl to open himself to the power of “yes.”

Rejoice in the Lord always.
I shall say it again: rejoice!
Your kindness should be known to all.

Philippians 4:4-5

The Holiday Season is in full swing and we find ourselves in the wondrous variety of encounters that accompany it in such a powerfully unique way. Some might say “draining.” Asking someone the other day about her season so far, the response was “exhausting.” Such is the love-hate relationship we seem to have with a season that covers many weeks, conflates the variety of joys and traumas we come to associate with a lifetime of living this time of year, and throws us into the demands of preparing for, experiencing, and recovering from, the many gatherings that accompany it. The Christmas Holiday is a vortex of human, time, and energy, collisions that can leave us feeling less than joyful or triumphant.

We’ve had out share of gatherings over the last couple of weeks and I found myself reflecting on them this morning. One curious thing about holiday gatherings is that they put us into contact with others in a variety of ways that are outside of our normal routines. Parties bring us together with those we don’t see very often or people who are altogether new to us. Gift exchanges may bring us together with family we’ve known for many years but rarely see or those we’d rather not see. Work events pull us into interactions that sit outside of the day-to-day patterns that mark our professional lives and the potential for awkward collisions. All along the way, we’re thrown into many forms of conversation and must navigate their numerous permutations of challenge, joy, and opportunity.

One requisite element of such gatherings is the ever-present “small talk” that emerges when we find ourselves trying to navigate many short conversations in rooms filled with other human beings. Small talk is defined as a casual, polite conversation with someone you don’t know well. It is also emerges with others who you may know better but are time constrained, have little interest/energy for digging deeper, or are trying to avoid relational land mines that exist. Some of us are better at this than others.

Considering the last few weeks, I’ve come to two conclusions: 1) My wife, Sally, is a Grand Master of these events and their associated encounters and 2) Talk is only as small as we make it.

Rolling into a room filled with people, we can either approach it like we’ve just been shot into a pinball machine, bouncing between bar, person, bathroom, and hors d’oeuvres, ringing the bell a few times as we progress, or we can see individual human beings existing in their beautiful world of complexity, need, and specialness. We can look at faces and see the quirks, awkwardness, and baggage, or we can see the moment as opportunity for encounter. We can gravitate to the people we like better or are are easier to talk to, or we can work to engage as broadly and lovingly as possible.

Does all reflection have to over-complicate the simple? Is it really as complex as all of that? Step back a bit at your next gathering and watch for a few minutes, looking at faces and listening to voices, then consider your own internal voice as you look at each individual. We are really pretty complex creatures.

Watching Sally move fluidly at recent events, I began to notice a few patterns. While I was pin-balling between bar and hors d’oeuvres, she was smiling and laughing with one, two, three, four, well, many, people. All were welcome. It was effortless, unforced, and sincere. At points, I found myself stopping to watch her. I thought, “she is so good at small-talk.” Then I realized, it wasn’t small at all.

Collision or encounter? Connection or ricochet? The Season is still early and we’ve got time to up our game at these gatherings. In the spirit of giving, I’d like to share some tactical insights I’ve gathered from watching my grand master wife spread Christmas cheer over the last few weeks.

First of all, Sally is fantastic at using the first name of whoever she is speaking with. Sometimes we forget the power of a name. A person’s name is a gateway, a power word that opens the door to connection. To use someone’s name is to say “I see you” in a personal way. To remember the name of someone we see infrequently is powerfully engaging, and disarming. Most of us are pretty poor at remembering. We too frequently chalk it up to “I’m just not good at remembering.” Perhaps we shouldn’t let ourselves off the hook so easily. We tend to remember what matters if it matters enough. Rule 1: remember the power of a person’s name.

Second, Sally is really, really, good at asking sincere questions. What does it say to someone when we look them in the eye and ask them what’s happening in their life? There is the casual “How are things?” Sometimes we mean it, but it’s often more of a greeting. But it doesn’t stop there. Asking a sincere question is a great move, but asking something in reference to a detail shared at another place and time is the move of a grand master. When we ask, then truly listen, we are giving the gift of our attention in a way that draws others to us. It connects. Rule 2: ask sincere questions, then listen sincerely.

Thirdly, Sally is incredibly effective at using body language to build bridges. There is great power in a touch, eye contact, or a wave. The timely and appropriate use of a hug, a smile, the light grabbing of a hand, all convey warmth and affection. Such actions remove barriers and open the doorway to the meaningful. The amazing thing about smiles, waves, and eye contact, are that they can even cross a crowded room, creating connection without a word. Again, I see you, I acknowledge you. Rule 3: your body language is always talking.

What else? Considering it further, I realize that the real power is in caring enough to put effort into it. Sally is able to bring an enthusiastic caring to almost any conversation and be completely present in that moment. Her ability to focus and engage projects love in a selfless and self-giving way as she removes herself from the center and willingly orbits the other for a moment. When we engage this way, we are offering a blessing of good will which creates energy and warmth. Rule 4: care enough to work at it.

We all know these things intuitively but they can be elusive…particularly when we’re tired, hurried, overwhelmed, or lost in the crowd. The wild thing about it is that, as individualistic and intimate as her approach is, it actually scales quite well. Brief interactions can carry great weight and we don’t have to dive to the deepest depths of profundity in a conversation to have a meaningful encounter. Little movements in little moments can create great meaning and the “small talk” can leave one feeling bigger, stronger, and touched. It is disarmingly moving and irresistible – one can’t help but feel better, happier, dare I say joyful, standing in the presence of someone who is projecting such heartfelt warmth.

A beautiful side effect of such grand masterly moves is that, as powerfully affecting as they are to the receiver, they also bring joy in the giving. One can’t help but enjoy such encounters because of the positive energy they create. We are made for such connection, and though we can sometimes struggle to make it, it moves us profoundly when it happens.

We’ve just hit halftime in this Holiday Season. You’ve got gatherings ahead and there’s still time to tweak your game. Think it’s just small talk? Think again. Talk is only as small as we make it.

From the days of John the Baptist until now, the kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent bear it away.

Matthew 11:12

The now infamous hooded man caught on camera grinning at a Starbucks shortly before murdering UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson earlier this week is undoubtedly reveling in the storm of reaction to his heinous crime. For me, watching footage of a human being shooting another human being in the back is absolutely shocking. What better way to feed a darkly and deeply broken need within someone prompted to coldly ambush and shoot another than the powerful affirmation of attention? I’m certain his twisted dopamine meter is off the charts as he watches, reads, and digests, the sheer volume of response across all channels.

As a nation, we have a shared agreement that murdering other human beings is unacceptable. This norm of our society, built on a moral code, and put into law, affirms our collective agreement that the planned assassination of a person is bad, a thing to be condemned and punished.

And yet, parallel to the condemnation of this murder has been a steady stream of rationalizations, sometimes subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle. There has been a strange “we shouldn’t kill, but…” in much of the commentary. What’s the “but” in the storyline? Our broken healthcare system is now driving people to murder.

What happens when reason breaks down? When we run out of words to express what we’re feeling, what we want, or our capacity to do anything with them? We turn to the animal within. The physical creature who can no longer propose and instead moves to impose or, dare I say, depose. We know the animal. It sits just on the other side of the mostly civil self, waiting to be “triggered,” “driven,” “frustrated,” or “made” to act. We might ask, “made by what?” Whatever it is that opposes the will of the normal human being on the other side of Mr. Hyde.

When we tie an act of murder to a social issue, like healthcare, we ennoble the act. Sure, we technically condemn it as vile, heinous, craven, etc. But in associating the act to that problem, we justify it’s aim even if we criticize it’s means. The message becomes, “I don’t support your act of murder, but the problem troubling you is big enough that I understand why you did it.” Underpinning this thinking is the relativistic logic that the objective wrong of murder may not be “as wrong” in certain circumstances.

Moving out of reason and subtlety, we’ve witnessed a parallel track of celebration by a not insignificant number of people who see Thompson’s murder as a lightning rod for mobilizing toward a cause. Literally celebration. In this vein, we’ve seen a very dark and twisted bit of invective against the “system” or “the man” or “corporate evil” paraded gleefully under the guise of justice and book-ended with words like “the oppressed” and “the wronged” as mechanisms for suggesting he had it coming.

The murdering act was real, physical, and final. However, words also matter. When we use words like “vigilante,” we are evoking a sense of necessity toward an injustice. Sure, we say vigilantism is not acceptable, but there is a subtle endorsement. An invisible “wink” that implies “we get it.” Not all violence is physical and America finds itself gripped by a culture of death, complete with its own vocabulary, which unambiguously suggests that there are simply times when it’s justified. Such words are violent. Such thinking is dangerous: to others and to our society.

There is no justification for murder. By it’s nature, it is unjust, and attempting to soften it by equivocating it with a “just cause” is flatly wrong. The infamy we afford to the deranged outliers who choose to wrap their anger, desire, hurt, and will, into acts of violence only encourages it. Our words matter and it is the responsibility of each of us to consider carefully what we are saying directly or indirectly when we unleash them upon the world.

Sitting in front of the stage, curtains down and lights low, I waited for the show to begin. People were filing-in, the hall was buzzing with the sounds of voices and laughter and the cheerfulness that attends the anticipation of a performance. My grandchildren were buzzing with delight as they sat in the very front row, stage rising above them, popcorn and candy and coke, in hand. I smiled, taking it all in, grateful for the moment, the place, the time.

In the brief minutes before the show began, time froze for me and I was taken back 37 years to a classroom across Butler’s campus from Clowes Memorial Hall where we now sat. In my memory, I was sitting in a room of about 30 students listening to our professor introduce himself in a curious class called Problem Solving, part of the business school’s SPINE curriculum and one of the more interesting aspects of my undergraduate academic experience. The instructor was a man named Jonathan Jerden and little did I know that he would be a part of my life for more than the next three and half decades.

Jonathan Jerden passed out of this world on November 20, 2024. Earlier that week, he celebrated his 72nd birthday, undoubtedly with a cigar overlooking a sunset off the coast of northern California. His passing still doesn’t seem real. Did I really get that message or was it some weird dream? We were just sending texts. I realized the reality on the following Sunday when there was no comment from him on my weekly blog post – in over ten years of posts, he never failed to show up.

That was Jonathan. In the many years that I knew him, he always showed up for me. Good or bad. Tough time or celebration. He was always there. Even when he was living in California or driving to Alaska or consulting in Florida, he was always there for me. How many people do you know who’ve been showing up for you for 37 years?

My friend was always up for an adventure and was fairly relentless at inviting me into various projects. Whether it was taking our kids canoeing on the Blue River, a fishing excursion on Lake Michigan, golfing, a podcast, or our years of meeting as the Ice Men, Jonathan always had another interesting idea for mixing it up in a world that was pretty content in its status quo. There was alway such an innocent quality to his adventures…simple, old school, sometimes quirky…but always interesting and unexpected.

Encouraging. My, how he was encouraging. Whether it was job searches, difficult decisions, losses, tough days at the office, or setting new courses into the unknown, Jonathan always had just the right thing to say to prompt, bolster, inspire, or console. He always seemed a little otherworldly to me in this way – like he was flying above the fray that I felt I was mired in. I do not remember him ever showing me anything other than encouragement, even on the days when I know he struggled. His was always a calming and steady presence for me, particularly when the bullets were flying.

Over a few years relatively early in the building of Northwind, Jonathan coached and counseled me in weekly meetings. We would talk for about an hour, going over whatever the issue of the moment was, discussing strategy, and exploring options and opportunities. A few days later, I would receive an email summary with insights, ideas, and encouragement. I printed them all out and have them in a binder. I haven’t pulled that binder out yet, but when the time is right, I look forward to hearing his voice in those notes he left me.

Jonathan was a prolific reader and always shared new or old books. I have a shelf of them he gifted to me over the years. He always encouraged me to pass them on but I kept them, many with notes from him. He introduced me to a love for biographies. From Washington to Rockefeller to Hamilton to Jobs and on and on. Jonathan always found great wisdom in history and we spoke often of the various characters we read about. Years after reading Rockefeller, he would still reference anecdotes about “our man JD” or send me a newspaper clipping telling some story about one of our shared bio’s. One of the first books he gave me was I Dare You! by William Danforth – a classic.

Over the years I knew him, Jonathan coached and counseled hundreds and hundreds of people. Every friend of his that I knew was a student, mentee, coaching client, or in some way impacted by his generous willingness to help. I’ve had many people reach out, saddened and full of stories of their own. Some of them I knew, many I did not. I always wondered how he found the time but came to realize that it wasn’t so much something he did as it was his way of life. He lived to help others on their journeys, primarily career, but great coaches rarely stop coaching when we leave the field.

One of my favorite “eras” with Jonathan were the days of the Icemen, a group of guys who gathered to discuss a wide range of topics, share stories and just, well, be men. Jonathan had seen an article on the discovery of the “Ice Man,” named Otzi, discovered in 1991 in the Austrian Alps. Otzi was found at over 10,000 feet, and was very well preserved in the ice, likely having died as part of some ritual sacrifice. Jonathan adopted the story of Otzi and the patron of the Icemen was born. For the next nearly 20 years, we would meet to discuss everything from string theory to the Chautauqua Movement to railroads, computers, art, etc. Jonathan was always a connector and teacher.

“Jonathan was your co-conspirator.” Sally’s words rang true. Discussing Jonathan and the long time I knew him, I realized that in his passing, part of my story passes with him. There are likely things that only he knew and probably things I’ve forgotten that were part of his trove of memories. There were the things said and unsaid as well as particular moments that will pass into the realm of the forgotten. The tears of loss mourn many things.

How does one sum up a life? There are not enough words and the ones that come, fall far short. For as long as I knew him, I still only knew part of all that he was. The hopes and dreams and fears and doubts that comprise our earthly existence are all just part of our stories. There are the things we do, the things we don’t do, the ways we are known, and the mysteries we all keep. For those of us who are left behind, we keep the gifts we are given in our shared stories and the fingerprints of impact left upon our lives.

Time has frozen again, but now it is the memory of my friend Jonathan that will remain in the ice. Secure and unchanging while I can hold them. I will miss him greatly and cherish the gift of having known him. Farewell my friend. Godspeed.

P.S. The photo on this post shows from left to right: Ken Gurney (RIP), Jonathan, Toby Pearcy, and me. Circa 1999.

What is it to be perfect? Without blemish? Without flaw? Wouldn’t it be nice to be perfectly happy? Ot, to find the perfect partner? To have children who behave perfectly? We all want things to run perfectly, resulting in the prefect result. All of us hope we’ll turn in perfect work, make perfect decisions, answer questions perfectly, and be the perfect employee, spouse, parent, sibling, friend, speaker, writer, business person, etc. etc. etc.

And yet, as we read down the list above, we laugh, knowing that we will do none of those things perfectly. In addition, we don’t really expect perfection in the world around us. Not really. However, despite what our intellect and reasoning tell us, we continue to be disappointed when things don’t turn out perfectly or when others do not behave perfectly. We know in our heart of hearts that perfection is the “enemy” and people are not “perfect” and the world is not “perfect”….and still, we are disappointed in imperfect results.

So confused by this notion, we even have something we call “the perfect storm,” the odd notion of a rare combination of adverse meteorological effects combining into a particularly violent weather situation that we then apply to similarly rough situations in our economy, society, business, etc. Wait a minute….is perfect a “good” or a “bad” thing?

Parallel to being perfect, is the concept of “perfectionism.” Yeah, we all cringe a bit at that word as we think of the person who wants things “just so.” If we’re being honest with ourselves, we might even admit that person can be us. After all, we all like things the way we like them. Is preference a form of perfectionism? Rationalizing in our own mind, we tell ourselves that our preferences pull-up short of perfectionism because they’re “little” or they don’t “inconvenience others” or they’re not “too much to ask.” How far do we go to have things the way we want them? How irritated do we become when they’re not?

Returning to our opening question, I repeat, what is it to be perfect? Merriam Webster tells us that it is a “state of being entirely without fault or defect.” Flawless. Then, the dictionary tells us that it is “satisfying all requirements.” Accurate. Then is says “corresponding to an ideal standard.” Next comes “expert, proficient” followed by “pure, total.” Perfect is even refers to being “legally valid.” Apparently, being “perfect” is quite contextual. No wonder our relationship with it is strange.

For those of us struggling to exist with our strange relationship with perfect, the “perfect storm” concept may be the most instructive. No one really wants a perfect storm – it is violent and dangerous. And yet, one might find beauty in its awesome power, rare combination of dynamics, spectacle, or how it looks from a satellite. We might admire it as a reflection of its highest form, the pinnacle of such a conflagration of elements resulting in “perfection” of what the possible combinations might ultimately be. In a sense, a perfect storm is a storm in its most complete way of being; design and form taken to the limits of its component elements.

For we mortal humans, perfection might then be the best version of ourselves. Not necessarily the one without flaw, but the one that is the greatest form of our design, the one that reflects all of what we are most capable. This is not the one that is always right, always on, always virtuous, always fun, always wise, or always helpful. Why not? Because we are not designed for flawless execution. We are not made to be without error or failing. We are not built for the endless repetition of stumble-free living.

I’m reminded of a scene in The Matrix Reloaded in which Neo finds himself speaking with the Architect, the machine mind of this alternate universe in which humans have been converted into living energy sources, batteries, to power the machine world known as the matrix. The Architect tells Neo of an original matrix in which humans were placed into a virtual world that was “perfect” but it failed because they discovered that humans weren’t made to live in “perfection.” Humans, by design, needed a world in which they could make mistakes and experience grit, imperfection, in order to survive, let alone, thrive.

We are not made to be flawless. Machines are made to repeat tasks flawlessly. Computers follow the commands of code repetitively and (mostly) flawlessly. We are something different. We are rational but also emotional. We have capacity for logic but also possess passions that can possess us. We have days when we’re “on” and others when we’re limping along, short of our best. But in all of it, we are operating within the boundaries of our design. We may be “better” in certain occasions but our core design is not as a flawless machine. Flawless would make us something less than human.

What is it to be perfect? Whole. Complete. As designed. We are complex – many pieces. What and where are all of our pieces? We can’t collect them all. We can’t contrive or fabricate them. Some must be found. Others must be nurtured. Still others must be received. We can only keep moving forward. Trying, striving, to be fully ourselves, fully alive. Honest and true to our design. And then we must forgive ourselves when we stumble upon our “imperfections,” the flaws and mistakes that ultimately reveal our humanity as it is meant to be. Even when we’re “not quite ourselves,” we are in so many ways being ourselves.

And when we fall short? We must admit it. Apologize when we let others down. Take responsibility for our failings. It is in our design to have bad moods, say mean things, not pay attention, break promises, and stumble. No, we don’t want to, but no matter how we try, we falter. The human machine is not without flaw. But, it has the beautiful capacity of self-awareness md self-reflection. It has the capacity to see the truth of our choices and behavior – we can experience failure in our own personal, highly self-aware way. And we can seek to make amends.

Wait a minute, is this to say that we just walk along, writing-off our failings and foibles with a casual “I’m just living my design” rationalization when we are being the worst of ourselves? After all, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says “So be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48).

Not at all. We are absolutely called to strive for flawlessness in our love and mercy toward others. We are called to live virtuously in every situation. We are called to make the best decisions and steward our gifts to their fullness. But we will fail, no matter how hard we try. Even the saints among us fail as those of history failed. The perfection that Jesus calls us to in His Sermon on the Mount can only be reached with help, God’s Grace is necessary for that kind of perfection and it will not happen in the world in which we now exist.

For our time in this world, we need to think of our process of “being perfected” as one of moving toward more virtuous living, better choices, and becoming our best version as something more akin to Kintsugi, golden joinery, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. We are going to be broken in many ways, chosen and unchosen, but moving through it, we learn and are made more perfect, more fully ourselves, in the repair and in moving forward. Perhaps more on that another time.

Today, walk forward knowing that the perfect version of yourself is not flawless, but the one most fully you, the good and the bad, in all of its brokenness as well as its virtuousness. We are each being perfected along the way, and even when we chose to be less than the best of our design, we have the chance to see it, make reparation for our mistake, and continue on, even more beautifully, sanctified in our effort to do better knowing even as realize that we will never be without blemish.

“My dear Wormwood, I note what you say about guiding your patient’s reading and taking care that he sees a good deal of his materialist friend. But are you not being a trifle naive? It sounds as if you supposed that argument was the way to keep him out of the Enemy’s clutches. That might have been so if he had lived a few centuries earlier. At that time the humans still knew pretty well when a thing was proved and when it was not; and if it was proved they really believed it. They still connected thinking with doing and were prepared to alter their way of life as the result of a chain of reasoning.”

So begins The Screw Tape Letters, C.S. Lewis’ 1942 novel depicting letters written from senior devil, Screwtape, to his nephew, junior tempter, Wormwood. The book presents a tour de force of Christian apologetics via negativa, making the claim for the faith by showing how these devils are working to undermine their “patient’s” salvation through temptation, distraction, and obfuscation.

In December 2010, Sally and I had slipped away to New York City for a few days, running around Times Square, Central Park, and Rockefeller Center; the Big Apple in Christmas-time is truly magical. While there, we had the opportunity to see a stage production of The Screwtape Letters at the Westside Theatre, off-Broadway. In my memory it was opening night but the production actually premiered in May. I had recently read Screwtape as my first exposure to C.S. Lewis and was curious how they would depict what is basically a no-action monologue. We loved it.

Last night, we experienced Screwtape again as the production returned to Clowes Hall in Indianapolis. The stage adaptation is very well done, honoring much of the original artistry of Lewis in the monologue even as it keeps the story moving along within the limits of its simple set and minimal action. Watching the performance, I was struck by how surprisingly relevant the 82-year-old letters are to our contemporary world. Written in the dark shadow of World War II, Lewis managed to capture the timeless dangers to the human soul as well as the eternal hope of his Christian faith.

Though the book itself is explicitly Christian, the devious ploys of the tempters are highly instructive in showing many practical barriers to modern temporal happiness. Open almost any page of the book and one finds scenarios that we all experience, killing joy and preventing flourishing. Consider this gem:

“When two humans have lived together for many years it usually happens that each has tones of voice and expressions of face which are almost unendurably irritating to the other. Work on that. Bring fully into the consciousness of your patient that particular lift of his mother’s eyebrows which he learned to dislike in the nursery, and let him think how much he dislikes it. Let him assume that she knows how annoying it is and does it to annoy. And, of course, never let him suspect that he has tones and looks which similarly annoy her.“

As I listened to this particular passage spoken aloud, I thought of all of the petty things that trip us up in our interactions. Especially with those closest to us. Tones and looks. How often have those burdened our encounters? The road to hell on earth is paved with such pettiness and our own belief that we are innocent of it even as the other is intentionally antagonizing us.

Later, Screwtape provides insight on stealing joy through interruption:

“Now you will have noticed that nothing throws him into a passion so easily as to find a tract of time which he reckoned on having at his own disposal unexpectedly taken from him. It is the unexpected visitor (when he looked forward to a quiet evening), or the friend’s talkative wife (turning up when he looked forward to a tete-a-tete with the friend), that throw him out of gear. They anger him because he regards his time as his own and feels that it is being stolen.”

If anything, time in our hamster-wheel-world has become even more precious as we juggle the demands of modern life. Screwtape suggests that getting the patient to believe that ‘my time is my own’ will distract him from the fact that he “can neither make, nor retain, one moment of time; it all comes to him by pure gift; he might as well regard the sun and moon and his chattels.” Lewis’ clever insight is profoundly timeless to we citizens of the hyper-paced, 24-hour life of the 21st century, challenging us to consider what is truly ours and what really matters.

In the spirit of my “tour de force” description earlier, let’s do a rapid fire run-down of a few more quotations that capture a bit more of Lewis’ brilliant insight into our humanity:

“It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.”

“The more often he feels without acting, the less he will be able ever to act, and, in the long run, the less he will be able to feel.”

“Gratitude looks to the Past and love to the Present; fear, avarice, lust, and ambition look ahead.”

“Prosperity knits a man to the world. He feels that he is finding his place in it, while really it is finding its place in him.”

Though Lewis heart and mind are bent toward the eternal, The Screwtape Letters provides a powerful playbook for finding happiness in the temporal. Watching the performance last night, I found myself laughing out loud even as I cringed at Screwtape’s insights and counsel. The devils’ mission was to keep the patient from making it to heaven, but the crazy thing is that their efforts to encourage his own desires and inclinations, seemingly toward happiness, first created hell for him on earth.

As a final thought to consider, I’ll close with a commentary from C.S. Lewis in the preface of the book:

“I live in the Managerial Age, in a world of “Admin.” The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid “dens of crime” that Dickens loved to paint. It is not done even in concentration camps and labour camps. In those we see its final result. But it is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed and well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voices. Hence, naturally enough, my symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the office of a thoroughly nasty business concern.” C.S. Lewis, 1942

In 1955, C.S. Lewis published Surprised by Joy:The Shape of My Early Life, an autobiographical work describing his early years up to his conversion to Christianity. It is a reflection on the “stabs of joy” he discovers as they appear throughout his life and his ultimate conclusion that earthly joy is a series of signposts pointing to an ultimate joy in the Divine. The title comes from the William Wordsworth poem, Surprised by Joy, which describes the pangs of joy the poet recognizes in the painful memory of love lost. A curious postscript on Lewis’ book is that he married the editor of the book’s final draft, Joy Gresham, two years after the book’s publication and later recounts her loss in A Grief Observed.

Though the threads connecting Wordsworth, Lewis, and Gresham, suggest delicious providential mystery, it is the title, Surprised by Joy, that intriguingly brings me to this week’s subject matter. I recently made an ask of some friends and acquaintances (the particulars are unimportant) and was brought to joyful tears by one of the responses. Actually, elation more aptly captures the essence of what I felt. What brings us to elation? It seems that joyful surprise is one path.

From time to time, we all make requests of those around us: money, help, input, time. Sometimes things line up, sometimes they don’t. Our asks are not normally out of dire need, we sometimes just want someone to buy girl scout cookies or raffle tickets or help us move some stuff. As those being asked, we’re sometimes put-out by a request, but most usually try to show-up in some fashion for their friends and family. A “no” or “not right now” is rarely a big deal and we mostly take it in stride.

The response of which I write was affirmative but it wasn’t so much the “yes” that surprised me as its enthusiasm. Actually, there wasn’t really a “yes,” my friend’s response was more of a battle cry with a host of tactics following, and a promise of nearly immediate action. As I read the text response, I suddenly realized that someone else was willing to jump in the foxhole with me and the sense of togetherness in that notion was overwhelming. I was surprised by joy.

Surprises come in the unexpected and many of them are less than joyful. We often lose the wonder of the unexpected in the slog of the mundane and necessary. But when it comes, oh my!! It’s like Christmas morning as a seven-year-old all over again.

There was such consolation in my friend’s response. It said “you are not alone in this, I’m here and ready to help.” There was no quid-pro-quo, tit-for-tat, or you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. The cavalry had arrived and it was pure, all heart, given sacrificially and unreservedly. That’s when you know.

Reflecting on it, I laughed at myself as I imagined George Bailey standing in his living room watching all of his friends and neighbors giving money to bail him out of his troubles. The look on his face was elation, he had been surprised by joy. Most of us are hesitant to ask for help. We’ll just bear it, work harder, and try to figure it out on our own. That is such a shame because it is not only isolating but also puts a low bar on others. We fear being disappointed by others when they don’t come through but the truth is that we never really expected them to.

Fortunately, my “ask” was nowhere nearly as interesting or dramatic as George Bailey’s, but I’m pretty sure the look on my face was something similar. My mind goes to 1990’s Pretty Woman, starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere (a Sally favorite). Gere’s character, Edward, looks at Robert’s character, Vivian, with eyebrows raised in surprise, saying: “Very few people surprise me.” Vivian responds: “Yeah? Well, you’re lucky. Most of them shock the hell outta me.”

Have we grown to expect so little that we’ve stopped asking? I’m not talking about Girl Scout cookies or raffle tickets. A real ask. A real need. I suppose it is safer to expect less – then we won’t be disappointed. But what a missed opportunity! In the ask, we give someone else the chance to surprise us and in being asked, we are given the same opportunity.

How do we react when asked? Are we responding? What about when we’re not asked? Are we showing up where and when we’re needed? To give of ourselves is such a powerful gift. Jumping in the foxhole with another human being is beyond special – it is divine. It is an act of holiness and love. Perhaps we don’t ask often enough. Perhaps we don’t give others the chance to show up for us. Maybe we’ve set the bar too low or, maybe we’ve become too self-sufficient. Is it possible that we just don’t want to admit that we don’t always have it all together or all figured out?

Walking in my neighborhood yesterday, I heard “Poppy! Poppy!” Stopping, I turned around to see my grandson, Cooper, running down the sidewalk in his plaid pajamas, shoeless and grinning. He had seen me walk past his house and burst through the front door to run me down. He hugged me tightly as I saw his dad appear, wondering why his seven-year-old had bolted out of the house. Twice in a row, I had been surprised by joy.

Do you remember the last time you received an unexpected letter or postcard in the mail? How about a text from an old friend? What about a surprise gift or that text from your sweetheart with a pic of your special song playing on the car radio? Did you notice how you felt in that moment?

Thinking about these examples, I’m reminded that we are made for community for communion. Togetherness is such a powerful thing, made even more powerful when we can clearly see the common ground acknowledged. The shared win or knowing smile are such powerful opportunities for the joy of surprise in our connection. To need and to be needed are beautifully unifying expressions of the human condition.

“Poppy, race me to the trees and back.” Little Reagan tilted her head and let her blue eyes blaze as she challenged me to a race. Huffing and puffing afterward, and not the least bit embarrassed after getting smoked by the lightning of my five-year-old granddaughter, I saw the joy in something else unexpected. The self-surrendering gift of time, energy, and attention, to the seemingly smallest moment.

Looking around, I begin to see way more of it than I realized. Maybe I don’t watch closely enough. Perhaps I forget the myriad moments that pass quickly, unnoticed in the busyness. Are the George Bailey moments in my life actually more frequent than I realize?

There is sanctification in needing others just as there is sanctification in giving to others. Maybe through paying a bit more attention, we might, more often, find ourselves surprised by joy.

When you noticed the title on this post, did you have a strong desire to correct “Fult” to “Fault”? I penned the title a while back and when I found it in my notes, I had to resist the urge to correct it. It is a play on the book title “The Fault In Our Stars” but “Fult” is definitely the intended spelling and this post has nothing to do with John Greene or William Shakespeare. Well, at least nothing intentionally.

“Fult” in my world actually means Fulton John, my 45 month old grandson. I say 45 months because he sits in that incredibly special zone of change between three and four years old and its special developmental progression demands such particularity. You see, I awoke this morning in my own particular bit of exuberance and such bounding joy reminded me of Fulton – himself a bundle of bounding, carefree, joy.

Of course, 45 months can be a tempestuous and rascally age as well, but I believe the emotional engine that fuels such capacities is born of a boundless exuberance – a joy in the very act of being and in a world that has endless mysteries to discover. Fulton has the unique gift of seeing so many things for the first time, time and time again. He can accept their mystery at face value, understand them, and then get lost in their mystery again. Everything is magically interesting and the fertile fields of his imagination embrace the wonder in a way that, alas, few of us can remember.

For me, Fulton is an incredible resonator and I was reminded of this last night as he followed me around during a family gathering. He had a thousand questions…before we’d moved five steps. He both anticipated what was next and allowed himself to get lost in it. From starting a fire in the firepit to finishing the ribs on the grill to gathering sticks to chasing his cousin, Arthur, and back again to the next set of questions and his unique commentary…Fulton was exuberantly curious and engaged with everything that presented itself.

Moving into the dark of the evening, he asked me about the “Night Sky” app on my phone and all of the kids gathered around to see the constellations and the names of the planets and many stars. His eyes sparkled in wonder as he looked and asked. All of those stars in our Fult were on full display and I was filled with wonder.

Waking this morning, the wonder returned as I thought of all six of my grandchildren engaging in each unique zone of their development: the curious eyes of the unspeaking infant, the free-range faltering steps of the two year olds, the “race me” physicality of the five year old, and the “play catch with me” evolution of the seven year old. And of course, the endless questions of the 45 month old, eyes sparkling as his mind flitted across the world’s curiosities like a bee in a flower garden. All of it wondrously magical.

Exuberance is such a big, capacious word, reflecting joy with energy and motion. It suggests a thrill in living, a kinetic embrace of life’s possibilities with the hope and fascination they inspire. We can’t produce it. There is no contriving exuberance, we can only receive it as gift when it comes. Ahhh…but when it comes…try to remember to lose yourself to it and just let it be.

What or who resonates joy in your life? Where do you awake, exuberant in the special magic of the world in which you exist?

Thinking of the joyful little resonators in my life, I’m reminded of a poem I penned not so long ago:

Looking around today, may you see the Fult in your stars. May you be reminded of the days when the sky was infinite hope and the horizon infinite goodness. Ours is such a magical world and full of so much possibility. Hold those resonators close and allow yourself to resonate the joy as you receive it. It’s the kind of gift that multiplies when you give it away.