Notable Quotables

March 16, 2010

For those of you who know me, have heard me, or have read my blogs, you know how I feel about positive affirmation.  When a person is working on having a positive mindset, few things help them get there like a good positive reminders, and when it comes to positive reminders, few work as well as a good positive quotes.

With this in mind, Kolette helped me design 8 new cards that have positive quote on them for 8 great subjects.  We rolled them out at a recent presentation, and they went over like gangbusters.

Here’s a look a the cards.  If you think they might help you, go on over to the store (or click here) and pick up a pack.  You can use them as a motivator by placing them in places where you’ll see them, frame ones you like, or frame one and change it every month.  They even make great gifts.

The packs go for $5.00 a piece, plus $1.50 S&H.  I think you’ll agree that the quotes are moving, and Ko’s design is flawless.  I hope you enjoy them.

Jh-

Quotes:

Positive Attitude: The greatest weapon in the fight to be happy is a Positive Mental Attitude.

Drive: Any dream can be your destination; Just pick a direction and go.

Gratitude: There’s not enough room in the human heart for depression and gratitude at the same time.

Creativity: When you take the best of what you have and combine it with all that you can dream – That’s creativity.

Laughter: Few problems in the world can’t be cured by a moment of laughter.

Service: The kindest gift ever given of man, was a kind word and an open hand.

Cooperation: The more you wonder at the good in others, the less you wonder about the good in yourself.

Persistence: Be better today than you were yesterday, and better tomorrow than you were today.


Better Than You Found It

December 23, 2009

Part of my Scout Troop on a campout (I'm on the right in the red & blue striped shirt)

As a boy scout, camping trips were a monthly occurrence.  Whether in the dead of winter or the blazing heat of summer our leaders religiously found the sites and planned the weekend retreats.

Sometimes we were driven to the sites, sometimes we packed in; Sometimes we slept in a snow caves and other times we slept out under the stars, but no matter how different the activities were, there were always those things that seemed to be constants.

For example, no matter when or where, you could pretty much bank on anything the scouts cooked to test the most stalwart of constitutions, where the leaders had the uncanny ability to make things like tin foil dinners taste and look like fine dining. Every campout also came with a full on snipe hunt for those new to the troop, and a reminder about the importance of fire safety, followed by someone trying to start a fire with gasoline.

But, of all the guarantees, the one that held the most true was after the fun.

Once everybody had packed up, our scoutmaster would remind us to make sure that we’d cleaned up our area.  We would all take a few minutes to look over our own little piece of the site to make sure things had been cleaned up.

Then, just before we left, our scoutmaster would line up all the scouts at one end of the campsite.  We would hold hands, and then spread out to make sure we could effectively cover as much ground as possible. Once we were lined up and ready to go he would let us loose and have us slowly, and carefully cover the campground picking up any little shred of paper or loose piece of packaging we’d missed in our own separate clean-ups.

The whole time we walked across the site, he’d call out to us, “Boys, leave this place better than you found it.”

It never ceased to amaze me how improved the grounds were after we walked together hand in hand.

As I think of those days, now so long ago, I think the call still holds true.  Our assignment as brothers and sisters in this place is to do all we can to leave “this place” better than we found it.  Can there be any better compliment paid at the end of our lives than to have it said that we did our part in leaving things better.

If we ever want to have any real chance at doing so, I believe we must follow my scoutmaster’s instructions to the letter—Holding hands with our neighbors to make sure we can cover as much ground as possible, we must watch carefully and hear our own voice repeat, “Leave this place better than you found it.”

This Christmas lets each remember and renew our desire to do all we can to remove those things that can clutter and mess our lives and the lives of those around us.  Let’s work together to remove the suffering, and take away the grief.  Let’s take care to take away the suffering, and rid lives of strife. Then, and only then, will our world truly end up better than we found it.

Merry Christmas

Jh-


Get Into The Groove

March 28, 2009
Harvest Hop

Karen Dahlstrom and I at Borah High School's Harvest Hop Dance (1987)

Before my diving accident caused me to be a quadriplegic, I loved to dance. From my 14th birthday to the day I broke my neck the social event of my life was the Saturday Night Dance, more commonly known as the SND.

The SND was a regional dance that was held every Saturday. There were few things I looked forward to during that time of my life like I looked forward to the SND. In fact, the greatest punishment my parents could excise in those years was to “ground” me from the dance.

I seem to remember many Saturdays when, late in the afternoon, my dad would ask me if I had completed my chores (in particular, if I had mowed the lawn) where my answer in the negative brought out the threat of missing the dance. Too many times, without enough hours to do the job right, I would run behind the lawnmower as it bounced up and down in front of me. Big, huge pieces of lawn were missed completely. But, by the time I asked my dad to check if the lawn had been completed, it was dark and I was free to go. I remember just as vividly the Sunday mornings that followed when my dad realized my work was shoddy and I was sternly invited to mow the entire lawn again on Monday. Although the repercussions were never fun, the payoff of the SND was always worth it.

One might imagine then the concern I had when I returned home from the hospital paralyzed from the chest down. I didn’t know if you could dance in a wheelchair. I had never seen it done. I didn’t even know if I could date in a wheelchair. So, fearful to try, I did my best to stay away from dating and dancing completely.

I returned to school from the hospital in October. In the beginning, I only had the strength and ability to attend a few classes. It wasn’t until well into that sophomore year that I was able to take anything even close to a full load. My absence from school made easier to stay absent from dancing and dating. I benefited from a kind of, “out of sight, out of mind” situation.

My junior year was different. First, I was attending school full-time. My health allowed me not only to be more present during the school day but that extra curricular activities as well. I started to become more involved in student government and was elected junior class president. I was a regular fixture at the athletic events.

This all made for a social calendar more full than I had ever hoped. But, it also made it difficult to stay away from the dating and dancing that scared me so.

I had been to a dance before and before I could even catch my breath and get comfortable as a wallflower, one of the chaperones took me out on the floor and began moving my manual wheelchair back and forth “dancing” for me. This might have been a good idea for some people who were in chairs and although I knew his heart was in the right place, I was mortified and felt more disabled; not less. Within literal minutes I found my ride and convince them to take me home. I wasn’t there long enough for it to count as attending a dance. I was barely there long enough for it to count as listening to a song.

If this experience did anything it made me more nervous and frightened about attending a full dance not to mention a “date dance” and taught me that unless I wanted someone to dance for me (embarrassing me to no end) I was going to have to figure out how to dance for myself. Try as I might I couldn’t figure out a way to resolve the problem with an answer that resulted in me dancing in a way that looked or felt comfortable at all.

My first real hurdle was Homecoming.

As a junior class officer I had some responsibility with reference to the activities that went on during the week, including the dance. This, coupled with my other involvement prompted a lot of questions about my plans for the Homecoming dance.

Somewhere around the middle of September my friends started asking, “Who are you taking to the dance?”

I had to be very careful about how I answered that question. My friends had decided that they were not going to treat me any different because I was in a wheelchair. They refused to accept excuses that had to do with my disability. In fact, if I was ever trying to get them to buy into an excuse bringing up my disability would only ever hurt my chances, not help them.

I knew that if I were I to tell them that I wasn’t going to the dance because I was unsure of how to date or dance in a wheelchair, not only would they never accept that excuse but, it would most likely prompt them to respond by showing up at my home the night of the dance, coming down to my room, lifting me out of bed in my pajamas, throwing me into the car and introducing me to my date; who would surely be the easiest girl they could find on short notice–Probably some lady standing just off the on-ramp near my house holding a sign saying, “Will work for food.”

As nervous and scared as I was to attempt any real dancing in a wheelchair, their potential response scared me even more. It was for this very reason that when they asked me who I was taking to dance I told them that unfortunately I was going to be out of town. This answer seemed to appease them, and the subject was dropped.

On the night of the Homecoming dance I took my power wheelchair and drove to Meridian from Boise. For those people who know the area this is not a long trip. In fact, the journey took about two and a half minutes… round trip… on my elbows. I could essentially spit to Meridian from my house. But, this way my excuse held up without necessitating a lie, for I was “technically” out of town.

The dance was on a Saturday night. At school, on the Monday that followed, everyone was talking about the dance. They were laughing and joking already nostalgic about the fun and good times they had. A few days later the photographer that took the pictures at the dance came to school to deliver the portraits. I remember sitting in the hall watching everyone carry around the black cardboard frames that carried the photos from the dance.

I wanted to be carrying one of those frames so bad I could hardly see straight. I didn’t even care if I was in the picture. I just wanted to be included. I didn’t want to be the only one without photographs and memories from the dance. Worse still my heart wanted to be dating and dancing, but my fear kept me both in check and at home.

The next “date” dance at my school was called the “Harvest Hop”–a kind of a Sadie Hawkins dance. Like most dances of its kind, it was a “girl ask guy” evening where tradition held that in addition to the traditional responsibilities of the dance the girl would also buy matching shirts. This way the couple would be what they called in the vernacular of the day “twinners.”

I was quite sure that I was safe. I hadn’t really done any dating since my accident or dancing in a wheelchair and figured that the girls at my school would see me simply not an option.

A few days later, as I pulled into my driveway on my way home from school, I noticed a big basket on my doorstep. I don’t remember exactly what was in the basket, but knowing the way teenage girls went about asking teenage boys to dances at my high school, I am sure that it was filled with balloons you had to pop, to find puzzle pieces that you put together, to make a map, that took you on a scavenger hunt, that required two days and a pup tent, which eventually led to a box of Cheerios, that had to be emptied out, in order to find the one specific Cheerio, that had been dyed green, and had the invitation to the dance inscribed around its side.

I went through the steps required to figure out what I was being asked to and who was doing the asking. When I figured out I was being asked to the “Harvest Hop” by a cute girl, my brain went into overdrive and I immediately told Karen that I would go to the dance.

Minutes after giving Karen my answer I heard a little voice in my head that screamed, “YOU DON”T KNOW HOW TO DANCE!” In an instant all of the fear that my excitement had skipped over came back in a flood that made Noah’s look like a puddle. I knew I had to do anything and everything I could to get out of this dance.

A few days later I found out that Karen had purchased short sleeve “twinner” shirts for us to wear to the dance. I went up to her and explained that since the dance was in November, short sleeve shirts would be too cold, and we should therefore not go to the dance.

I went into our discussion with what I felt like was a good, well thought out argument. However, like most arguments I have had with women in my life, we talked for a little while and as I left the conversation I realized that for reasons I can hardly explain, we were still going to the dance.

Every week we went through the same exercise. I came up with a good argument that seemed airtight and indestructible, we would talk for a while and at the end of the conversation were still going to the dance. Finally, the dance was only a few days away and I needed to find an out.

I found Karen in the hallway, stopped her and with all the power, and strength I could muster said, “Let’s just not go.” She returned my gaze with one that told me I had much to learn about power and strength and said, “Jason, shut up and go.” Not wanting any part of anything she was about to reign down upon me I replied, “Yes ma’am.”

The night of the dance I was a nervous wreck. I was unsure of so many things. My handicap accessible van had not yet been converted and so I was unable to drive. This meant Karen was going to not only transport us to and from the activities she had planned for the evening, but it also meant she was going to have to lift me in and out of the car to attend those activities. I had heard that we are going the dinner like a picnic in a barn. I was just learning how to eat without the aid of my special utensils and I was unsure how I was going to do that in front of a group and without table. Not to mention having no idea how I was going to actually dance in my wheelchair.

Karen pulled into my driveway in her cute little Toyota Tercel. Unfortunately, the trunk wasn’t large enough to fit my wheelchair, so she had to go home and get her mom’s Country Squire Station Wagon. It wasn’t a car, it was an event. It felt like it took four blocks just a parallel park this thing.

They loaded up my chair, and my dad taught Karen how to get me in and out of the passenger seat of the station wagon and we were off. The first half of the night went relatively well and after dinner we ended up at the dance. We went into the dance and there is a huge long line waiting to get their pictures taken. Karen suggested that we go into the dance and wait until the line for pictures became a little shorter. I said no, hoping that the line for pictures would be long enough that by the time the pictures were actually taken the dance would be over.

We finally reached the photographer, had our pictures taken, and there was plenty of dance left.

As we came on the dance floor the first song was a fast song. I had no idea what to do and so I started to mock what we called the seventh-grade shuffle (because it’s the way all the seventh graders who have no idea how to dance; dance.) Everyone’s familiar with it, for everyone’s not only seen it they’ve actually done it. In essence the “shuffle” is clumsily moving back and forth trying to find the rhythm while you clap your hands.

Although “the shuffle” got me through the first song, by the time the second song was playing my confidence was increasing as was my ability to move with the beat. I started to get a little more aggressive on the dance floor.

I was “feelin’ the groove” and “gettin’ down” by the time the third song had begun. In the middle of the fourth song the spotlights were shining on me, and in my best John Travolta imitation I took off my jacket threw it into the crowd and began pointing my arm up and down thinking, “Stayin’ Alive, Stayin’ Alive!” All of the people at the dance and circle around me and clapping in unison were chanting, “Go Jason! Go Jason!” (O.K. that maybe a little of an exaggeration. Let’s just say I was having a good time.)

Then, it happened. The DJ put on a slow song. If I was unsure about how to dance to a fast song I had no idea what to do with a slow one. I remember thinking, “Punch bowl, get to the punch bowl.” I turned that little wheelchair of mine around and started doing what felt like warp eight for the refreshment table.

Just then, Karen grabbed the back of my wheelchair, spun me around, jumped on my lap, put her arm around me, and said, “let’s dance.”

It was the first time since my accident that I saw my friends wishing day to were quadriplegics. Instantly, they were trying to figure out how they could get their dates to sit on their laps as well. The slow song was over and I felt like seat belting Karen into my chair and asking her if we could dance all the dances like this. Later, talking to my friends at the refreshment table I could see that they were dying to ask if they can borrow my chair for a dance.

The dance finally ended and Karen took me home. I had a wonderful time. It was better than I ever could have hoped for. Somehow, someway she helped me get into the groove.

The real lesson in this story comes when we ask ourselves, “Why?” Why was Karen willing to go through so much grief to take me to the dance.

I was far from the easiest date. It has to take some of the enjoyment away from the experience when leading up to the dance your date is, for the most part, scheming to find a way out of going.

In a time like high school when status is everything and everything defined status, she didn’t get to drive the coolest car to the dance. Instead of her little Tercel she was forced to take the family station wagon. Although my wheelchair fit in the back of the car, there was also enough room for the band, the band’s equipment, the refreshments, the refreshment table, and everyone at the dance. It felt like there was more room in the car than there was in the gym.

In addition, not many ladies like the whole process of asking fellas on dates in the first place, let alone having to lift them in and out of the car along the way. Karen had to lift me in the car at the house, out of the car at the place we ate dinner, back into the car after dinner, out of the car when we arrived at the school for the dance, and back into the car after the dance. Not only was is a lot of work, it was probably a little uncomfortable as well.

I wasn’t the most popular or best looking kid at my school. I’m quite sure there weren’t any students camped out at the school’s entrance wondering, “Who gets to take Jason Hall to the dance.”

But Karen cared. She cared more about me and my experience and she did about all the rest of that stuff. The fact that I went to the dance was more important than status or popularity, and because it was my life became different.

With absolutely no hyperbole I can say that she changed my life. She showed me that I  could find a way to dance without a chaperone’s help. To Karen’s credit I never missed another dance during high school or college.

To some that may seem a small thing. But to me, trying to find my way, it meant the whole world and helped me continue to have the courage to be involved the same way I was before my injury.

Like Karen, everyday we have the opportunity to make sweeping differences in the lives of others. But we can’t just see those opportunities and not act. We have to do something to make a change. We have to do something to make a difference. Most often, it doesn’t take much. Most of the time, it simply takes the willingness to care more about others than we do about ourselves. For the most part, it takes thinking as much about others’ feelings then we do about our own status, popularity or other trivial, meaningless, earthly treasures.

Doing this, like Karen, we can encourage others to live differently. We can teach people to do things they previously thought undoable. It might take a little discomfort or a little sacrifice. It will definitely take a lot of cheering and support. But when we’re finished we’ll leave them with a sense of belonging.

Often, the greatest gift we can ever give is to help others feel comfortable, be accepted and allow them to get into the groove.

Jh-


Standing Up By Falling Down

March 11, 2009
Jonah In My Room

Jonah In My Room

Lying in the emergency room at the St. Mary’s Hospital in Grand Junction Colorado, I was frightened and afraid. For reasons I still do not understand today the staff there wouldn’t let my dad (who sat in the waiting room) come and be with me. I was 15 years old, unable to feel or move anything below my arms, and totally alone.

This lasted for two hours. The doctors did test after test until finally they felt their diagnosis confirmed. It was then that they pull back the curtain, looked me in the eye and said, “Jason, you’ve broken your neck and will never walk again.”

I went into shock. Working to process the information I had been given, the next thing I knew I was laying in a CAT scan. As I laid in the machine, in what felt like a big white tube, I remember as I began to understand that my life had drastically changed. In the CAT scan of flood of worry and concern rushed over me. But, I will never forget the first worry I had .

From that day to this I have had a thousand concerns with reference to my disability. From that day to this I have had a thousand worries about being in a wheelchair. But, the first fear that flashed through my mind was, “Who will be my friend?”

I wondered who would want to go to the ball games with a guy in a wheelchair. I wondered who would want to go on a date or to dance with a guy in a wheelchair. I wondered who would want to just hang out with a guy in a wheelchair.

For, there were other kids at my school who were in wheelchairs and they didn’t have very many friends. I knew I myself had never made an effort to get to know them and wondered how people would react to me.

I was blessed as the countless group of my peers made the decision to bless my life as they answered my question saying, “I will. I will be your friend”

The next day I received a package filled with posters and cards with words of kindness and encouragement. My parents placed the posters all over the room so wherever I looked I was reminded of my friends support. With the posters and cards they also sent a cassette tape. When I was laying in surgery my friends all got together and recorded on both sides of a 60 minute cassette. I listened to that cassette all the time. I listened to it until it broke. When it broke I had my parents tape it back together, and then I listened to it until it broke again.

This continued for about a month until the doctors finally felt that I was healthy enough to have visitors. As soon as they were given the green light, a group of my friends hopped in their car and drove the six hours from our home in Boise to my hospital room in Salt Lake City. I couldn’t wait. I was excited to see every person in that car. They were my friends; friends like Jonah.

Jonah was one of my best friends.  We were as different as night and day. I was completely conservative; he was completely liberal.  I came from a devout Mormon family; his family often spoke and wondered about the existence of God.  My Dad was an entrepreneur with a business where he worked from early in the morning until late at night.  His parents loved their time off in the summer to work in their garden and in their woodshop building boats.  But somehow, somewhere in a place before this time, Jonah and I had made an agreement that on the face of this earth, we would be friends, and we were.   We were as close as two young men could possibly be.

Knowing that my friends were on their way, I watched the clock counting the minutes until their arrival. Finally, they were in the hospital and on their way up to my room.

The group entered the room one by one. Just seeing their faces lifted my heart. It’d been too long since I had interacted with my friends face-to-face and I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. Jonah was the last to enter, and I’ll never forget what happened next.

Jonah took no more than a few steps into my room, looked me in the eye, turned a pale white I hadn’t seen before or since and said, “Hi Jason, how are ya…” and passed out before he could finish his sentence.

To be fair, one has to understand what Jonah saw when he entered the room. The last time he’d seen me I was standing up 6 feet tall, 175 pounds and in the best shape of my young life. Now, I was lying down, and although still 6 feet tall, I now weighed 118 pounds. You could literally see every bone and joint in my body. In addition, I had tubes in my body and the markings of a halo brace which had recently been removed. This, accompanied with the smell that every hospital/care center/long term care facility seems to have was enough to put anyone over the edge.

Flustered and concerned at Jonah’s response, I quickly hit the button to call for the nurses assistance. My nurse came in and because of my poor health was so concerned about me she nearly missed Jonah altogether. She asked me what I needed and I told her I needed help getting my friend off the floor.

They helped Jonah up, took him out of the room, cracked the smelling salts and gave him some time to get ready to come back into the room. He had to lay down on the bed for a while, then stand up for a while and then finally was cleared for reentry.

Jonah passed through the door to my room is the rest of my friends and I were laughing, talking and catching up. He took a few steps toward my bed, again looked me in the eye and said, “Hi Jason, how are ya…” as he passed out.

Again, flustered I buzzed the nurses. They came in, looked at my friend and said something to the effect of, “Oh, him again.” Like before, they helped him out of the room, cracked the smelling salts and gave him some time to “right” himself before he came in again.

After nearly a half-hour Jonah was ready to again make the attempt. As he walked in my room the conversation between my friends and I stopped. We watched Jonah, wondering if he could make it this time. The nurses followed him in. It seemed like their hands were outstretched just waiting to catch him. Again he looked at me, and again he said, “Hi Jason, how are ya…” and again he passed out.

Three times he came in my room, and three times he passed out. He never even finished the sentence. I remember thinking, “How am I what?” The afternoon passed and in the end Jonah was able to spend some of the time in my room without being on the floor.

In my life, I’ve been in a number of hospitals. I have spent literally years of my life in a bed in some sort of a healthcare facility. In that time I have had hundreds and hundreds of visitors. But none has ever meant more to me than Jonah.

Some wonder how that can be. He spent more time outside my room than he did in it, and even in the room he had difficulty finishing even one sentence. But Jonah’s actions proved his friendship in a way words never could.

First, he was willing to endure some discomfort to prove his friendship. When a person passes out it can be an embarrassing experience. Just go to a local junior high choir concert and you’ll see exactly what I mean. Sometime during the concert a little seventh grader will lock their knees and fall right off the top riser. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that when they take their place again their face will be filled with embarrassment–nobody wants to pass out in public. Also, this passing out meant some pain for Jonah. His head wasn’t falling on plush carpeted floors. Each time he fell over his head smacked squarely on hard “hospital smelling” tile floors.

But my friendship meant enough to him that he was willing to go through some embarrassment and some pain to see it through–to show me that I was important to him.

Second, he kept coming back. No one would’ve faulted Jonah if passing out the first time was difficult enough to cause him not to want to come back again. But he did come back. And even though each trip meant more discomfort, embarrassment, and pain his desire to prove his friendship outweighed every negative consequence.

I learned a lot of things that day from the trip my friends made. Not the least of which was that Jonah Shue was my friend.

Every time Jonah fell down his spirit stood up reaffirming to me his friendship. If we want to have friends like Jonah, we have to be willing to be friends like Jonah. We have to be willing to go through some discomfort and pain to prove our friendship is real. We can say all the right things, but if our actions don’t follow suit in the end it really means nothing. That day, Jonah confirmed his friendship with his actions better than he ever could with his voice.

Lasting, confirmed friendships like Jonah’s helped me keep positive in negative times. They helped me remember to have the strength and fortitude that they saw in me. When the people who call themselves our friends act this way they will build us up when others would tear us down.  When we will find ourselves surrounded with people willing to endure the difficult with us, we will begin to enjoy more of the sublime.

I am who I am today because of people like Jonah who chose to stand up by falling down.

Jh-

You can check out what Jonah’s doing today by looking at his video here. (He’s on guitar)


I Got My Five + Winner

December 18, 2008

First, congrats and an autographed DVD to Ali W. for her comment on hope.

I am filled with hope when I see the small random acts of kindness performed by everyday people…Their kindness and thought for others gives me hope that the future of mankind and the earth is a good one.

Now Today’s Post:

Five

Regardless of whether you are Christian or not, or even religious at all, everyone knows the story of the Good Samaritan from the Bible. As the parable opens we find a man lying half dead on the side of the road. The first man to come by is a priest. In the social hierarchy of the day a priest is a man who would rank very high. The priest sees the man on the side of the road and understanding his predicament continues on his way.

The second man to come by is a Levite. This is also a man who has an extremely favorable social status. Much like the priest he sees the man in pain and does nothing.

The third and final man to come by is a Samaritan. This is a man who is looked down upon by nearly everybody. He has almost no social status at all. And yet, when this man passes by he makes a decision to act. He puts the half dead man on his animal and takes him to a local inn where he does everything he can to ensure that the man is taken care of, even to the point of making sure that if additional needs arise that they too will be cared for.

At the end of the story we are encouraged to, “Love our neighbor as ourselves.”

As morning comes and we prepare to face each day we think of the tasks that are at hand. We think of the “To Do” lists that we’ve put together and the things on that list that we need to have accomplished. We think of goals that we set for ourselves and what things we can do that day to come closer to achieving those goals. Regardless of whether our day holds large or small things to be done we think about how we can put together our day in such a way that those things can be finished.

We think about the fact that the electric bill needs to be paid and how milk needs to be picked up on the way home from work. We think about the lunch meeting we need to prepare for and how management wants our final report by the end of the day. We think about the activities our children have and how we can arrange for them to have a ride home.

But, in the midst of all this planning and preparation we do for our day do we take time to think about what we can do to help another. For the fact is, that every day as we travel through our tasks we will find people lying “half dead” on the side of the road who need us to take the time to bind their wounds.

Now the chances that we are going to find someone physically beaten are small. But, we will find people emotionally, psychologically and mentally wounded. We can, like the priest and the Levite just pass by hoping that someone else will take care of those in need. Or, we can decide to be like the Samaritan and realize that regardless of what our own status in life is we have a responsibility to care for those around us.

Think for a moment about what our world would look like today if as everyone woke up each day they made a conscious decision to do something to help five people. Think about the millions that would be helped if only a handful of people made that decision. Then think of the people you could influence if you made that decision. If you made the decision to accept this challenge for a week that would mean 35 people helped. If you made the decision to accept this challenge for a month it would mean 150 people influenced. And, if you made the decision to accept this challenge for a year, all on your own you would change the lives of 1,825 people.

The numbers beyond that becomes staggering, and if you begin to think about how your influence would influence others to pitch in and do their part the numbers become astronomical.

But, more than the numbers think about how this kind of help and this kind of influence would make you feel. Think about the difference that would come to your life if every night you could report, “I got my five.”

Jh-


To Protect and Serve

November 8, 2008

protect-and-serve

Driving around town the other day trying to get some things done I passed a police officer. For some reason I took special notice of the words that were placed on each door as well as the rear bumper. They read, “To protect and serve.” I thought about all the things that the men and women of the police force do to make sure their slogan “to protect and serve” is kept.

These thoughts turned from the officers to my parents. As they did, I  marveled at the sacrifices they have made to get me to where I am today.

I remembered being 15 lying in a hospital just hours from learning that my medical diagnosis was quadriplegia, and as far as the doctors were concerned I would never walk again. On that day, like so many after it, I looked into my parents eyes and knew that if there was anything they could do to better “protect and serve” me I need only ask for it. I knew in a way most 15-year-old boys never get to know that my mom and dad would do anything in their power to keep me safe and help me to grow.

Later, as I worked in a wheelchair to find my way in a world of stairs, I also learned that often in order to truly serve, they had to let me fall. That the greatest protection they could offer was the preparation that came from no protection at all. That the finest service they could give was teaching me to serve myself.

In addition, I watched as they worked hard not only “to protect and serve” my siblings and I, but our “neighbors” as well. Just like the officers who carry that credo with them, my parents taught us that we too have a responsibility “to protect and serve” those around us. From a young age I was instructed that if I saw suffering I had a duty to help to curb it. I learned that if any of us are ever to be truly protected or served we must police each other.

Thinking of my parents, my thoughts turned to this little boy waiting to come to my home. Like the police officer, all I want to do is “to protect and serve” him,

As I think about the life he has a waiting him, the adventures that will be his, and the world that he is being born into my first nature is to protect him and keep him safe. It seems as natural and instinct as “fight or flight.” He’s not even here, and I already consider often the things that I can do to keep him out of harm’s way.

My desire to serve him is just as strong. From that day when he was all of five weeks old and I heard his heartbeat, I knew that I would do anything I could to help him. I think of him often in my dreams and as I do I try to imagine ways that I might help him reach his ultimate potential. We have not even met and yet all that I have is his. If there is anything I own in this world that might help him achieve more, do more, or become more I will gladly give it to him. My soul aches to serve him.

I hope that I am strong enough to follow the examples of my parents. I hope that I serve him well enough that I teach him I cannot protect him from everything even if I wanted to. I hope that he grows up knowing that he has a responsibility to those around him. I hope he grows up safe and secure. Safe in the knowledge that his dad loves him and secure enough in who he is that he can rise each time he falls.

What I do know is this, he is mine and I am his. I know I will do my very best “to protect and serve” him in a way that prepares him for the struggles that lie ahead of him, and will work to help him know that understanding love means loving his neighbor as himself.

Jh-

Coleman Jason Hall when he was just 5 cells old.  (He's the cute one)

Coleman Jason Hall when he was just five cells old. (He's the cute one)


Turn The Dirt

September 29, 2008

I remember waking up more excited than usual to meet a new day.  My father in law was involved in a local groundbreaking, and had been able to procure us to front row seats. People may find it hard to believe that someone could get excited for a simple groundbreaking, but, this groundbreaking was for a unique building that had a particular significance to our community. Dressed in my suit and tie, my wife Kolette and I headed to the build site for the ceremony.

We arrived, were directed to VIP parking, and an usher escorted us to our seats. On the stage, sat local, state, and national government and ecclesiastical leaders. Both video and print news representatives were on hand to report on the event.

The ceremonies began. There are musical numbers from a local choirs and comments from the leaders on the stand. Then the moment arrived and the highest ranking leaders grabbed gold shovels and broke the ground. The media closed in to get just the right shot. After the highest-ranking leaders had done their job, it was time for officials like my father-in-law to follow suit.

As they invited him to come up and grab a shovel, my father-in-law encouraged me to join him.  We approach the dig site, and he handed me a shovel.  I looked at the shovel and tried to figure out how I was going to “break the ground.”  Without the use of my hands, or full use of my arms one could say without much hyperbole that I’m not real strong with a shovel. But, in front of the crowd I did my best to do my part.

With Kolette’s dad in front of me, and with the crowd watching on, I grabbed the shovel.  I clasped the center of the shovel with my left hand, slid my right hand above the top of the shaft and tried to see if I could get that shovel in the ground and turn some dirt. The head of the shovel made it into the ground, but as I worked to move the earth, the top of  the handle slid out of my right hand.

With cameras rolling and flashes blazing, my shovel flew forward with impressive speed nearly smacking my father-in-law square in the head. A look of terror slowly encompassed my face, and as I turned to retake my place in the crowd hoping to avoid any further embarrassment, I saw Kolette.

Without being asked, and without drawing any more attention to an already tenuous situation, she quietly made her way to my side.  Kolette picked the shovel up from off the ground and invited me to make another attempt with her help.  Together, we were able to get the head into the ground and successfully turn the dirt.

So often through the course of our lives we work to do things that seem easy at first only to find failure. Even knowing my limitations I never would have guessed that simply participating in a groundbreaking I would’ve nearly turned my father-in-law into the headless horseman in front of hundreds of people and major media. But it happened, I failed. Then, I was taught a powerful lesson.

When we see others fail, like Kolette, we need to jump up and help to make things more steady. We can’t just stand idly by assuming people would rather fail alone then succeed with help.  If we do, more people will fail than need to. They will fail and without saying a word take their seat back in the crowd hoping to avoid further humiliation, just like I would have done at the groundbreaking. However, if we will stop when we see those around us frustrated with their inabilities, we have an opportunity to help.  A chance to let others see that with li.ttle help they can turn their near failures into genuine successes. I was so grateful that day that my experience didn’t have to end at experience with failure.

No one wants to fail. Everyone wants to succeed, even if it’s with a little help. So watch for those in your lives whose shovels may be getting a little out of their control. Then, without being asked, and without fanfare, go to their side, pick up their shovel, and help them, “turn the dirt.”


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