Raising My Standards

My father was an abusive alcoholic. Everyone learned to hide, say nothing, do nothing that might incite his wrath or attention. No matter what he said, we did not disagree; no matter what he threw at us, we endured. Defiance was painful. At 18, I couldn't want to leave home, but I took these lessons with me.

What I learned served me well, I thought, that is, until I met someone who coveted my job. I thought it only happened in movies that someone could systematically and deliberately destroy another person's career. I did not refute her outrageous statements, I didn't call into question the private meetings and whispers. I believed that my character and intregrity preceded me, that those who knew me would disdain any lies. I continued to do my job the way I always did -- to the best of my ability in the best interests of the company that employed me. What more could they want? Indeed. Humph! In deed, everyone received what they earned.

Experience can be a hard teacher. Sometimes you must stand up for yourself. Silence is regarded as acquiescence. Relationships are neither advanced nor elevated by silence if one is hurt. In essence, I held the door open and invited her in to treat me so shoddily and shabbily. By the time I stood up for myself, it was too late. A new belief system was firmly ensconced and she had my job.

Balance~it's all about balance. Knowing which battles to fight. Can this incident affect my reputation or is the person having a bad day and being a jerk? Will it all be forgotten in a day or two? Or is this incident, however minor on the surface, in the context of an entire relationship, one that needs to be addressed?

It's my observation that when you think you've learned a life lesson, similar incidents arise to test your knowledge. Do you really get it? Or do we need to do this again so that you do?

As it happened. a situation presented itself in another workplace where. I was ready. Based on my prior experience, I felt I must stand my ground. I believed my integrity was being maligned, my intelligence questioned, my willingness to adhere to company policy called into question. It's not easy for me to stand up for myself; I'd rather take on someone else's cause, but I learned not to revert back to my childhood practice of hiding.

I'm not going to bore you with she said/I said/third-party-said seesaw. The details are irrelevant and tiresome. What is relevant is that a person in a position of authority over me called me on the carpet because I was brazen enough to want to understand the intent of the communication sent to me by another person.

The written word is powerful (think contracts, for example). I take written business communication seriously, and if it's about me, well, let's say I take it very seriously. My meeting culminated with my boss saying, "Your standards are too high. You need to lower them. People are never going to meet your high expectations and they will disappoint you. Look and see who and where this is coming from. Take it at face value."

Lower my standards? And do what? Dye my hair blue, wear a backless dress with a bra, don't cross my legs when I sit,chew gum and blow bubbles? Okay. Wait a minute. I didn't actually say those words. However, they were in a huge conversation cloud over my head. (Unfortunately, when I become emotionally involved, rational thinking flies out the window. Try not to do that. You'll lose ground and credibility and any meaningful conversation ceases). Regardless, I'm sure my body language conveyed my repressed thoughts. (Hanging head here.)

The story ends happily. I received a written communication again from the same person, with content and wording similar to the first. And then I got it. I understood perfectly the intent. The writer is a chapter and verse person, quoting line for line from The Policy Manual (imagine deep, echoing voice here). That is her method of communication. No fluff, just fact. Not a lot of tact, just fact. No soft and warm offers of help, and assurances that everyone makes mistakes, that you're forgiven, just the facts' you figure out how to implement them accordingly.

I'm inclined to be nebulous, wandering all over creation, back and forth between the left and right globes of my brain, before my point is made. Having facts, figures, rigid rules and unforgiving expectations thrown at me made me regress to my child's mind--I felt threatened, angry, defensive. As an adult I learned to stand up for myself. But it's someone who's grown UP (up meaning up to our Creator) who can listen with their heart to hear what the other person is saying.

Got it. I'm not lowering my standards. I'm raising them. I'm working on listening with my heart. Speak gently. It's new territory for both of us.

My Work Is My Missionary

When I lived in Massachusetts, Thursday nights (or was it Wednesday? I don't remember!) were special; I used to get together with two other couples for an evening of pizza, Friends, Seinfield and Kramer. We'd all sit around, laughing and recalling the week's events, the good and the bad, offering encouragement and support, and sometimes a little wisdom.

One of the couples, Dennis and Linda, was very active in their church, and they'd warm to their stories of their church's activities and their participation. One night I asked Dennis, "You love the church so much, why aren't you a missionary? It would just seem such a natural path. Or is it because you met Linda and she changed all that?" I teased.

He laughed his easy, soft laugh. "Well, Linda did change my life that's for sure." He grinned,looked shyly at her, making her smile back at him. "My work is my missionary. I get to be outside everyday,enjoy nature, talk to people. Many of my customers are friends." he explained simply. "Some may see me as just a postal carrier, but everyday I meet someone who needs a kind word or a helping hand. I know it's not showy like working for the Peace Corp or being a missionary saving souls in a third world country. But you know what? I can't tell you how many times Ive been told that I'm the only person who has acknowledged them. In my own way, I make a difference."

The other day, I was speed walking down the hallways of the office where I work, feeling as though I was running late after stepping out to purchase a cola. After weighing the pros and cons of elevator versus stairway, I chose the elevator. At the same time a young mother with two little boys boarded the elevator with me. I pushed Level 2, turned and asked her where she was going. "One," she said, "we're headed out." I nodded, smiled politely, pushed one. And as people in elevators often do, I pretended to ignore the other passengers; after all it's only polite, right?

The young mother blurted out, "Can I ask you for a favor? Can you go to the first floor with me? I have claustrophobia and I hate elevators. It would help me if you went with me." Her two little boys were oblivious to their mother's anxiety as they raced about in tight circles around her, but I saw her green eyes open as the doors closed and the elevator shrugged downward.

Truthfully, my first reaction was to be a little peeved; I was in a hurry for heaven's sake! Her eyes did not leave mine and I felt small and petty. "Sure," I said. "Be glad to."

Her face was awash with relief and her mouth relaxed into a small smile. I studied her for a moment, weighing what I wanted to say. "You know what I read one time? That sometimes when people have a fear of closed-in places, it's because of a birth trauma memory. Your subconscious mind remembers and your adult conscious mind translates it to fear of enclosed spaces."

She gave such a knee jerk reaction that she started us both. "Yes!" she said.

I breathed deeply and released my breath, and unknowingly she did the same. "Feel better, freer?" I asked her.

Her eyes shone bright with gratitude and new understanding. She grabbed her sons' hands. "Yes, I do! Thank you so much." The elevator doors opened, and she and her sons stepped out. She looked back at me one more time, and whispered, "Thank you again."

The doors closed, I pressed the button for the second level again. That small exchange maybe only took 45 seconds out of my workday, but they are moments that will stay with me for a long, long time.

The workplace as a missionary. Wow.

Words Matter

I love words. I love reading them, I love writing them, I love speaking them. They inspire, belittle; heal, wound. Yet almost everyday I hear someone say, "It's just words. They don't matter.

"What if someone said, "Being of sound mind I bequeath..." "With this ring..." "And the winner is..." Or what if they said, "I want a divorce!" "I don't know how to break this to you..." "You only have months to live..." All of a sudden words take on a whole new meaning and significance. I was in my 30's when I first learned this. It was a fleeting exchange but one that changed my life irrevocably and became a life lesson that I've practiced.

I worked for a particular life insurance company in the Boston, Massachusetts, area. Management positions were male dominated; women were clerks or administrative assistants. We were also supposed to be pretty and ladylike and almost subservient, though there were a brave few who were striving to break the gender bias (in a pretty and ladylike way of course).

As is wont in many office settings, there are women who always organized birthday parties for staff, and this office was no exception. On this particular occasion were were celebrating our supervisor's birthday. Someone had brought in a camera and was snapping and clicking pictures of everyone. That is, until she came to me.

I declined the photo op. Period. My body language made it clear there would be no further discussion. Nonplussed, the photographer turned her attention to the lady who was sitting beside me. Her name was Marion. Now as I mentioned, most of the ladies were quite fashionable and outgoing, taking great pride and time their in primping. Marion, however, was different. Her skirts were too long; so was her greying, kinky hair (considering she was middle age and all, some noted), and to compound it all, she really just didn't have much to say. She politely allowed her picture to be taken and the offending camera and photographer were gone.

Marion waited a moment and then she gave me an inquisitive, sloe-eyed look, and asked me in a whisper, "Why didn't you want your picture taken?"

I was still feeling edgy and high strung and gave her a brutally honest answer. "Because I think I'm ugly. I look like a troll in pictures." I immediately regretted the bluntness of my response but it was too late to think about it and take it back.

Marion's lips were not smiling, but her eyes were filled with a womanly compassion and wisdom that shone. She sat boldly upright, steeled with fire and conviction, and her words flowed firm and steady. "I don't know who told you that and you believed them, but they have lied to you. You are beautiful!"

And that's when it happened. I felt a dark veil lift from my heart; my spirit shifted. I saw myself in a new light, and more powerful than that, I felt a deep healing of a pain that I did not even know that I had. Those twenty words resonated right down to the cellular level. Me? Beautiful?

I never did thank Marion for her compassion and encouragement. I pray that someday she will know what a wondrous gift she gave me. And now because of her, when I see the opportunity, I, too, speak twenty words of compassion and encouragement.

You just never know where a person is at in their life and what a difference your words can make.Are you listening with your heart? Is there someone you know who may need your twenty words?

Do you know how beautiful you really are?