A new me

This is the old me, the picture that had been in the upper right hand corner of my blog. Look over there now -- there's a new picture of me, just taken this week.

Not a lot of difference between the two -- still an old white guy. I'm grayer now than I was two years ago when the old picture was taken. And I'm thinner (I've dropped sixty pounds, though that was seven or eight months ago). And I have newer glasses (well, I've had them for nearly a year). So it's taken me a while to update the photo.

There are other ways I'm different from the old me. Some very subtle, some not so much. I think rarely do we go through drastic and dramatic changes. We change jobs, move houses, get married, have children come into our family or move away. None of those dramatic changes for me in the last few years.

But there are changes nonetheless. I think I'm less strident (I hope so) and more reflective. A benefit of writing is that I have time to think more carefully about what I write than I do when I speak (when all too often I speak first, then think...ready, fire, aim!)

One of the themes I've noticed in the talks of President Eyring is one that I've tried applying in my life lately. He has spoken more than once about what he does in his personal prayers, that he seeks in the morning to understand the Lord's will for him that day, and in the evening he reports back to the Lord how he did. This focus on each day has been really important to me.

I used to be a compulsive planner, and I still find great security in a good plan, though I'm less compulsive about it. I've come to realize that for many things in my life, I have to take them a day at a time. Although I may commit to lasting change, I have to realize it on the retail level, day in and day out, one day at a time, as the 12-steppers like to say.

The idea of considering my own performance each day has been really helpful, particularly in the relationships in my family. Elder Uceda's recent conference talk about a father who prayed before discussing his daughter's behavior with her really moved me. The act of prayer, it seems to me, does several things in such a circumstance:

It puts distance between the indicident that requires the discussion and the discussion itself, allowing the father to think more clearly rather than being ruled by his emotions.

It humbles the father. Kneeling and seeking his Father's advice, a father will approach his own child with greater humility and is more likely to learn from the experienced.

It invites the spirit into the delicate conversation, rather than allowing the natural man to chase it away.

I have more than once when evaluting my day in prayer felt my heart soften as I prayed, and therefore seen things in a new light, recognizing that I have changes -- and amends -- to make.

So, I suppose there's a new me every day. But not a new picture.

God: Good; Me: Bad? No!

I listened to a Mormon Channel Conversations podcast yesterday featuring Rodney K. Smith, former president of Southern Virginia University. I’d recommend the interview to anyone: Brother Smith is a legal scholar and educator and an experienced academic administrator. He articulated a unique vision for SVU that I had not previously appreciated, and his own conversion story was great to hear.

That said, Brother Smith mentioned a concept in relation to his own life and to one of the guiding principles for SVU that stuck in my craw. It’s not an uncommon idea, and it’s frankly one I have espoused in my life before. Basically, he said that when something good happens, he thanks God; when something bad happens, he blames himself. He calls it accountability. I used to call it humility.

Now I call it unhealthy.

Don’t get me wrong: I started this post speaking highly of Brother Smith. I do not intend to attack him or his ideas here, and I suspect I’ve drawn more meaning out of his two-second comment than it deserves. This post is about my idea, one that I myself used to espouse, not about Brother Smith. He simply reminded me.

We should be accountable for our failures and our successes. It’s healthy to examine what went wrong and what we have power to change in the future. But it’s equally healthy to examine what we did right that led to success so that we might repeat it.

Attributing all success to God and all failure to us robs us of a part of the blessing of the atonement, namely the power to improve.

Don’t get me wrong (again): We should praise God. We should thank him for every blessing in our lives. Without Him, His plan of happiness, the atoning sacrifice of His son, we would be nothing. As King Benjamin teaches, we are beggars, and we are regularly blessed, even in ways we do not see. We owe our Father in Heaven a debt of gratitude, and we should offer thanks continually. The very fact that we can improve is by the grace of God and through the atonement of our Savior.

Still, when I stay up late working on a project for my employer and deliver more than is required I want my employer to reward my efforts. I don’t go to work for the fun of it; I go to be compensated so that I can support my family (and I’m very fortunate – even blessed! – to have the job I do). So when I succeed at work, I also want the commensurate rewards. Do I also thank God for facilitating that success? Of course I do: He gave me opportunity in my life to learn; He gave me intellect; He gave me health. But I used those God-given gifts to the advantage of my employer. And so I want my employer to reward me (and I believe God does, too).

Attributing all success to God and all failure to ourselves is not humility. And it’s not accountability.

Accountability is reporting on my stewardship – good and bad. When the ruler gave various talents to his servants (see Matthew 25), they then accounted for their efforts – one returning ten for five, one four for two, and one returning only his original talent. Each of those servants was held accountable; two were rewarded and one was not.

Focusing only on my failures is false humility, and it is unhealthy. If I see myself as one who only fails, how can I enjoy the blessing of the atonement in my life? The Savior suffered that we might live. Failing to accept that gift suggests that it has no value to me.

In twelve step programs, participants engage in a fearless written moral inventory, including their weaknesses and their strengths. Most veteran 12-steppers understand the value of remembering our strengths as we engage in self-examination. There is something of value in each of us, something worth saving, worth building upon. If we seek to be like Christ, then we must also find his qualities in us, however weak, however small, so that those qualities may grow. As we see them grow in us, we recognize that the atonement is working for us and on us; we value the Savior’s gift.

Let me conclude with the words of Elder Uchdorf from the Priesthood session of conference in October 2010. He was speaking about pride, as a postscript to President Benson’s landmark address on that subject just over two decades earlier:

I also remember one interesting side effect of President Benson’s influential talk. For a while it almost became taboo among Church members to say that they were “proud” of their children or their country or that they took “pride” in their work. The very word pride seemed to become an outcast in our vocabulary.

In the scriptures we find plenty of examples of good and righteous people who rejoice in righteousness and at the same time glory in the goodness of God. Our Heavenly Father Himself introduced His Beloved Son with the words “in whom I am well pleased.”

Alma gloried in the thought that he might “be an instrument in the hands of God.” The Apostle Paul gloried in the faithfulness of members of the Church. The great missionary Ammon gloried in the success he and his brothers had experienced as missionaries.

I believe there is a difference between being proud of certain things and being prideful.

I do, too. I believe we can feel good about our successes. We can thank God for our blessings, but still recognize the value of what we, as His children, can do.

Might I Be Wrong?

I've been reading C. Terry Warner's book Bonds That Make Us Free (again!). I first came to this book when a friend's son went through a wilderness program in Arizona and the parents all got a copy of Warner's book. I read it then (about ten years ago) and I've read it a few times since. With each reading I collect more tools, more understanding.

I won't summarize the book; I couldn't do it justice. But I want to share a thought that came to me while reading.

In a chapter I read recently, Warner suggests that one step toward healing a relationship is to ask ourselves if we might be wrong. I could think instantly about how this works. I thought about spats I've had with my wife. In our particular dynamic over the years we've developed a rather well-rehearsed bit of Kabuki theatre. She raises a point of view. I disagree in a way that is shaper than it needs to be, sending a message not only that I think she's wrong, but that she also interprets as meaning I think her point of view is dumb. She retreats. I win the "battle" but do so in a way that leaves me feeling icky.

At some point, my icky feeling prompts me to rethink my position and hers, and I inevitably ask myself if maybe I was wrong. (Cynical children might respond here, "Dad, of course you are wrong!") Asking the question opens me to reconsider what she has said and to reflect on how she might be right, and I can come to an understanding of her point of view, even if I don't fully subscribe to it. And then I can approach her again, apologize for my poor treatment of her and her ideas, and we can have a calm conversation in which our ideas share equal footing, equal encouragement and we can finally reach consensus.

The good news is that this Kabuki does not play itself out as often as it once did because with practice, my initial responses are less sharp – that central question comes to me much faster than it once did. And when the Kabuki theatre does happen, the time from offense to repair is faster because I'm learning what I need to do.

The question of whether I might be wrong is a valuable one for me – in my relationship with my wife, with my children, my co-workers and friends. It is a step toward humility and charity. And peace.

Peace, I'm learning, is way more valuable to me that being right.