© 2024 Jeff Shuck.
Family
Your time.
Give them enough of that, and they'll let you know the rest.
(This took me ten years to figure out, so I post it here on the hopes that I'll give some new parent a decent head start. )
Shells.
Over the Thanksgiving weekend our family took a short trip to the beach. The kids were getting restless, Jeanie and I were running out of amusements, and we all needed some fresh air.
We parked the car and walked 200 feet or so over the dunes to the ocean. After a few feet, one of our kids spotted a shell sitting on the path. "Look! A shell! Cool!" Everyone gathered around to see this unique and wonderful ornament of the beach. It was a bit dirty and cracked in half, but it was the first shell of the trip. The kids ran down the path, excited to see what else they would find.
As we approached the shore, they began to realize that the sand they were walking on was entirely covered in shells. Shells were literally everywhere.
As this realization dawned on them, guess what happened? The kids lost all interest in most of the shells. Oh, they spent 30 minutes or so combing the shore, but they passed over hundreds if not thousands of shells far prettier than the one they had discovered on the path. The only shells that attracted their attention were the ones that looked markedly different than the rest.
The episode stuck with me. Does it speak to our inability to see the precious right in front of us? Or how easily the novel becomes boring? Or how quickly we can take beauty for granted?
It probably speaks to all of those things. But I can't help but think that it is a quick lesson in strategy, too. Our organizations spend a great deal of time trying to keep up with everyone else, when most of the time imitation is the quickest way to blend into the beach. If you want to get picked up, you have to be willing to be different.
My big guy Danny turned four today.Well, I wasn’t going to go here. I guess I’m not sure I have anything to say. Or maybe, I was just bracing for what everyone else would say. I’ve written before about the 9/11 attacks, and those words are powerful and fierce for me, because I wrote them in the hours and days after everything went to hell. So maybe I should just leave it at that.
But here’s the thing. Today is my son’s fourth birthday. And I’m not going to say I didn’t think today about 9/11, because I did; and I’m not going to say that those thoughts didn’t make me sad for the loss, and angry about what happened, and vengeful for justice, and wistful for the spirit of commraderie we as Americans had in the aftermath, and confused about where that spirit seems to have gone. I wonder about all of those things, not just today but every day.
And yet, my biggest emotions throughout the day were gratitude for my son and wonderment at his amazing, joyful self. And the fact that I had those feelings today, and could enjoy them, means that at least for me the test results from 9/11 are starting to come in, and you know what? We passed. We frigging passed. We may not have scored 100%, but listen up America — good work, well taken. We took a graduate class in Hardship and we got most of the questions right. We have some things to brush up on for the next course but by and large, we passed.
Here’s to the fallen heroes and to the ones living among us now and every day, including you, and God willing, including me. Let’s make it all worth it. No use crying over what we got wrong, because it’s over. We passed exams and that means it’s on to the next class. If we can do this then the economy and the environment and education and everything else is a piece of cake. Bring it.
And finally, Danny: This one’s for you.
Suspending skepticism seems like an easy thing — a trite comment, really — but I’ve learned that skepticism is so ingrained in most of us that laying it aside is more difficult than we first imagine. From the first time we hear “You’re too big for that chair!” or “Be careful up there!” or the really insidious “Don’t get your hopes up!”, we start assembling a picture of the world that features a tiny ragdoll at the center (that’s us) surrounded by assorted threats, hazards, and disappointments (everything we think, dream, and wonder about).
I’ve become quite a Disney World supporter over the last few days. I’ve written about the superb customer service, the powerful combination of business and artistic vision, and more than anything, the great experience my kids have had at the various parks. But to be honest, I know enough about Disney that I kind of expected all of those things. I expected to see a fun environment produced by a well-run organization.
What I didn’t expect was the impact that Disney would have on me. I’d find myself passing by a ride or theater or walkway. “Nothing too exciting is back there,” my ragdoll voice would say. And I’d start to walk by when invariably a little child’s hand would grab mine and say, “C’mon Dad — puulllleaaaase?”
The first time I sort of rolled my eyes, re-oriented the stroller, and grudgingly followed. “Okay…” I said, which as everyone knows is Dad Code for “I already know that this is a stupendous waste of time, and soon you will learn that too, and then you will understand my incredible power of divination and will listen to me next time.”
But here’s the thing. It was never a waste of time. The concert with Mickey Mouse, the a cappella American folk singers, the 360-degree movie about China — everything was just, well, surprisingly delightful. Just really wonderful.
And what I noticed is that by the second day I stopped using Dad Code with the kids. “Let’s go!” I’d say. “I bet this is really cool!” And by the third day I stopped listening to my own ragdoll. Frankly, I’m not sure I even would have noticed that until yesterday, when we had three people feeling sick and run-down but had to travel home anyway. I heard the rag doll say “This will be awful. This will be a long and horrible day.” But I heard myself say, “We can do this.” And you know what? All things considered, eight hours of travel with six people went flawlessly.
In my book, the greatest thing about Disney World is that it got me to throw my skepticism into the recycling bin. I stopped looking at doors and saying, “There’s nothing interesting in there.” I stopped looking at people and saying, “They are opposed to me.” And I stopped looking in the mirror and saying, “I need to protect the ragdoll.” Instead I started actively walking towards each walkway, filled with excitement about what was coming next.
How effective would I be if I greeted every single encounter of every single day with that optimism and confidence? If we all did?
This is the biggest memory I hope to keep from Disney World. It could be powerful.
We were at our first real (as in “they will remember it”) visit to the Magic Kingdom. My kids were excited to read about the debut of the new Fantasyland, set to open in 2012. But when we walked past Cinderella’s Castle, we were greeted with a maroon wall. No Dumbo ride, no Toontown Fair. Seems that Fantasyland 2012 isn’t quite ready yet.
I’ve pictured the sign that was posted on the wall.
Now, from my experience there are three ways of explaining construction to customers:
Hear the difference?
I should add two more things. First, this wasn’t the only sign posted. Every twenty feet or so there were quotes from Walt Disney about the future, and progress, and how Disney pursues its goals. Disney took a construction wall and turned it into an exhibit about their culture.
Second, as my kids were standing around embarrassed waiting for their wacky dad to take a picture of a sign, a door we hadn’t noticed opened up in the wall. Two construction workers started to walk out of the walled-in area. They saw my kids watching and held the door open for us. My family got a five-second glimpse of huge earth movers, a massive hole in the ground, a partially-built castle, and lots and lots of busy people. And at the same time all four kids said “WOW!” The two guys smiled at us. Here at a place with wonders around every turn, my kids were amazed by a hole in the ground. From disappointment to amazement.
There’s lots here worth thinking about. The power of culture. The pull of vision. The critical role each person plays. (What makes a worker hold the door open for guests? What makes him even think of onlookers as guests?)
And more than anything, the fact that change is uncomfortable. Progress requires disruption. How do we approach change? How do we discuss it with our constituents? With the enthusiasm that we’re making something great? Or with the fear of falling debris?
It’s Saturday morning, which around our house means a busy morning getting everyone ready and out the door for our weekly soccer mini-marathon/forced march. Does everyone have their soccer shoes? Everyone have a water bottle? What happened to your coat? Did you bring the snack for the second game? Do we need the soccer ball today? Are we ready to go? Wait, what happened to Danny? Who took my keys?
When we get to the field, there’s a similar set of questions and distractions. Yes Ellie, you can go over to the play set. Johnny, did you talk to your coach? Yes, you can have a dollar for a snack. Is Ellie still over there? Did we leave a folding chair in the car? I didn’t think it was going to be this cold. Is that the woman we met at the restaurant the other night? Has anyone seen Ellie? Who took my keys again?
It always surprises me how much sound and fury (albeit at the elementary school level) can accompany three soccer games. And after four hours of constant activity, inevitably I’m driving out of the parking lot thinking, “Did any of the kids win their games?” After all of that, I can probably count the individual plays I can remember on one hand, because I’ve spent three hours running errands, scurrying about, looking the other way, and attending to various distractions.
There’s a somewhat trite and overly obvious event fundraising metaphor here, and since event fundraising is what I do, I’ll go ahead and make it: Oftentimes we spend so much time attending to the details of the event (and for most events, there are hundreds, if not thousands of details) that we lose sight of the fact that the event at its core is an effort to make our mission real. And more specifically, the event is a way to make the mission real so we can raise money to achieve it. The mission, and our passion to fund it, is the what the event is about. Place settings, site maps, signs, thank you cards, and the ever-present t-shirts are all important details. But that isn’t the event, any more than talking about play sets, snack time, lawn chairs, and neighborhood gossip helps me do what my kids really want, which is watch them play soccer.
There’s an only slightly less trite, slightly less obvious life metaphor here, too, and since I’m the blog writer I’ll go ahead and make that one as well. We all spend a lot of time preparing for the game: Packing for it, driving to it, ensuring we’re properly clothed and fed and protected for it. But we spend so much less time actually enjoying it.
A good message for spring: Don’t worry as much about the details. Watch the game — or better yet, get on the field.
Coolest kid ever with the coolest Lego set ever!
Robert R. Shuck, my father, was killed in a car accident on November 7, 2009. His death was a shocking, heartbreaking tragedy. I delivered a eulogy at his funeral on November 12.
I would like to start by thanking all of you who have come here today. Many of you traveled some distance and at considerable inconvenience to be here, and we are profoundly grateful.
I have struggled this week to make sense of what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen. As much as I want to reflect on what kind of person my Dad was, I have found it hard to do so. It is difficult to fully describe the soul of a person when you are immersed only those possessions they left behind.
I have spent the last four days absently trying to sort out those possessions –- shifting through piles of paper, sorting through to-do lists, culling through files on his computer; moving from room to room, picking up books in one, picking up pictures in the next.
I found a rake with leaves still in it, well worn, set in its place in the garage. His legacy, the tools of a patient gardener.
I found a gold star that he made, by hand, for the front door — as well as a prototype, perfectly measured, folded carefully from graph paper. His legacy, the proof of a disciplined craftsman.
I found dozens of post-it notes, with lists of tasks and bullets of thoughts and reminders. “Plan for window & door improvements in 2010.” “Children’s Books – Research.” “Ask Cathy about cheese soup recipe.” His legacy, on orange and pink squares of paper, the evidence of an ordered mind.
I found pictures of grandchildren, framed and displayed, pictures given to him and a few he took himself. I have thought about what we will do with the pictures. We will gather them up I suppose, all but the picture they represent, the legacy of a proud grandfather.
I found a journal of days, an entry book logged with comings and goings. “June 4th: 2 mile walk in park.” “October 16th: Raked leaves and trimmed bushes.” And in between the daily order, I found thoughts heartbreaking to read. “July 7th, 2007: I am not a meaningful part of my family’s lives, nor they of mine. I am too isolated.” Another entry from several months ago, after I had called him to ask that he postpone an upcoming visit, said simply: “September 5th: I was invited to stay home.” A legacy of repetition and routine. A legacy of a father too distant.
I found the confused eyes of children too young to understand, searching for an explanation that I already know age will not provide. I found comments like those from my son: “I think Daddy wants another Dad.” No, just the one I already had. A legacy of questions.
In a search to understand I found tire tracks in the grass and an impact in the mud. I found glass shards and pieces of plastic. I found a car crumpled, nearly snapped in two, a physics problem made real, the solution to which was blood and broken bones. A legacy of senseless violence, a horrible legacy for a peaceful man.
None of these –- the post-it notes, the logs, the tasks, the pictures, the debris — are any part of the legacy I wish to keep, nor any part of the legacy I wish you to have. We must do our best together to remember a better legacy, a legacy more representative of the life.
To my sister Cathy: A legacy of love from a man who cared deeply about you. Although he never could quite find a way to express it as you might have wanted to hear it, he expressed it in the way he needed to say it. You were his biggest joy.
To my brother Tim: A legacy of pride from a father who loved you as his own and admired you more than you know. Your intellect and dedication to craft reminded him of the best pieces of himself.
To my wife Jeanie: A legacy of tenderness from a person who reveled in your unconditional acceptance, your lack of pretense, and your caring.
To my uncle Dave: A legacy of admiration from a brother who considered you his biggest hero.
To my aunts Cathy and Jane: A legacy of thanks for the joy that was your family, and Mom’s.
To our children, Dad’s grandchildren –- Matthew, Sierra, Johnny, Ellie, Celia June, Aidan, and Danny: A legacy of strength, a legacy that my grandmother called “the red blood of the pioneers” –- a legacy born of centuries working the soil, the fortitude to keep walking forward in the face of the inertia of the world.
To the Marsicks, the Schurdells, the Krafts, and all of his neighbors and friends: A legacy of gratitude, an unarticulated thank you for the shared experiences and laughter. You brought out Dad’s best, and you understood that though he expressed himself through the dimension of science, he was far from one-dimensional.
And to me:
I have not been sure what my legacy is. I cannot so easily move past the debris and the broken bones. I cannot so quickly forget the journal entries and the notes, the expressions of a solitude borne somewhat unwillingly.
And yet my legacy sits in this room. In my family –- those connected to me by blood, but more than that, in the many of you who have become my family by choice, a choice more yours than mine. Dad’s legacy to me is a quiet admonition that the human experience is not a solitary one. My friends, you have been unwilling to let me be isolated and alone, and in doing so you have helped me extend my reach further than Dad was able. My dad’s legacy is your friendship, and I am incredibly grateful for it.
We must remember that God almost never gives us what we want, but almost always gives us what we need. These gifts –- these gifts of love, pride, tenderness, admiration, gratitude, fortitude, laughter, and friendship –- these gifts are Dad’s bequest. They are to be respected, to be cherished, and above all, to be shared.
This is our obligation to the patient gardener: To extend his life into the next; to multiply his blessings; and above all, to go out into the world and to sow the seeds he has given us.
In early 1999, shortly after the death of my mother, I was asked to write an article on leadership and change for The Magazine of Sigma Chi. In my grief it basically became a eulogy for my mom. Today the grief is gone, although the pain remains; and the thoughts below still ring true for me.
Everything I learned about change and leadership I learned from my mother.
In the sense that the word is commonly misused, my mother was not a leader. She was not an elected official, fighting city hall, pushing with sheer tenacity a massive reform initiative through a recalcitrant legislature. She was not a military hero, storming hills, orchestrating attacks, and accepting with grace the accolades of a grateful nation. She was not the chief executive officer of a major corporation, radically restructuring a failing business around an innovative new product line. She was not a sports superstar, using her charisma and athleticism to mold a rag-tag group of misfits into a championship team.
My mother had no direct reports, no subordinates, no charges; she authored no bills, no laws, no texts, no new philosophies. And before she died of cancer two months ago, I never would have never called her a leader. But now that my family and I begin to understand the enormity of the void her absence leaves for us, we realize, at least dimly, that she truly had more claim to the title of elected official, military hero, CEO, and superstar than any of us.
Mom held us together. She made the weekly phone calls to ask us how we were. Sorting through my letters after her death, I found dozens that served no practical purpose whatsoever. She wrote to say “hello” a lot; the weather is still cold, your father is working on a new project, the cats are fine. She connected my sister and me, separated by a continent, with news and gossip, and provided us plenty of fuel for our inside jokes on just how “fine” the cats were. Mom facilitated communication.
Mom was the first to know when one of us had had a wonderful day—or a rotten one—and she made sure the rest of us knew as well. She had a way of making you feel better than you probably deserved to — but had a way of making you feel like you deserved to, as well. Mom celebrated our accomplishments.
When we were cold, or sick, or sad, she made hot cocoa—not instant hot cocoa with water, but real hot cocoa with milk. Mom took care of her people.
When my sister and I fought over Legos or about who should climb the tree first, she made us share. Mom mediated conflict. She created coalitions. She delegated. She empowered.
In short, Mom was a leader. She never asked for credit, for praise, or for reward — and because she never asked, she never received any, save the undying admiration, love, and loyalty of those she led. Like all true leaders, she operated behind the curtain, leaving for the rest of us the center stage.
Cancer, like most diseases, is cruel. But cancer has a certain evil mystique around it, an ugly reputation: If cancer were a football team, it would wear a black uniform. And when it attacks someone who has taken care of you your entire life, when it attacks your whole frame of reference, cancer seems particularly cruel.
When Mom started fighting her cancer, our lives changed — and hers, obviously, changed more than any of ours. Watching her, our peacemaker, our communicator, our fan, our leader, navigate her cancer taught me much about change and how real leaders channel it.
Change can be painful. Cancer is a change in the body’s structure. The addition of even a few of the most microscopic of cells caused my mother incredible pain in her back, her legs, her abdomen. To counter the change it causes, cancer is fought with a combination of lethal drugs and radiation, which also manifest change and pain in the body.
Mom taught me that correcting a problem can sometimes be as painful as leaving the problem alone. But usually, leaving the problem alone has much more dire consequences than dealing with the pain of change. Leaders realize this fact and are willing to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gain.
Change can be subtle. Recently I had some pictures developed from Christmas. I was shocked and deeply troubled to see how ill Mom appeared. She was gaunt and tired. I didn’t notice it at the time because I was in the situation, in the context, and had no ability to step back and see the bigger picture.
Mom, however, knew what was happening — she began saying the things she needed to say, having the difficult conversations that were worth having. We thought she was crazy. Looking back, I understand that she was looking ahead the way good leaders do. Oftentimes we don’t realize change is occurring until it is already upon us. Change doesn’t always demand that we notice it — leaders, therefore, demand that change notices them. They are intuitive and aware, and understand that small shifts in dynamics can be the signal for massive change ahead.
Change perpetuates change. By the end of her battle, Mom was taking medications to counter the effects of medications taken to counter the effects of the radiation and chemicals used to fight her cancer. Mom realized and dealt with this implication tree without missing a step, never losing sight of the core change driving the others, and never losing sight of her objective. Change creates seedlings, so leaders must see the forest and the trees.
Change is best faced with a willing and positive attitude. During one of my last conversations with Mom, she said, “I’m not ready to die. But if this is how it’s supposed to be, then this is how it will be.” Mom approached her many changes with an attitude that shamed the rest of us. She never complained, and never feared. Leaders understand and embrace change. They realize that their job is to steer the boat along the best current, not push it upstream.
Positive change requires a team. As I look back on our last few months, I’m amazed at how much effort Mom put into keeping the rest of us encouraged and motivated. The number of letters, phone calls, and visits increased substantially. At a time when she had every reason and right to ask someone else to take the lead, Mom actually increased her efforts to keep us together. Leaders understand that precisely because change is difficult, it demands extra effort be put to maintaining the welfare of the team.
But now, the leader is gone, and we try to cope with another change ourselves. We wish for things. With every new morning we revise our wishes; we recalculate our hopes and lower our expectations.
“Today I hope that I don’t cry until mid-afternoon.”
“Today I hope that no well-intentioned but misguided person will share with me their own horrifying cancer story.”
“Today I hope that I only think of the funeral three times.”
I’ve noticed a shift in those wishes, though. They have gradually become more positive. The good days are more frequent — maybe two or three a week now.
As for change, more and more now I understand its biggest attribute: Change isn’t easy — just inevitable. You can harness it or it will harness you. So lately I wake up and make a new wish: “Today I hope that I will embrace change.”
True leaders leave a positive legacy. Thanks Mom.
