Life

The Voice

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After an invigorating but long week of travel, I’m sitting down to watch the most recent episode of The Voice. It’s really hard to describe how much I love this show. 

Slow and Steady

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Some of you know that I occasionally dabble in music — or rather, I constantly dabble in music but only occasionally finish anything I think is worth sharing. It’s been about nine months since I posted anything, but I put something up earlier today.

I’m not sure where I come down on the debate about art, whether it exists in and of itself or if it is only present upon being received by someone else, but it does seem like there’s some imperative to let it out to the world, warts and all. 

So with that, here’s a new song, Freedom II. (There was an original Freedom, and I ended up shelving it. My naming certainly hasn’t gotten any more original.) I don’t claim it to be anything special, but it is mine, and I’m happy to claim it as that. hope you enjoy it.

Watch the game

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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. 

I'm Selling My iPad: A Poem

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Turn off the wireless, shut down the 3G;
Cancel the account with A T & T;
Turn off the power the last time, you see:
I’m selling my iPad.

Erase all the apps so there’s nothing to leave;
The eighteen games and the five Twitter feeds;
The twelve different apps to control my TV;
I’m selling my iPad.

Say goodbye to the virtual keys;
My fingers more clumsy than Apple believed;
Auto-corrects too incorrectly for me;
I’m selling my iPad.

Wash off the screen of the dust and debris;
Stow lint-free clothes that I no longer need;
I’ll not miss the signs of the oil I excrete;
I’m selling my iPad. 

Type up the listing for my auction plea;
Set the price with a sincere guarantee.
The dent on the side? You can’t even see!
I’m selling my iPad.

I need something more than the iPad can dare;
Something that’s stronger and better prepared. 
But please don’t mourn for my lost Apple flair —
I’m writing this on a new MacBook Air.

I’m a gadget addict. 

Sing, sing a new song

Some of you know that for months and months and years and years I’ve been trying to find the time, inspiration, and fortitude to get back into writing and recording music. For the last decade it seemed that every time I sat down to write or play, a voice would go off in my head that said “You don’t do that anymore…” Well, the thing about voices is if you hear them long enough, you believe what they say.

Fast forward to last November and the death of my dad — all of a sudden the thoughts piling up in my laundry basket of a brain started falling onto the floor. First a sock here, a t-shirt there, but more and more as time passed.

About a month ago I was fiddling around on the keyboard and came up with a very simple riff and decided “I will finish this, regardless of where it leads.” No censoring, no judgment, just finishing something.

Here it is — aptly named “Something Simple,” a short song about songwriting, relationships, and how the two may or may not be the same thing. The mix is shrill and the compression irritating, but you know what? It’s a start. Check it out.

Your Part Matters

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Hello friends, I hope this finds you well.

Will you make a donation to support me in the fight against cancer?

Wait! Before you leave the page, or put off a decision until later, allow me to take two minutes of your time to tell you what I’m doing, and why.

I’m walking this October in the San Francisco Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure. It is a three day, sixty mile walk through the rather significant hills of the Bay Area. I’m doing it with thousands of others to help raise millions of dollars for the fight against cancer. I’ve started my training and I’m walking daily hoping that the dunes of Michiana are at least a decent representation of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

You probably know that the fight against cancer has been both a personal and professional passion of mine for years. In 1999, my mother died of cancer. It was a pivotal event in my life, there’s no doubt about it. Her death left my family with lots of questions and a drive to help find a cure. 

For over ten years I’ve dedicated my business and my life to achieving that goal. My company has helped produced dozens and dozens of events that have raised hundreds millions of dollars for the fight against cancer.

But this past fall, the fight became intimate for me again when my father was unexpectedly killed. His untimely death brought back all of the questions, the anger, and the uncertainty I felt over a decade ago. None of us think we need a reminder about the fragility of life. And yet, when I received such a reminder, I realized how naïve I had grown. 

We live in a world that increasingly feels to move without regard to our actions. We are told the economy is beyond us; that conflict will continue regardless of our motives; that in our future is an emptying world. It is easy to simply stay put, to let the world revolve and take us with it, to decide that our part doesn’t matter.

My father’s death was a reminder that our part DOES matter. Perhaps if enough of us just realized that our efforts make a difference, we’d see a difference being made. Perhaps if enough of us started moving the right way, we’d be able to take the world in the direction we want it to go.

My participation in the Komen 3-Day for the Cure is one way of getting myself moving. The event raises critical funds in the fight against breast cancer funds that are used not only for care of the sick, but for research that is absolutely needed to prevent more men and women from losing their lives to cancer. 

It is simply not acceptable to me that my children think of my mother as an abstract concept. They have no memories of hugs, or smells of oatmeal cookies, of the scent of her perfume. It is neither acceptable to me that my four-year-old daughter, nearly every night, says as I put her to sleep, “Wouldn’t it be great if there were no heaven, so no one would leave us?” These are not the thoughts my parents would have wanted for their grandchildren. 

My hope is that my participation in this event will also impact my children’s memories of their grandparents. My hope is that my children will someday say, “my grandparents inspired my dad to make a difference.”

I hope you will support me by clicking the link at the top left and donating an amount commensurate to the journey I’m making. I promise I’ll keep you updated on every mile, every dollar, and every blister that brings us closer to the world we all want to create.

In any case, thank you. I know it is not easy to read these fundraising letters. I know we all get too many of them and that makes them hard for me to write, too. 

But I’ve learned that it is easier to write a fundraising letter than it is to write a eulogy. 

Thank you. Your part matters.

Best wishes,

Jeff

Eulogy for Dad

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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.

Leadership, Change, and My Mom

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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.

Eulogy for My Grandfather, Warren Shuck

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Warren J. Shuck, my grandfather, died in early February at age 97. He was an incredible man in the way that phrase should be used — he was honest, caring, intelligent. He had character.

I had the huge honor of speaking at his funeral.

Gramps, I found the note that you wrote to us. You had placed in the upper drawer of your desk, on top of a pile of this month’s checks. When I read it, I understood that you meant for us to find it.

You wrote,

“Now that my days are numbered and I have only memories, I think of all the things I didn’t do. I loved my family very much and was so proud of each of you but I didn’t tell you when I should have. Richard was our pride and joy, and now I don’t remember ever telling him how much I loved him. Now I wonder how I could have been so involved in the activities that had no lasting permanence and not more devoted to the things that last.”

Gramps, I want to tell you two things.

The first thing I want to tell you is that we know that you loved us. In particular, I know that you loved me. Despite what you remember, you actually told me quite often. Maybe you were different as a father, but as a grandfather you were one of the most expressive and emotional men I’ve ever met. You couldn’t say grace without crying halfway through. You laughed a lot. You worried about your family, probably too much – in fact, it was after watching you just this past December that I realized that I learned my nervous habit of picking my fingernails from you.

But most of all, you never let a visit go by without telling me that you loved me and that you were proud of me.

In the past week we have talked to quite a few people about you. Every one of them has told us how important you were. When they reminisce about you, they use words like “sweet,” “kind,” and “gentle.” You were both devoted and involved, and it has made a huge difference to the people that know you.

The second thing I want to tell you is that I know that you did not write the note simply to make yourself feel better. I know you weren’t looking for affirmation or reassurance. The note was written to us, not to yourself, and it would be missing the point to dismiss it by simply saying, “Don’t worry Gramps, we knew that you loved us.” You were trying to tell us something.

So I want to make sure you know that I have heard your message. But what I need now is some help in following it.

Gramps, you have taught me that real accomplishment is shared accomplishment. So in my dealings with my business associates, help me put integrity ahead of achievement and support ahead of success.

Gramps, you have taught me that the ties of family are tighter than the bounds of biology. So in my relationships with my relatives, help me place acceptance over agreement and reconciliation over retaliation.

Gramps, you have taught me that love is gentle. So in my marriage, teach me humility instead of hubris and compassion instead of competition. Help me to say what should be said rather than what could be said.

Gramps, you have taught me that time is precious. So in my parenting of my own children, help me practice patience. Help me overcome the tendency to train good children and instead help me raise fine men. Help me find ways to show love in action as well as in words.

Finally Gramps, you have taught me to enjoy and strive for a better life. So in my regarding of my own self and the world around me, teach me charity over criticism and courage over complacency. Help me enjoy each minute without regards to the number remaining. Help me see the beauty of life.

Lastly Gramps, I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry about the fish – I really thought they would live in the toilet. As for the fence post, I pretty much knew that would break when we hit it.

Say hello to Gram and Mom and Rich. I’ll miss you.

You are here with us every day, and we love you.

On Charity

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The following post is an article I wrote several years ago for “The Magazine of Sigma Chi.” The idea of trying to write an article about charity that wasn’t preachy or overly moralistic appealed to me, as did the chance to politely remind a group of society’s most fortunate members about their obligations.

I’ve always been proud of this article, and though I’ve gone through a company and career change since writing it, it still reflects my best thoughts on this subject.

Incidentally, about a year after writing it, I found out the article won a first-place editorial award from the College Fraternity Editor’s Association. I received a paper certificate with my last name spelled wrong. There you have it!


It’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m driving through the fog on Wilshire Boulevard. I’m dragging myself to the gym for some much-needed exercise. It’s a short drive, but ever since my son was born in September, these drives have been few and far between. In southern California, one never has to contend with cold mornings – but in Santa Monica, where I live, the ocean breeze blows off the bay during the night and carries in the clouds from the sea. Most days, the fog conspires with my alarm clock to deter me from the trip. At 5:30, it is a victory just to be moving in the right direction. I glide my car through the haze with a sleepy sense of purpose.

I park at the Third Street Promenade, an outdoor mall near the ocean. Even draped in fog, the Promenade is a testament to the abundance of Santa Monica. The clean brick walks are lit by storefront lights shining from the uniformly polished windows of Banana Republic, Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware, Abercrombie & Fitch. A Barnes & Noble, containing the requisite Starbucks, is just opening; a line of coffee drinkers, shrouded in mist, shuffles inside.

I read the windows as I go past: You Saw the Movie, Now Read the Book. The Look that Started a Sensation. New for Spring – Today’s Pastels. Blue Capri Pants are Inside! The signs are crisp and clear, framed in new glass and tile.

Sleeping in almost every doorway is a person in a dirty blanket.

One man has a collection of soda cups, many half-full with brown liquid. Turned on its side behind them is an instrument of the person’s work, provider of what little bounty exists around him: A hand-lettered sign reading, “Looking for work, or whatever you can offer.” His sign is neither crisp nor clear. It is black magic marker on cardboard. He’s tied a bundle of clothes in a paper bag to his ankle, precious possessions kept closely guarded. He barely moves as I walk past.

He is sleeping in front of a jeans store. A huge banner in the store window says, “Get Lucky Here.”

It is 5:30, and I am feeling triumphant that I roused myself to go to the athletic club. I walk past the man and head into the gym.

——

I work for a fundraising company. We produce large-scale events that raise millions of dollars for charity. Sometimes we net $6 million in one weekend. It is a small irony of modern life that someone like me can get paid money to convince someone like you to donate your own. In a country where anyone can grow up to be anything, I get paid to raise money.

My boss, Dan, is a dynamic, visionary man who carries his idealism like a club. He is prone to dramatic statements and unabashed advocacy for the disadvantaged. He likes to challenge people.

About Santa Monica, he loves to say, “Los Angeles is the wealth capital of America. It is also the poverty capital of America.” Statistically, he’s not correct: According to the 2000 U.S. Census, there are a dozens of cities with higher poverty rates than Los Angeles.

But it only takes one look at three people sharing a torn blanket under a J. Crew awning to see that his sentiment, at least, is right on target. In ten square miles in Los Angeles you can travel from Watts in South Central to Beverly Hills. Boyz in the Hood to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air in 15 minutes. The continuum of wealth to poverty is striking.

Just what constitutes “poverty” is up for debate. According to the U.S. Government, in 2002 if you are a family of four and make over $18,100 a year, you are not poor. $18,100 for four people. That’s $4,525 a person. A year. At almost every Sig chapter, $4,525 doesn’t pay for a semester of tuition. According to the National Education Association, the average undergraduate tuition plus room and board in the United States is almost $12,000. For the 31 million people in the United States living in poverty, this amount represents at least two-thirds of the money they see in an entire year.

Dan has always had a particular affinity for helping the poor. This past year, he created an event designed to raise money for impoverished Angelenos. Called “the Weekend to End Poverty,” it was going to be a two-day, 26-mile walk through the best and worst parts of the city. We had planned to raise several million dollars for local community empowerment programs.

In a week of advertising the event, we received over 3,000 phone calls from interested participants. But we had to cancel the walk. It turns out that most of the callers didn’t want to raise money for the poor. It turns out that they were poor themselves – and were calling to see if we could help them.

——

Long before I worked in Los Angeles, I worked at a familiar address: 1714 Hinman Avenue. I worked at the Sigma Chi Headquarters, my first job, my first love, my first testing ground for everything I believed in and believed I wanted to be. The environment, the people, and the building had the same sense of unabashed idealism I see in my current company, but it was more raw in some way. Less polished. I mean that as a compliment.

During my first year I was an Assistant Executive Secretary. (Nowadays we call them Leadership Consultants.) I traveled around for three weeks a stint, visiting Sig chapters and preaching the good word.

On those trips I learned my first lesson of business: As soon as you finish any business trip, fill out your expense report. Get your money back. Get what you have coming to you.

The Sig expense report was a bit different, though. Some ingenious Manager of Operations – I think it was Ron Lewis – had added an extra line under the total. It was a line where you could declare your expenses as a donation to the Foundation. In other words, you could fill out the report, attach your receipts, and then declare that you didn’t want to be reimbursed. Financially, the effect was the same as a donating money. The line’s presence on the expense form was a small, if not subtle, suggestion of generosity.

Most trips I ignored it.

However, one week I was submitting a small expense – $10 for taxi fare, or something of the sort – and I decided that the Foundation needed the $10 more than I did. I wrote the $10 off as a gift and submitted the report, as much to see what would happen as anything else. After a moment I didn’t think anything of it.

About a week or two later I came to my desk and sitting there was a crisp, clean envelope bearing the eagle and shield of the Sigma Chi Crest. Inside was an equally crisp letter from Boz Prichard, the then-President of the Sigma Chi Foundation. Boz was a curmudgeon through and through, cranky and grumpy and salty. The word among A.E.S.s was that you didn’t try to talk with him until you had both had at least one cup of coffee. He was quite a character. Naturally, we all loved him for it. Getting a note from Boz was a big deal.

His letter was simple. It said, “Thank you for your generous donation to the Sigma Chi Foundation. Your efforts to support your fellow brothers are a tribute to the White Cross of Sigma Chi.”

I figured it was a joke. Good old Boz! I leaned into his office to tease him in return.

“Boz, it was only $10,” I said. “You can’t be serious. Damn, the letterhead alone probably cost you $2! You probably spent more thanking me than I gave you.”

I was surprised to see a thoughtful look on his face.

“What is important, especially for a young man your age, is to make giving, to make kindness towards others, to make these things a habit – to make them part of your normal way of acting and doing,” he said.

“The $10 is meaningful because it is your first step out of your youth. $10 is your first deposit towards being a more selfless person.”

——

I am not thinking about Boz’s words at all, however, as I look over a stack of mail after work. I thumb through a small mass of bills. Everyone wants money. At the end of the pile is a package from our church, St. Monica’s.

My wife had been feeling spiritually wanting and much to her credit sought out and was confirmed in a church. In one six-month period she did more spiritual searching than I have done in over thirty years. My part in the process was to support her by attending Mass and trying to be less cynical about religion.

Our church has a yearly envelope program. You commit in advance to a weekly donation – and they send you a pre-printed envelope that you are supposed to either mail to the church or drop in the basket at Mass. Our envelopes have just arrived, and as I look at them next to phone, gas, cable, and medical bills, I am regretting that I committed us to giving so much money to the church. I look for ways to justify a lower donation. Just for this week.

I turn to my wife. “I wasn’t expecting that we’d still be getting medical bills this far after the baby was born.” I leave that trailing in the air, hoping she’ll pick up on what I’m saying.

She immediately does, and I immediately wish she hadn’t. “I already mailed in our donation to St. Monica’s for the month. We’re covered.” I mumble something about “That’s not what I meant” and flop onto the couch.

The next Sunday we’re at church. During Catholic Mass, as during many religious services, there is a point in time where an offering is made, and church members are asked to participate with their own donation. A religious passing of the hat.

There is a strange and intimate peer pressure in the process. The basket is passed from person to person. Each one tries to avoid looking at the donation made by the person next to them; each tries to avoid judging the other’s donation, or feeling magnanimous about their own. Each tries to politely look away if someone passes the basket without putting any money in.

A man in a suit next to me puts in a check. I can read the amount. It’s $100. He passes it to me with a smile, no hint of judgment on his face. I hand it off to the person next me without putting anything in. I can feel my face turning red, so I turn to the man in the suit and whisper, “We mailed in our offering.” He looks at me oddly.

As we leave, my wife is laughing. She says to me, “Why did you feel like you needed to explain our contribution to the couple next to us?”

I am annoyed with the question. I am annoyed because I don’t have an answer.

——

The word “charity” comes from the Latin word “caritas.” “Caritas” is translated literally as “love.” The King James Bible, translated from Greek versions, uses the word “charity” and “love” essentially interchangeably – for some reason, the original translators used two alternate translations of the same Greek word, “agape.”

In its original definition, charity is love made visible. Simply, the giving of oneself without expecting anything in return.

Over hundreds of years “charity” has picked up other connotations. It has a note of piousness to it: Doing something noble to help those less fortunate. And more subtly, the word has a tinge of superiority in it: Doing something noble to help those unable to help themselves. At its worst, the word is condescending and patronizing: “I don’t need your charity.”

In its superiority, in its piousness, charity for a long while became inaccessible to me. It became something that I relegated to the top shelf of Obligation. I should be help my wife with the dishes. I should call my dad when I say I will. I should give more money to charity. Charity was high on the list of things I thought I “should” do – and thus low on the list of things I thought I could do.

I remember feeling this intently in college. In my senior year I served as Pro Consul. I remember huddling with the other chapter officers at the beginning of the year. We had come back from Leadership Training Workshop and were full of ideas. We were committed to the idea of winning the Peterson Significant Chapter Award. We unstapled the six or seven page application and spread out the pages in front of us.

We began to tick of the things we needed to do to win. Submit Pledge Program. Evidence compliance with the Sigma Chi Alcohol Policy. Complete two service projects each semester.

Charity we added to the list of items we “had” to complete. We engaged in our service projects dutifully, if not enthusiastically; and though we always got something out of participation, the projects were a means to an end. We missed the chance to make each an end in itself.

After college, every graduate starts to make a living, and for me at least, ironically, with a steady paycheck charity became even more inaccessible. It became a series of responses to bulk mail solicitations. How much should I donate to the World Wildlife Fund? Is $30 enough? What if I renew my membership to the local NPR station? Is that charity?

If charity is love, rather than obligation; if charity is action, rather than response; if charity is a pursuit, than maybe there is more to it than a series of donations. Maybe one can be charitable without a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Maybe I had only half-understood what Boz meant. Perhaps he wasn’t telling me that every check, no matter how small, matters. Perhaps he was telling me that the check is the least important part.

——

One of the harshest realities of my job is that there is always demand. What I mean is: There are always people who need help.

You start by trying to learn the statistics. Usually, the numbers are daunting no matter what the issue. This year, 200,000 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer, and over 40,000 will die from this disease. Twenty-one percent of the adult population of the United States (approximately 44 million people) read only at a first grade level. 4.2 million adults and children in South Africa live with HIV/AIDS; it is estimated that half of all young people in South Africa will die of AIDS in the absence of a vaccine. There are approximately 11.6 million children living in poverty in the U.S.

Statistics quickly become incomprehensible, and thus meaningless. What does “44 million people” mean? At a practical level, nothing. The numbers are so big that they have no effect.

So when you raise money you try to personalize things for people. Take children living in poverty. It is useless to talk about the 11.6 million children living in poverty. That number does not move people to action. In fact, some people will think about it and say, “11.6 million – in the scheme of things, that’s not that many, is it?”

Instead, a fundraiser will frame the issue like this: Think of six children you know in your life. Now decide which one of them you would sentence to living in poverty, because in America, on average, one out of six children grows up in poverty. If you had to choose, which of the six children you know would it be?

You have to get people to place their own friends and families in the situation. You have to make it real for them.

It is not always an easy. Consider this: There are 3 million women in America living with breast cancer (1 million of those don’t know it). Half will die within 20 years; about 40,000 people a year. Statistically, 40,000 people a year doesn’t seem to be that many. What’s 40,000 people a year in a country of 250 million people? It is a little over one one hundredth of one percent. It’s nothing.

Except the problem is, that one one hundredth of one percent still represents 40,000 people. Dead.

——

One of the major events my company produces is a three-day, sixty mile walk to benefit breast cancer treatment. We’ll produce thirteen of them around the country in 2002. We create a mobile city that moves with the walkers, and we support them with extensive pit and route support. Walking sixty miles in three days is not easy. It is a huge athletic feat, but for most of our walkers, the physical challenge is not the attraction.

I am reminded of this on a spring Saturday in Dallas, Texas. It is the second day of one of our three-day events. About 2,500 walkers walked 22 miles on Friday, and they have woken facing another 19 miles today. On the second day, the physical price of the first day makes walking much more challenging.

I am standing at the lunch pit stop, about halfway through the route. A woman is in the medical tent, sobbing. She missed the first day of the event, and in her vigor to compensate she has overextended herself. She has mild dehydration and has just been told by my medical crew that she is unfit to continue. She will be transported by ambulance to the camp, where she will be either monitored in our field hospital or, if her condition worsens, transported to a local emergency room. She is heartbroken.

I sit down on the cot next to her. She is wearing a visor that says, “Walking 4-a-breast.” Her face is flushed; her hair is sweaty. Around her neck hangs a picture of a young woman.

“I have to keep walking,” she says. I tell her in the kindest way possible that the decisions of our medical staff are binding and final.

“You don’t understand,” she says. She holds up the picture. “This is my sister. She has breast cancer. She’s the reason I’m here, and the reason I missed yesterday.”

I’m sure I look puzzled. She breaks down in full tears.

“I missed yesterday because yesterday I buried her.”

If every person in America had talked with the woman in that medical tent, we would have a cure for breast cancer in about a week.

——

I am not sure how it all works. I do know that people give to causes that move their souls. I am not sure how to move them.

I am not sure why I write checks to organizations that send me a pre-printed bulk letter, yet I never volunteer at the local YMCA four blocks away from my house.

What I do know is that I have many more opportunities to be charitable than I think. They present themselves at every turn. I can choose to let the person cut in front of me on the freeway; I don’t have to move ahead of them so I can be one car closer to home. I can choose to be polite to my wife, because she probably has had a harder day than I have. I can choose to talk with a homeless person on the street, and give them the money in my wallet. I can choose to believe the person will spend it wisely.

I don’t know why sometimes I choose to do those things, and sometimes I don’t.

——

It is near the end of September. I am holding my two-week old son as I watch television. He was born on September 13, two days after the terrorist attacks. We watched CNN on the 11th while we were in labor. Two weeks later, the world has begun an attempt to return to normal, and with it my son has decided that he finally wants to start sleeping. I’m not going to disturb him for the life of me.

A telethon comes on. It is raising money for the families of the victims killed in the World Trade Center. Maybe you watched it as well.

The phone is next to me. After the first song, I pick it up. My wife is nervous. “How much are you thinking?” I tell her $100. She nods.

The operator answers the phone, thanks me for my call, and asks me how much I would like to donate. I look at the television and think about planes crashing into buildings.

“$250,” I say. My wife looks at me, surprised. The operator sounds grateful, and begins taking my address and credit card information.

I look down at my son. We still have to get a crib, and a car seat. We’ve got a trip to Chicago coming up.

“I need to change my donation,” I say into the phone. “Make it $500.”

I hang up. I turn to my wife. She looks more than a bit concerned. She is trying to figure in her head how much we’ll need to borrow to avoid bouncing our rent check.

I look at my son. He is sleeping unawares. He is perfect. “We’ll make it work,” I say.

——

I am pretty sure that $500 is only numerically five times more than $100. It isn’t five times better morally. It isn’t five times more profound ethically. I am not more likely to have a peaceful afterlife because of $400. I have not earned four extra points on the cosmic scorecard.

Here’s the thing: As far as I can figure out, there isn’t a cosmic scorecard. There’s only a personal one. Ultimately, if this is a game, I am the only one who will know if I cheat.

What I do know that there is a line at which things become slightly difficult. On this side is comfort, on that side is challenge. I know that I feel safer on this side of the line – but better about myself on the far side. The passages across the line are marked with odd signs bearing uncomfortable words: Sacrifice. Selflessness. Kindness. Commitment. Perseverance. Devotion.

To get to the other side, the only prerequisite is movement. You have to start moving.

There is work to be done. There is need. There is injustice. There is inequity. There is a call to action. I decide if I answer the call.

We say, the world expects more of us than of other men. I am learning that that starts with what I expect of myself.

There is work to be done. I have to start moving.