“There is no I in team.”
Or is there? On one hand, I think I get it. To be an effective team member requires one to set aside personal agendas for the sake of group good. Outcomes are, hopefully, a collaboration or collection of great minds thinking together. The best teams – whether family, work, church, or sports – have conflict. Differences of opinion, personality, approach, and ideas bring fresh perspectives for problem solving or simply seeing other options. Creativity is often born out of well-managed friction. In other words, teams work best when we each bring our unique “I” to the table. But in and of itself, that isn’t enough. There must be a respect for other - for different - if we are going to succeed. I must value you and your unique approach and you, me. This reminds me of the vivid metaphor in 1 Corinthians 12:17-20. “If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has placed the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body.” We don’t need a room full of eyes or ears or feet! Recently I had opportunity to lead five others through the task of revising teaching curriculum. I threw out the general question, “How did this work last year?”, then sat back and watched the magic. One person offered a suggestion which another built on. Someone else added a caution, helping clarify our objective and keep us on track. Three hours later we had a product far superior to anything I could have created or imagined on my own. Different people with complementary roles, performing in sync with each other, is a beautiful thing. And not all teams get this. I have worked with individuals who see team as an obstacle in accomplishing their personal goals. Or a spin cycle of hashing and rehashing; a time-sucking vortex that prevents progress and steals joy. Fortunately, we can learn lots from stories of how people show up and act out in groups. (If you’re interested in reading hilarious accounts, check out the Team section in Changing Course: Stories to Navigate Career and Life Transitions.) So as I consider my teams, I want to be a part that brings life, and, by God’s grace, celebrate the unique contributions of others. And, I can’t help thinking, “What body part am I?” With love and gratitude, Shelaine
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It’s a humble blue metal bowl with a black rim.
The enamel is chipped in several places and the inside faded and stained. It’s one of my most treasured possessions. As a preschooler, my dad’s mom invited me into her world. In the summer, I roamed the garden eating raspberries while she picked peas. We moved to the porch when her bucket brimmed with tender pods. She sat in one lawn chair and me in another with the blue bowl between us, shelling until the last pod was stripped of its juicy contents. Into the freezer went peas for the winter. Then, new potatoes. With our trusty bowl in hand, Grandma led me to the hills of deliciousness waiting to be harvested. “Don’t pull the whole thing out,” she’d instruct. “Just dig your hand down into the dirt around the plant and see what you can find.” Treasure! My tiny fingers followed roots to the gems at the end – little spuds. I gently extracted them from the rich black soil, careful to heed Grandma’s warning, and dropped them into the blue bowl. How to describe that sound when the coveted vegetable plunked into the bowl? Or the sight when water swirled over the potatoes, separating dirt from food? Last week my husband and I harvested the first crop of our new potatoes. The bowl sprang to life with rich sensory bursts as I dropped Russets in and watched our bounty whiten as water became brown and silt settled. Even the gritty feel as I swooshed my hand across the bottom to rinse the bowl took me back to Grandma’s garden. I highly doubt that my grandmother sat down one day and said, “How can I impact Shelaine’s life for good? How can I build experiences into her that will show up when’s she’s picking her own potatoes at 52? How will I let my granddaughter get to know me? How will I get to know her?” No, I think she simply lived her life, bringing me alongside, letting me watch, and answering my questions. It’s a powerful mentoring method that Jesus himself used during his life on earth and leaves me asking, “Who am I sharing my life with? Who is watching how I live? Who do I have opportunity to influence simply by inviting them along? Who has questions for me?” And, for today, who will get to eat our new potatoes? With love and gratitude, Shelaine This has been a summer of visiting memory lane and facing monsters.
As a tween-aged child, I scored the jackpot. My only-child friend picked me to be her summer “sister” at their family cabin for two to three weeks a year. During those three summers I had countless opportunities to learn to water ski, wind surf and swim in a lake. And for all the enjoyment and delight of water fun, a disconcerting story lurked never far from child-conscience. The cabin sat on the shore of mighty Lake Manitoba, Canada’s 13th largest lake, known for its fishing and century-long history of Manipogo sightings. The possible existence of this serpent-like sea monster – a cousin to Scotland’s Loch Ness and BC’s Ogopogo – kept me on high alert, just in case. A favorite activity for my friend and me involved skiing double. Her dad drove his boat one direction away from the cabin until our arms gave out and legs became jello. She and I would nod in agreement that we’d reached our journey’s end somewhere in the middle of this massive body of water and then give him the signal to stop. We would synchronize dropping our ropes and glide into the buoyancy of our life jackets until he circled back to pick us up. Except that one day. All went as described above until we let go of the ropes. We began our gentle descent into the darkness and just when we expected to fall back into a float, we didn’t. Our skis landed on something firm, and we found ourselves standing in the center of the lake, kilometers from any shore. We turned to each other and responded without hesitation. “Manipogo!!!!” we screamed. And then screamed some more. No amount of reassurance that Manipogo is a myth, or explanation of variable lake-floor depths, changed our minds. We knew whose back we stood on. I haven’t water skied since those cabin days. Until this month. Funny how memories, like underwater creatures, can hide out of sight for decades and suddenly, while letting go of the tow rope and sinking gracefully toward shore, come flooding back. Thankfully, this time I didn’t scream wildly. Sometime I just need my rationale self to recognize the facts and laugh at my childish interpretation. After all, lakes have varying depths and we likely landed in a shallow area. Streams flowing into the lake bring sediment that could have piled up. Vegetation can grow thick and tall under water creating a long, wide ledge. All reasonable explanations. Or…perhaps Mani just wasn’t hungry that day. With love and gratitude, Shelaine I have taken up fishing.
Okay, perhaps that’s slightly overstated. I have spent a few hours casting a line over the side of a boat in hopes of catching dinner. That’s actually not accurate either. I never really expect to catch anything. However, two years ago I lassoed a fish in a lake near Yellowknife while visiting our son and the camp where he worked. Yes, I did write lassoed. Somehow I managed to wrap the line around the belly of a fish enough times to drag him in (for the record, a fish being pulled in sideways feels a lot bigger than he is!). While I did successfully land the unsuspecting little fella, I let him go. It hardly felt fair to keep him after my cowboy antics. Truthfully, my ideal for fishing is a worm on a hook (that someone else attached) dangling off the edge of a boat while I sit in a comfy chair with a cold bottle of water, reading an engaging book. I’ve heard myself say out loud that I’m a “process person.” I don’t need to catch anything to enjoy the time with my husband on the lake. But secretly I’ve wondered if that’s really true. I do have a competitive streak and the thought of thousands of Nemo’s avoiding my hook and skunking me does stir something. I considered the possibility that my laisse faire attitude might be a cover protecting my ego in case I leave the water empty handed. Well, last week I lounged on a boat deck while my spinner or bobber or something-or-other lazily dragged through the water tempting the locals. The drag of the crafts’ movement kept the rod consistently flexed toward my line. I watched the clouds, hoping my fish-whisper side would emerge and I’d catch the big one. A tug. Then nothing. Another tiniest of changes in the pull on my line. “I think I have a fish,” I announced with the bravado and certainty of a slug. “Yes, you do!” shouted my cheerleading husband as I reeled in supper. “Are you sure?” I questioned. “It’s not putting up much of a fight.” Most seven-inch rainbow trout don’t pull their captors overboard. So much for supper. He wasn’t even an appy for one so I set him free to live another day. Well, let’s be honest. Bill unhooked him and encouraged him to swim on. I spent the rest of our outing pondering how relatively unsatisfying my catch of the day felt. There was a twinge of adrenaline when I realized I had, in fact, caught something. But overall I recognized that I like the idea of catching a fish more than the real deal. I don’t love seeing the little guy hanging from the line, hooked and helpless. I felt more excitement watching him swim away from the boat knowing he could go off with a story to tell. Perhaps it’s enough to acknowledge that sometimes hopes and expectations don’t line up with reality. And maybe it’s even good to test out some of those hidden longings to see if, in fact, it truly is something I’m passionate about. I’ll keep fishing here and there…with my book and cushy chair – knowing that the fish don’t have much to fear. With love and gratitude, Shelaine A lake has many moods.
Recently we were blessed with family vacation time in a home overlooking water contained by rolling foothills - an idyllic, beautiful and unpredictable setting. One day held choppy waters and blue skies and we awoke the next morning to heavy fire-smoke and only the faintest lake ripples. Two days later we experienced four foot swells, white caps and wind gusts that stole our little float tube. Another 24 hours and presto, no wind, no smoke, no waves and blistering heat. The lake's ever-changing presentation felt like mood-swings - from angry, relentless waves battering the shore to placid, calm hours with periods of intermittent gusts. As I lounged and read on an inflated island one afternoon, the gentle rocking of my floating paradise began lulling me to sleep. Without warning, the wind hit with a vengeance, slamming water against the vinyl walls sending the island into heaving contortions. Out of the blue, my peace was disturbed. Isn't that so much like life? We carry on with our day, generally content and in an agreeable space, when a word, (or lack of words), someone's facial expression, an event, or even a smell triggers an intense reaction from deep within and we are transported to a rocking island of emotion, potentially feeling battered and at risk of sinking. I'm so thankful I don't need to stay there. My brain has stored sensory information - good and bad - since before I met this world. Something in my present world can tap into my emotional memory causing a flood of emotion, often disproportionate to the current situation. However, unlike the lake which is at the mercy of the wind, I do not have to be swamped or swept away by the feelings. I can engage a different part of my brain - the thinking, logical portion - and, as I like to say, have a meeting with myself. It can sound like this: "Wait a minute. What's really going on here? These feelings don't match what just happened. I'm not five anymore. What response am I going to choose as an adult?" My emotional reaction can turn to an intentional response in seconds. Can - if I choose to engage my adult brain and not let my inner landscape be blown and tossed about. I find my unexpected reactions can serve a purpose, leading to greater self-awareness, and, when placed before God, provide opportunity for healing, growth and even beauty, much like our capricious lake displayed. The same powerful winds that caused damaging waves cleared away smoke and dramatically improved air quality. The passive, still water allowed algae to accumulate, painting the beach lime green and inviting thousands of tiny fish to dine. Perhaps it's about how I look at what I see. With love and gratitude, Shelaine So, about June.
Renovations have a way of eating up spare moments – one more wall to paint. Oh, we missed patching that nail hole. What safe place did we store those outlet covers? And before I knew it, my week or two off from writing became six. Time does seem to fly. During my post-surgery days – three years ago – my husband read to me, largely to pass the hours. (One with a wired-shut jaw does not make an engaging conversational partner.) Little did we know that a new shared activity would develop. Our most recent read has been The Time Keeper by Mitch Albom. It’s a short novel capturing a few people’s relationship with time. Some want it to rush forward. Others beg the clock to slow. More time. Less time. It’s given me pause to consider my time. In the book Albom writes, “Before you measure the years, you measure the days.” I recall teaching time management sessions and asking class members, “When you crawl into bed at night, do you feel satisfied, content or do you rehearse the day with regret and frustration? One woman’s response stands out. “Seriously? Crawl into bed? That would be a luxury. I collapse into bed every night exhausted and then wonder what I did all day.” Another long-ago coaching client repeatedly shared remorse over her use of time in the past. She wore “all those wasted years” like a name tag and spent countless hours ruminating over opportunities missed. It felt like an unfortunate paradox. She couldn’t seem to grasp that time spent regretting time wasted is actually more time wasted. Hours add up to days which add up to years - more wasted years. Recently we attended the memorial of a man who spent his life loving God and serving people. The bulletin at his service shared these words: The time is short, the years are flying, Like tempest clouds along the sky; Today we smile, and weep, and labor, Tomorrow we in silence lie. The time is short, away with malice, With sharp rejoinder, keen retort! Away with harsh and cruel judgments, With deeds unkind - the time is short. We have no time for aimless drifting, For idle dream, for selfish end, No time for languid, weak endeavor, Our strength on worthless task to spend. Then, at our best let each be living, Full soon will sound life's evening bell. Be this our aim to find our duty; Be this our prayer, to do it well. It is my prayer that the minutes of this day will add up to a life well-lived. With love and gratitude, Shelaine "Three minutes and four seconds," I reported to my rehabilitation trainer.
"Good job. That's two seconds faster than your last cross-trainer time. Take a rest," she instructed. I did. And I am implementing her advice in a bigger way. I'll be taking a week or two off to rest and rejuvenate the creative juices. See you in June! With love and gratitude, Shelaine I am older now.
Of course I recognize that aging doesn’t just happen annually but birthdays have a way of pointing it out. It fascinates me how our culture’s emphasis on 5’s and 10’s make arriving at certain years a milestone event. You’re turning 40? That’s a big deal. 50? Definitely worth celebrating being alive that long. Or, perhaps for some, a desire to deny it’s possible to have become that old. There are a host of emotional responses to this process. I recall hitting 25 as being significant. (Yes, I can remember that far back!) Our first son had arrived six weeks prior to me reaching the quarter-century mark. I woke up thinking, “I am no longer a young adult. I am going to have to be responsible now for the rest of my life.” It was a heavy ‘good morning’. Little did I realize at the time how much joy there is in being a grown up. There have certainly been challenges and times where the whimsy of childhood has had strong appeal. But, I rarely recall wishing I could go back and be a teenager again. Not all of my memorable birthdays have corresponded to “big years”. I turned 39 in the midst of the nine-week, tag-team Chicken Pox affair of our three boys. That one may have echoed back to the 25 crisis. There was also the year – I don’t recall which– that my sweet husband and pre-school sons brought me breakfast in bed. Unfortunately, no one mentioned to them that you can’t cook eggs-in-shells in the microwave. Evidence of that celebration remained on the ceiling for ages. So how does it feel to be 52? A lot like it did to be 51. But marking the day of my birth this week has brought me back to a place of deep gratitude to the Lord for the life I have. I do not take for granted how God has consistently cared for our family, provided healing, given joy – even in difficult seasons – and sustained us. The Bible is full of references to remembering, recalling, looking back on. I particularly appreciate the visual description of stones of remembrance - individual rocks piled together to mark God’s faithfulness and provisions. I have a towering stack, and this week added one more. With love and gratitude, Shelaine © 2017 I’ve spent much of this week soaking in. (And that's not referring to our BC weather!)
I had the privilege of attending a conference for pastors and leaders at Regent College on the UBC campus. Each speaker took a slightly different tact on the topic of how we can get to know our neighborhoods and build healthy communities. There’s much food for thought but here are a couple of highlights I’m still chewing on. One speaker – I honestly don’t even recall which one – began with the statement and question. “Jesus tells us to love our neighbor. What if he means our actual neighbor?” That question coupled with the following story has left me pondering my own role on our street. A church set out to hire a pastor who would oversee the work of getting to know people in the area around the church – the congregation’s neighborhood. They received many applications, shortlisted the stack, and began interviewing their top picks. At the end of each interview they made one request. “Please provide us with the phone number of two of your immediate neighbors as references.” Apparently the applicant pool dwindled quickly. So, today I leave you with the question I continue to ponder. What would my neighbors say if they were asked to give a reference about my neighborliness? With love and gratitude, Shelaine ©2017 I love painting!
The challenge of guiding a brush along the ceiling line with a steady hand invigorates me. Seeing foot-wide swatches of fresh color appear with each pass of the roller spurs me on. And that’s painting, right? Hardly. Move furniture to gain access to walls. Wash walls. Identify and patch holes, dings and divots. Wait several hours. Sand polyfilled areas. Re-fill some repaired spots. Sand again and then wash walls, floors, and hair! Let it all dry while gathering at least four screw drivers to remove light switch and outlet plates held in place with endless combinations of different screws. I think it’s time to “begin.” And while I’ve been slathering our walls with Stonehearth, I’ve had plenty of time to ponder this experience and how it reminds me of the job search process. Preparation comes to mind. Many people I work with think a tour of internet job postings, and uploading a general resume will yield their dream job. Sometimes, perhaps. But in my experience, I find that ones who put effort into customizing a cover letter and resume to each position get more interviews. The front end work pays off in the end. I’ve also had people assure me that they are great in interviews. I recall one unemployed man who raved about his winsome personality, his great ability to “wing it” and the 16 interviews he had completed. Did I mention he was still without work? Being skillful in an interview requires thoughtful consideration of the questions you might be asked, taking time to craft answers that demonstrate skills and abilities, and practice in speaking the words out loud. It’s a lot of work, but can reap important dividends. The stable hand for cutting in a paint line along a ceiling or door frame reminds me of the internal steadying required to change jobs or careers. Many emotions tapped, insecurities raised, obstacles encountered and decisions required can leave a person rattled and unsure. Breathe. Breathe deeply and then breathe some more. And then go back and review the truth about who you are and all you have to offer. Doing an honest appraisal of ourselves is humbling and gratifying if we allow God to show us the gifts we have to offer and the skills we’ve gathered along the way. So back to painting I go. Don’t even get me started on clean up. With love and gratitude, Shelaine © 2017 |
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