Important Thoughts on A Saturday Afternoon

“My balloon!” Beth wailed.  Tears welled up in her eyes and trickled down her chubby red cheeks. 

Beth had spent most of the afternoon playing with the plump pink balloon.  First, she had danced through the kitchen, watching the pastel orb bob and weave behind her.  After that, she sat on the dining room floor and giggled as she yanked on the string and watched the balloon jerk up and down.  Finally, she had followed me through the house tugging her pink pet behind her. 

When I stepped into the bedroom, I never thought anything could go wrong.  I never realized I would spoil the fun.  I never even considered the danger of the ceiling fan.

You guessed it.  The balloon string was long.  The fan was on.  Before I knew what had happened, the fan yanked the balloon from Beth’s grip and twisted it toward the ceiling.  We heard a loud POP and  I knew the balloon was no more.

Beth looked at me with her sad round eyes, as if to say, “Fix it.”  I untangled the string from the fan and shook my head.  There was no way I could fix this one.

Part of me wanted to say, “It’s just a balloon. It’s not as if something important was broken.  Like the TV.  Or my computer.”

It’s funny how our view of important changes as we grow up.  One day the most important thing in the world is a pink balloon.  Then, before we know what happened, the most important thing in the world is figuring out how much withholding we should allocate to ensure that our taxes are properly paid for next year.

That’s what’s so wonderful about being a parent.  You get another shot at redefining important.  Suddenly, unimportant becomes the report you were suppose to complete for your boss by Monday morning.  And important becomes tracking down a pair of yellow shoes so your almost eight-year-old son will have a kicking Mickey Mouse Halloween costume.

When you are a parent, you suddenly realize that hanging out at happy hour, though a pleasant diversion, isn’t nearly as important as you once believed.  Suddenly, important is waking up early on Saturday morning to take your five year old to her gymnastic class, not because she loves gymnastics but because she adores wearing the frilly leotards.  

For a parent, reading the Wall Street Journal is unimportant.  Reading “Fancy Nancy” and “Olivia” is important.  Watching the ten o’clock news is unimportant.  Watching “Beauty and the Beast” for the tenth time is important.

When I looked into Beth’s wet eyes at that moment, I knew that there was nothing more important in the world than the pink balloon.  I scooped Beth into my arms and squeezed her tight until her sobs faded.   When she seemed calmer, I set her back on her feet.

“How about we go and get a glass of juice?” I suggested. 

Beth didn’t respond. 

“Then how about I give you a pony ride on my back?”  I tried.

Beth's face lit up and she nodded her head.  A few minutes later, there I was galloping around the house shouting, “neigh.” And it was the most important thing I had done all day.

Happy Birthday to My Princess

“Happy Birthday, Princess.” I whispered in Emily’s ear.  “It’s time to wake up.  Emily's eyes fluttered open.  She pushed her wispy brown hair away from her face.  She smiled.  My little girl was turning five years old, a very important birthday. 

“Do you want to hear about the day you were born?” I asked.  Emily giggled and nodded.  I pulled her onto my lap.

“It was early in the morning, when I woke up.  I had a tiny baby in my belly and she was poking at me with her feet.  ‘I think the baby wants to be born’ I told Daddy.”

"Was that me in your belly?" Emily asked. 

"That was you." I said.

"Was Beth there too?" She asked.

I laughed.  "No, Beth was still a twinkle in my eye." 

I continued the story. “We drove to the hospital and the doctors and nurses got everything ready.  Before I knew it, the doctor had popped you out of my belly.  And do you know what the first thing you said was?”

Emily shook her head and looked at me with her saucer brown eyes.  “No, what did I say?”

This was a momentous event.  Emily's debut into the world.  The day that would change everything.  Surely she must have said something profound.

“You said..........." I paused to give Emily time to think.  "

"What did I say?" Emily bounced on my lap, eager to hear the rest.

"You said..... ‘WAAAAAAAAAH!’”

Emily tumbled off my lap as she laughed at the tale of her birth.

I didn’t tell Emily how sore and tired I felt that day.  I did’t tell her about the stitches the doctor put in my stomach.  I did’t tell her that it was hours before I could walk.  I did’t tell her those things, because those things were not important.

On the day she was born, I held Emily close to my heart.  I stroked her cheek.  I kissed her nose.  And I whispered “I’ll always love you.”  On the day of Emily's fifth birthday, I did the same.  Only this time, Emily hugged me back, kissed my cheek and whispered “I’ll always love you too.”

I tucked Emily's hugs and kisses into my heart, a memory to save for tomorrow.  After all, those are the things that are most important.

I Only Bought Two Tickets

For the past ten minutes, Emily (almost 5) had been chattering endlessly about Princesses.  “Mommy, I liked Aerial best.” She chirped as she clapped her hands together.  “Who was your favorite?”

Before I could answer, Emily interrupted with more chatter.  “I liked when Minnie Mouse wore the princess dress.  And when Mickey was skating.  But I didn’t like the witch.  She was evil.” 

Emily’s jabber continued without interruption for another ten minutes.  Then, suddenly it stopped and Emily was quiet.  I glanced in the rear view mirror to check on her.  Her head was tilted to the side.  She was clutching her Minnie Mouse doll.  Her eyes were closed and she was snoring. 

We weren’t even out of the parking lot when Emily passed out in her car seat.  It was going to be a quiet drive home.  I smiled and hummed Bippity Bopity Boo as I drove through town.

When I heard that the Princess on Ice show would be coming to the Civic Center, I considered getting tickets for the whole family.  A nice family outing, just what we needed.  Then, at the last minute, I changed my mind. 

I only bought two tickets.  One for me.  And one for Emily.

It isn’t that Eric wouldn’t have enjoyed it.  It’s true that he is almost eight years old.  It’s true that he prefers light sabers to magic wands and that he finds battle droids more appealing than ball gowns.  But after seeing him dance to the Mickey Mouse Club House song when we were at the Magic Kingdom, I’m certain he would have gotten in the spirit of things.

It isn’t that Beth (almost 2) wouldn’t have behaved.  Sure she can be high spirited and rowdy.  Sure, she can get so caught up in the excitement that she can’t stop giggling.  Yet I am certain she would have sat still.  She would have been captivated by Tinker Bell’s twists and twirls; and she would have clapped and cheered as Jasmine jumped and jogged on the ice.

But I only bought two tickets.  One for me.  And One for Emily.

Eric, I reasoned, already gets a lot of attention.  He’s the oldest.  Everything he does, whether it’s going to school or learning to skate, is being done for the first time. 

Ken and I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to do things the right way with him.  We take turns sitting with him while he does his homework.  We attend all of his school events.  We enroll him in activities, like soccer, hockey and boy scouts.  Eric gets plenty of attention.

Beth, I noted, gets a lot of attention too.  She’s the youngest.  Everything she does is precious and cute.  Like when she blows bubbles into her milk.  Or when she jumps on the couch.  Or when she crawls into my bed to cuddle in the morning. 

Ken and I spend a lot of time trying to enjoy the last of our babies.  We play tickle games.  We read Goodnight Moon.  We try to enjoy every ounce of our baby before she grows big.  Beth gets plenty of attention.

Emily, on the other hand, often sits quietly to the side, choosing to observe rather than join in the action.  She doesn’t get to do things first.  And she doesn’t get to do things last.  No matter what she is doing, it seems she is always tripping over her brother or falling over her sister.  And sometimes, in the commotion and chaos, Emily becomes lost in the crowd. 

Two tickets, it turns out, may have been too many.  During most of the show, Emily sat on my lap.  We clapped when Prince Phillip woke Aurora with a kiss.  We cheered when Prince Charming slid the glass slipper onto Cinderella’s foot.  We ate cotton candy and sipped juice from a Princess cup.  And when it was all over, we walked back to the car holding hands and chatting.  Just the two of us.

That’s why I only bought two tickets.  One for me.  And one for Emily.

A Kiss For Tomorrow

“Come here and see this.” Ken whispered to me from Beth’s (almost 3) room.  I had already settled into bed with my covers pulled tight around my chin; but it sounded important.  So I crawled out of my blankets and tip toed into the room next to ours.

Ken smiled and then turned his head toward Beth’s bed.  My baby was lying on her back with her arms spread wide.  A dozen stuffed bunnies and kittens surrounded her.  Her eyes were closed and I noticed a hint of rose on her plump cheeks.  I could hear soft snores drifting past her lips. She was smiling in her sleep.

“Who does she look like?” Ken asked.

“She looks exactly like Eric when he was three.” I sighed.  I recalled the days when Eric (almost 8 now) slept in the same room, in the same bed.  It seemed so long ago.

Next week birthday bonanza begins at our house.  In less than ten days, we will celebrate three birthdays.  It starts with Emily turning five a few nights before Halloween.  On All Saints Day, Beth turns three.  A few days later, Eric celebrates his eighth.

Time just keeps on ticking.  Before I know it, the kids won’t be kids.  They’ll be all grown up.  And all grown out.  And the most important thing I’ll have left is the memories we have created together. Memories of giggles.  Memories of let's pretend.  Memories of babies who are not babies anymore.

Each day before I go to bed, I try to paint a picture in my head of how my children look, act, sound and feel.  I hold it close in my heart, a treasure to save for a later day.

Each morning when I wake up, I hug my darlings as they get out of bed.  “Time to wake up, Sunshine.”  I sing to Emily.  She throws her arms around me and squeezes me tight.  “I love you Mommy.” She whispers in my ear.  " I love you Honey Bee."  I whisper back. 

When I walk into Eric’s room, my heart skips for a second when I can’t find him.  Then I notice a pile of blankets in the far corner of the bed.  I grab a corner and pull and, like a magician, I reveal the hidden secret beneath.  Eric opens one eye to peek at me.  “I’m tired.” He moans as he turns over and buries his head in his arms.  “Wake up sleepy head.” I smile.

For Beth, there is nothing to do.  She has been awake for hours, playing with her books in her room.  I pause at her door to watch her turn the pages.  When she senses me watching, she looks up and laughs.  “Read?” She pleads.  But I shake my head.  “It’s not reading time.  It’s time to get dressed.”  But somehow I find myself sitting on the floor with Beth in my lap and a book in my hands.  I kiss the top of her head.  "It's time to get dressed Jelly Bean." I tell her. 

Before heading down for breakfast I survey my troops.  They are dressed.  Their faces are washed. They are happy.  They start to march down the stairs ahead of me. 

A few steps from the bottom, Eric turns around and rushes back to the top where I am standing.  He wraps his arms around my waist.  I pick him up to hug; but with only a few weeks until he turns eight, he is getting to heavy to hold.

When I set him back on his feet, I touch his hair and say “Remember you promised that you would never stop hugging me.” Eric nods.  He hasn't forgotten the promise he made to me when he was four.  “I’ll always want to hug you, Mom.”  He says.

“Even when you’re fifteen?” I ask.

“Even then.” He agrees.

“Even when you’re thirty-five?” I say.

“Even then.” He replies.

“Even when you are a hundred and three?” I ask.

He frowns.  “Mom, you may not be here then.”

“Then I better give you some extra hugs today so you can save them for later.”

I grab Eric and squeeze him three times.  “Here is one for when you are fifteen.  Here is one for when you are thirty-five.  And here is one for when you are a hundred and three.”  Eric returns my hugs before bouncing downstairs for breakfast.

Ken and I stood in the doorway of Beth’s room for a few more minutes that night.  We watched the steady rhythm of Beth's chest as it rose and fell.  We wondered what dreams were making her smile in her sleep.  Finally, I tiptoed to her bed side and tucked her into her pink blankie.  Before I left, I leaned over, kissed her cheek and whispered.  “Here is one for when you are forty-four.”

Treasure That Grows On Trees

Last weekend we had a chance to visit the home of Eric’s good friend.  Sebastian’s family recently moved into a new place in a neighborhood adjacent to ours.  Because the neighborhood is a bit older, the trees are more mature.  Eric’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when we walked into Sebastian’s back yard where he saw the crown jewel – an enormous tree, bigger than our house, dripping with gold and brown leaves.

Out here in the Midwest, we don't enjoy the carpet of colors that you might see in the more mountainous states.  Fall here is marked more by the sight of a combine in a corn field than it is by the changing leaves.

The suburban neighborhood we live in suffers from an acute insufficiency of trees.  That’s why one of our first orders of business on moving into our house was to plant two trees in the back yard.  But just like Rome wasn’t built in a day, it takes more than a few weeks for a tree to grow. Seven years have passed and the little saplings still aren’t much more than twigs.

Last fall, Eric and his friend Kyle got a hankering to jump in some leaves.  They grabbed a couple of rakes from the garage and trekked out to the back yard.  About five minutes later, they had raked every leaf in the yard into a small, neat pile.

Eric surveyed their handiwork and frowned.  “I don’t think this pile is big enough to jump in.”

But Kyle wasn’t about to give up.  “Let’s put all of these leaves in a bag and save them.  Then next year we'll rake up more.  It shouldn’t be too long before we have enough to make a great jumping pile.”  While I admire Kyle's determination, I don't think he realized that it would take another ten years before they had enough tiny piles to create a sufficient mound.

It saddens me that my kids will probably never know that joys of raking up a pile of crisp foliage and leaping into them.  Unless the miracle grow I poured on our sickly little ash does its job Eric will be out of college before our autumn leaf harvest produces any yield.

When I was a kid, pouncing in piles of leaves was an autumn tradition.  Our family was fortunate to have three generous trees that poured their wealth all over our yard.  We would gather our treasures into heaps.  Then we’d bound through the yard and throw ourselves into our loot. 

Eric and Kyle's bag of leaves hibernated in our garage all winter until Ken and I discovered it behind the lawn chairs and tossed it in the garbage.  “Do you think he’ll notice if we dispose of them?” I asked.  Ken didn’t think so but as autumn advances I keep waiting for Eric to ask about his buried treasure.

I guess its good luck for us that, unlike money which can't buy happiness, this particular treasure does grow on trees.   While our yard may not have a bounty of leafy booty, Sebastian's does and Eric's pretty confident that his pal will generously share the wealth.

Pop Corn For Sale

“Mom, if I sell enough popcorn, I can get another Wii!”  Eric (almost 8) was hopping up and down and holding a set of fund raising order forms in his hands. The yearly Boy Scouts fundraiser was underway and Eric was excited to be a part of it. 

“Let me see the forms.” I said.  I looked over the instructions that Eric’s den leader had sent home.  Before I could get too far Eric pushed the prize sheet under my nose.  “Mom, look at this.”

I frowned.  The prize list is there to encourage kids to sell more popcorn.  For a mere three hundred dollars in sales, Eric can earn a canteen, a toy race car or pocket knife.  The top prize, a Wii game system, requires three thousand dollars in sales.  I did’t want to damper Eric’s enthusiasm but three thousand dollars is a lot of popcorn.  I like popcorn but I’m pretty sure I can’t eat three thousand dollars worth - at least not in one sitting.

Eric’s eyes were wide and hopeful as he snatched the prize sheet back and spread it on the kitchen table.  “Look at all the cool prizes I can earn.” His eyes sparkled and he pointed to a set of Legos as if it were a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  Instead of joining Eric's enthusiasm I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be easier to buy him a toy at Wal-Mart.  Bribery was always a good option.

I don’t remember having the same gusto for fundraising sales when I was a kid.  In fact, to this day I’d rank door-to-door sales right up there with root canal surgery and haircuts. 

My first brush with fundraising was during the first grade at St. Stephen’s Catholic Elementary School.  Like Eric, I was excited to learn that I would earn prizes based on the amount of stuff I sold. I remember bringing the order sheet home and showing it to my Mom. 

“Look Mom,” I said. “You can buy wrapping paper, and candles and cans of peanuts.”

My older sister, Theresa, had brought home the exact same order sheet.  So did twenty other kids on our block.  My mom scanned the list.  “I can only order one thing from you and one from Theresa.”   

Great! I clapped my hands and jumped up and down.  My first sale!  This is easy.  I wondered if there was a limit on how many prizes I could earn.  Unfortunately, though I didn’t know it at the time, my first sale would be my last.

That Saturday I set out on a mission to earn some prizes.  I started with the house next to ours.  Helen and Champ, an older couple who had been our neighbors for years, lived there.  In the fall we raked the leaves from their yard.  In the winter, we shoveled the snow off their walk. Surely they would want some peanuts and wrapping paper, I thought. 

Feeling shy and uncertain, I walked over and knocked on the door.  I fidgeted on my toes until Helen answered.  “Would you like to buy some items from my school?” I blurted as I shoved the order list toward Helen. 

Helen held up her hands and shook her head.  “I’m sorry.” she said, “My granddaughter was selling the same thing for her school so I already bought some.”

“Oh. OK. Thanks” I muttered as I slouched off Helen’s porch.  That hadn't gone well at all. 

For the next half hour I walked, stopped and knocked.  And, for the next half hour, I was met with rejection upon rejection.  “I already bought from another kid.” One neighbor said.  “The items are much too expensive.” Another confessed.  “I just don’t need anything you’re selling” A third admitted.

By the time I arrived at the end of the block I had also arrived at a couple of conclusions.  First, I didn’t like selling door to door. And second, I wasn’t going to earn any of the cool prizes.  I don’t think I ever tried selling door to door after that.  It was too traumatic.

Knowing how brutal my attempts at sales had been, could I really let my own son head out to meet the same fate?  Would his fragile ego ever recover from all of that rejection?  Would this be the one event in his life that smashed his self-confidence forever? Would I have to buy thirty-six canisters of popcorn just so he could get a prize that I could buy at Target for nineteen dollars?  Or was I projecting my own anxieties onto my son?

I decided to risk it. 

When I arrived home from work on Monday, Eric was standing in the living room dressed in his navy blue Cub Scout uniform.  His hair was brushed and his yellow scarf was tied neatly around his neck.  Ken was sitting on the couch reviewing the order form and practicing what Eric should say when he knocked on each door.

A few minutes later, I was on the sidewalk watching Eric knock on the door of the house next to ours.  Our neighbor, Kevin, listened while Eric gave his speech.  “Hello, my name is Eric and I’m selling popcorn so my boy scout troop can go to summer camp.  Would you like to buy some?”  Eric pushed the order form toward Kevin.

I beamed at what a nice job Eric had done.  Who could resist that smile? Surely, Kevin would buy at least ten canisters.  Eric would be rolling in prizes.  But Kevin didn't take the order form from Eric.  Instead he said "Kyle is in the scouts too.  We'll be out selling later today."

My heart sank.  My stomach turned.  My palms were clammy.  I braced for the tears.  Would this be the moment that shattered Eric's confidence?  Would he lose all hope?  Where would I get enough money to buy all of that popcorn? And did anyone know the name of a good child psychologist? 

But Eric didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces.  Instead, he smiled back at Kevin. “Tell Kyle I said good luck selling! And thanks!” 

"Sorry buddy." I said.  "I didn't know Kyle was a Boy Scout."

Eric shrugged it off.  "I guess he's in another den." He chirped as he hopped down the walkway.  “Come on Mom, let’s get going and try the next house.”

Fortunately, things went better at the next house.  And the one after that.  And the one after that.  At the end of an hour, Eric had sold almost enough popcorn to earn the Legos.  More importantly, he still had his self-confidence. 

That night after Eric had changed into his jammies I sat down and reviewed his order form.  “You did a really nice job today.” I told him.

“Thanks.” He smiled. “It was a lot of fun.”

I let out a long breath and muttered.  “And it wasn’t nearly as painful as I remembered.”

P.S.  And thanks to everyone who bought pop corn.  Your investment helps Eric go to camp this summer and saves me paying his future therapy bills. 

You're Yelling At Me Isn't Going To Make Me Better

"You're yelling at me isn't going to make me better."  That was a favorite line of my coworker, Michael.  He was telling me a story about a volleyball team he played on a few years back.

Michael, it turns out, wasn't much of an athlete.  But when Bill asked him to join the office volleyball team, Michael thought it sounded like fun.  After all, it was a "rec" league.  That meant more focus on fun and less focus on competition.  Right?

Wrong.

What Michael didn't realize was that Bill was super competitive.  He wouldn't even let his heart race unless he was sure it would take first place.  So when Michael stepped onto the volleyball court and started to mishandle, miss play and just miss every ball, Bill started taking his role of team captain a bit too seriously.

"Come on! Move faster!" He yelled at Michael when a ball bounced a few feet outside Michael's reach.

"You have to hit harder!" He screeched when Michael's spike trickled over the net.

"Jump higher."  "Get that!"  "Move it!" Bill yelled and shouted.

It wasn't even halfway through the first match when Michael decided he'd had enough.  Michael had missed another ball and Bill was yelling, again.  Finally Michael looked Bill directly in the eye and said "You're yelling out me isn't going to make me better."  Bill was speechless.

Eventually Michael quit the team.  And so did a lot of the other players.  It turns out they didn't like being yelled at either.

Even though Michael told me this story over five years ago, it has stayed with me.  And I suppose its because the words are so true.  Yelling at someone rarely makes them better at what they are doing.

Yelling is also poor teaching tool.  Take the year I turned sixteen, for example.  My Dad decided he was going to teach me to drive.  I can still feel the tension in my neck when I think about it.  For about an hour a day Dad would yell at me to push the brake, I was going too fast.  He would shout at me to give it some gas, I was going too slow.  He would bark at me to turn right.  Then left. Then go straight.

I know Dad meant well.  He really thought yelling at me would make me a better driver.  But it didn't.  It made me timid and afraid.  And it turned what should have been a father-daughter bonding moment into a nightmare.  And the truth is that I didn't really learn to drive until AFTER I had my license and was able to practice by myself in a shout free environment.

So if yelling can't make people BE better.  And if yelling can't make people DO better, why did I just yell at my kids.

Ken and I tucked the kids in their beds over an hour ago.  We read them each a story.  We kissed them goodnight.  We wrapped them in their blankets.  Fifteen minutes later when I heard a shriek from Eric's (7) room, I jumped out of bed, stomped down the hall and threw open the door.  Emily (4) and Eric were both sitting on the floor with tears in their eyes.

"What happened." I barked.

"He hit me." Emily sobbed.

I glared at Eric.  "She broke my Lego ship." He whined.

"Get in your beds! Turn off your lights! And be quiet!" As I shouted Eric and Emily scattered.  I stomped back to my own room and flopped into bed. 

A few minutes later, I had the feeling I was being watched.  I turned over in bed and found Emily's standing next to the bed, peaking at me.  Her eyes were red and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

"Mommy, why were you so loud to me?"  She whimpered.

That's when I remembered Michael's story and the words "you're yelling at me isn't going to make me better."  Did I really believe yelling at my kids would make them better?  And wasn't there a better way to handle this situation?

I pulled Emily into my bed and hugged her.  "I'm sorry, Honey Bee." I whispered in her ear.  "I'll try and do better next time."

After Emily calmed down, I carried her back to her room.  I kissed her cheek.  I wrapped her in her pink blanket.  I patted her back.  Then I tiptoed out.  A few minutes later I repeated the process in Eric's room.

The house is quiet now, except for the clickety clack of my fingers on the key board.  In the morning, the kids will wake up.  They'll spill their orange juice all over the kitchen floor.  They drip pancake syrup on their jammies.  They'll poke and prod at each other until one of them yelps.

And when they do, I'll do my best to take a breath and keep my cool.  Cause I know that yelling isn't going to make them better at drinking orange juice.  Shouting isn't going to make them better at eating pancakes.  Screeching isn't going to tell them about being nice to sisters and brothers.

My yelling isn't going to make my kids better people.  And it isn't going to make me a better Mom.

The Choir Master's Tale

A few years ago, in the time BC (before children), Ken and I visited London.  While there, we hopped a train to Liverpool.  Ken wanted to see the place where the Beatles were born.  The idea excited me, an adventure inside an adventure.  So we booked tickets on British Rail.

While in Liverpool, we stumbled upon a beautiful Anglican cathedral on the top of a hill.  Naturally we went inside and took a tour.  The tour guide, who by his brown robes appeared to be a priest or abbot, told us the following story.

A small boy with sensitive hazel eyes stands in front of the choir master in a nearly empty church.  He is auditioning for a coveted spot in the cathedral choir.  Nervous and excited he delivers his best performance.  When he’s done, he smiles.  He did his best.  Unfortunately, the choir master disagrees and the eleven year old child leaves - rejected. 

Fifty five years pass.  Now the cathedral is packed and the congregation is giddy with anticipation.  People have traveled from all over the world to attend a special service.  A strong and handsome man with the same sensitive hazel eyes, the boy now an adult, stands in the same church.  Only this time, he is the choir master.  And he is directing his original composition, Behold My Heart, which will be performed by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra.

His working class beginnings are long forgotten.  He is now one of the most successful musicians and composers in popular music history.  He has 60 gold discs. In 1997 he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth.  In 1999 he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That boy, now a man, is Sir Paul McCartney, the passion and purpose behind so many beloved Beatles tunes. 

Over the years, I’ve thought about the story a lot.  And I’ve realize that there are two key messages. Most people will immediately recognize the first – if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. 

But I am more drawn to the second, more subtle message.  That is, the great heights we can accomplish when we find our life purpose and follow it with a passion.  Or, as Matthew Kelly, author of The Rhythm of Life, says “success means becoming the best version of yourself.”

“Success means becoming the best version of yourself.”

Success isn’t about how much money you make.  It isn’t about the car you drive or the size of your office.  It isn’t about how many friends you have.  It’s about being the best YOU that you can be.

We don’t become the best version of ourselves by sitting still.  We have to work at it.  And to work at it, we need to follow three simple strategies.  They are: 

1.      Know your passion (or your life purposes as Matthew Kelly says).

2.      Feed your fire.

3.      Embrace failure.

Three things.  That’s it.

The first strategy is to know your passion.   This first bit of advice is the most important.  And sometimes the most misunderstood.  People will tell you that you can achieve anything if you try hard.  They are wrong.

Paul McCartney would have made a terrible accountant.  That’s because his passion, his life purpose, was music. 

If what you are doing with you life is not your passion, you may do well, but chances are you will never truly succeed. But if you find that one thing that makes your heart beat and you pursue it, you are capable of achieving real success. 

Once you know your passion, you have gained an enormous power, the power to set your destiny.  Once you know your passion, you will understand that you must make decisions every day based on what will best further your passion. 

In the words of Howard Thurman, "Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

What is your passion?  Does the thought of working with numbers excite you? Then embrace your inner math geek and make the most of that.  Do you most enjoy helping others?  Then seek out volunteer opportunities in your community.  If you know your passion, you have the first key to success.

The second strategy is to feed your fire.  Once you know your passion, you need to tend it and to feed it.  Remember that passion is like a fire.  It needs fuel to grow and spread.   And one of the best ways to do that is to get involved with other people who share your enthusiasm. 

If you douse your fire with water or cover it with a blanket, it will suffocate.  Don’t surround yourself with wet blankets or people who will put out your fire. Avoid people who will tell you that your passion is silly or that you cannot succeed. 

Seek out those who, like you, have the same fire.  Study them.  Learn from them.  Grow with them; and feed each other.

The third strategy is to embrace failure.   Screwing up isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.  And often, it is the best thing that can happen to you.  Because you will learn so much more from what went wrong than you did from what went right. 

Remember the eleven year old boy standing in front of the choir director realizing that he had failed to meet his goal.  At that moment he had two choices, to quit or to press on.  But he was following his passion, so he pressed on.  And he used that experience to become a better musician.  It took a lot of time and a lot of work. And there were a lot of failures along the way. But each failure brought a new opportunity to get better.  

When you face failure, don’t run away.  Face it.  Then embrace it.  Ask, “How can this make me better?”  Then take those lessons and apply them the next time around.

Success is in the eye of the beholder.  But true success cannot be counted by coins in the bank or by the size of your home.  True success happens when you have become the best you that you can be. And to do that you must find your passion, feed your fire, and embrace your failures.  

 And if you do these things, there is a good chance that you will find yourself directing the choir.   

The Dream of My Heart

I have a rolled up scroll in one hand and a light saber in the other.  Eric is kneeling before me, ready for me to anoint him.  I touch the scroll to his right shoulder and then to his left. 

“Youngling, are you ready to train to be a Jedi?” I say. 

Eric glances up at me.  “Yes.”

“Then I appoint you a padawan.  You may begin your training.”  I say as I hand Eric the light saber. 

Eric bounces to his feet and snatches the light saber from my hand.  With a press of a button he discharges its blade and swings it over his head.  His buddies, Evan and Jaxon, who I appointed a few minutes earlier, cheer.  Then they all bound off into the yard ready to do battle against the Empire.

I smile and walk back into the house.  It felt good to be invited into the boys fantasy world, if only for a few minutes. 

For the past week, I had a chance to spend five days with my family at the magic kingdom.  It was the ultimate fantasy adventure.   On our last night in Florida, when we returned to our hotel room, I hugged the kids and asked, “What was your favorite part.

Beth smiled at me.  “I like the princesses.”  In my mind’s eye, I pictured Beth hopping up and down with her hands over her mouth squealing with glee.  She was meeting Cinderella for the first time.  It was like a dream come true.

I kissed Beth on the cheek.  “You are my princess.”

Eric was next.  He laughed as he answered.  “I liked when we ran through the rain.”

I laughed too as I recalled the night it rained.  For a few minutes we stood under a shelter.  But the wind was blowing and the kids wanted to go back to the hotel.  So while Ken pushed the girls through the park in a double stroller, Eric and I dashed through the park trying to run between the raindrops.  By the time we reached the monorail, rain dripped from noses and our clothes were soaked.

I held my fist out and Eric bumped his to mine.  “That was awesome.” I said.

When I finally looked at Emily, she giggled.  “It’s your turn, Honey Bee.”  I said.  “What was your favorite part?” 

“My favorite part was having the dream of my heart.” Emily grinned wide.

The dream of my heart.  Sitting on the monorail and watching Eric’s eyes bug out as we whooshed through the Contemporary Hotel.  Snapping a hundred photos of Beth hopping up and down when we met Mickey and Minnie.  Holding hands with Emily when she was scared of the dancing broom in Mickey’s Philermagic. 

I pulled Emily close and hugged her tight.  “You are the dream of my heart.”

It’s Sunday night now.  And vacation is officially over.  By the dream is still in my heart.