Have you ever been out with someone who treats a clerk or server as if he/she is of a lesser kind or is "in the way"? It's uncomfortable for you, isn't it? Super uncomfortable. Like telling-your-friend-that-you-didn't-really-care-for-the-ex-only-to-find-out-they're-back-together uncomfortable (trust me). Or riding-in-a-car-with-your-parents-and-pulling-up-to-a-stoplight-next-to-someone-loudly-playing-vulgar-rap-music-with-his-windows-down uncomfortable (again, trust me). Or wearing-a-wool-thong-in-July uncomfortable (I'm only guessing here, honest!)
On the other hand, have you ever been out with someone who couldn't possibly be more amicable and more respectful to a clerk or server, as if that someone always turns an otherwise meaningless transaction into a memorable encounter?
The latter type of "someone" is my parents. My mom is so to a more rational degree -- pleasant and accommodating -- while my dad wants to be your friend right then and there. Either way, pleasantly friendly or over-the-top friendly, is welcomed, and either is fun to watch unfold.
And welcomed is how everyone feels around my parents. Whether a complete stranger or a family friend of decades, you are guaranteed to feel welcomed around my parents. My mom wants to get you something to drink and make sure the room temperature is okay for you while my dad wants to sit in a chair and ask you about your career and passions and unique traits.
Taking it a step further (as my dad does with most things), in his daily conversations that are otherwise unnotable with them, my dad gives people what they presumably don't get in most other areas of their life: kindness and attention. It honestly doesn't matter who the person is -- a colleague at the office, a bagger at the grocery store, a server at a restaurant, a teller at the bank, a doctor in the ER -- I've seen him treat each with equal patience and sincere interest.
When my dad asks you a question, it's because he genuinely wants to hear your response. He wants to know what happened, or why you think that, or how you feel about something, or what it is you would do in that situation of topic. He has a gift of gab, no doubt, but he also has a gift of listening and caring. Most people who can talk well do so with the intent to get a self-serving end result (e.g. buy something; come around to their line of thinking; steer you into a one-way conversation about themselves); my dad just wants to talk so that he can learn about someone and trade stories.
He also talks to people because he knows a lot of those interactions are ones the other people likely don't get a lot of, if at all. To sound like an old curmudgeon for a moment, between all the advancements in smartphones and social media, it often feels as if we're gradually losing our attention for each other and our ability to hold focused, uninterrupted in-person conversations. And there exists an abundance of broken homes and silent families and surface-level-only workplace relationships. It all makes for a life oftentimes devoid of real human touch. My parents, primarily my dad, give that absent, real human touch to people. And they give it time and time again.
It's for this and countless other reasons why I've never caught word of anyone saying a single bad word about either of my parents (or at least I know of). Seriously, never once. (While I'm like my parents in multiple facets, this is certainly not one of them.) They're just two loving people who want to make everyone around them feel similarly loved and taken care of.
That's not to say my parents are pushovers. Being kind doesn't mean you're a wuss who can't stand up for yourself; it means considering others, taking others into account. It means being respectfully ingenuous, honest but not brash. It means putting others before you, making yourself the least important topic of conversation or person present. It means saying an uplifting word, positively impacting someone when it's least expected but much needed and well-deserved.
Kindness is not something my parents do; rather, it's something they live. A kind parent is the kind of parent we should all be so fortunate to have.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Lesson #6: Put Family First – and Second and Third
My dad is a man.
I realize that may not come as a great shock. Biologically, it's a bit of a given. But let's put aside the male aspect for a moment. The guy exudes manliness.
Can he fix a car? Not exactly, no.
Is he handy around the house? I think I saw him wield a plunger around a couple times growing up, but otherwise no.
Does he have a tattoo? I've never known him to, and based on the chastisements he'd sternly issue me whenever I joked in my teens about getting one, I think it's relatively safe to say he doesn't.
Does he own a motorcycle? Are you kidding me? Try talking him into flying somewhere first.
Forget all that – Martin Anderson is a man. A working man. A family man. A wise man. A good man. He puts the needs of his family first and of himself last and straight up takes care of business to ensure those priorities never alter.
As previously divulged, I've never once had a need in life that wasn't met, all of childhood included. We certainly weren't anywhere in the zip code of wealthy, but we weren't poor. We were somewhere in the middle class, perhaps favoring the lesser side, but that was nevertheless a whole class better than my dad knew in his childhood. Not to mention our status and literal "needlessness" stemmed nearly exclusively from his single income, save for my mom's occasional venture into part-time work.
In every aspect, my dad is a provider. His history paints that picture plainly. Wherever a financial demand has arisen (cars, home, my college, my recreational activities... the list is endless), so has he to that occasion, often occupationally stretching himself beyond what any one man should – and certainly beyond what many husbands and fathers are willing to. That by zero means translates to I – or anyone in the family – always got what I/we wanted (which to me is a good thing). But it does mean I lived a childhood and young adulthood free of actual concerns until I was firmly established on my own, and the significant portion of credit goes to him.
In college (a rather expensive, private one, for which I only got a "half ride," at that), I found myself nearing the end of a four-year pursuit of a teacher certification, eyeing a future in teaching high school English, a career choice I grew less excited about with each semester. And then in the latter part of my junior year, I realized that waiting on me in my senior year was a semester of student-teaching, which made me even less excited. Always having a predisposed adoration for all things London, I decided to ditch the student-teaching idea and the teaching career altogether and study abroad the following fall semester – quite possibly the wisest decision I ever made for my future. But nothing about London, or really studying abroad anywhere, comes cheaply.
In steps The Man, The Provider, who with the extremely generous, checkbooked assistance of other family members (high five to you, Mommo, Aunt Phil, and anyone else I've unforgivably overlooked), paid my entire trip by picking up a second job. And a third job.
Three jobs, people. The man worked three jobs – one of which was a freaking convenience store clerk – to fly me to, from, and all over Europe; to allow me to indulge my senses with foreign foods and sights; to immerse me in cultural education and, subsequently, several crash courses in survival and self-development; to let me, in the truest sense of the word, carelessly enjoy a three-and-a-half-month experience I'd otherwise never get to in life.
What else did those three jobs do? Pay for my scholarship-less half of college. My dad wanted me to start my post-college life debt-free. A man who came from one of the smallest houses in Georgetown, Kentucky, and who carried around debt for decades of his life, wanted me to begin my adulthood with a clean slate. That is a gift I'll always treasure and of which I'll always be in awe. It's also one I, to the best of my ability, will always honor by staying out of debt (save for a mortgage – homes are expensive, folks).
This is just one example of Lord knows how many ways in which my dad, as the family provider, has sacrificed his desires for the betterment and happiness of the family. He is the definition of selflessness. Sure, he treats himself to the occasional luxury (why that man owns more sets of golf clubs than I own pairs of shoes is beyond me), but on the whole he and his personal wants and time without hesitation willfully take a backseat if it means his wife or sons can have or experience something we otherwise couldn't. Simply put, his commitment to the good of the family is never in question.
Honestly, I don't see how it gets any manlier than that.
I realize that may not come as a great shock. Biologically, it's a bit of a given. But let's put aside the male aspect for a moment. The guy exudes manliness.
Can he fix a car? Not exactly, no.
Is he handy around the house? I think I saw him wield a plunger around a couple times growing up, but otherwise no.
Does he have a tattoo? I've never known him to, and based on the chastisements he'd sternly issue me whenever I joked in my teens about getting one, I think it's relatively safe to say he doesn't.
Does he own a motorcycle? Are you kidding me? Try talking him into flying somewhere first.
Forget all that – Martin Anderson is a man. A working man. A family man. A wise man. A good man. He puts the needs of his family first and of himself last and straight up takes care of business to ensure those priorities never alter.
As previously divulged, I've never once had a need in life that wasn't met, all of childhood included. We certainly weren't anywhere in the zip code of wealthy, but we weren't poor. We were somewhere in the middle class, perhaps favoring the lesser side, but that was nevertheless a whole class better than my dad knew in his childhood. Not to mention our status and literal "needlessness" stemmed nearly exclusively from his single income, save for my mom's occasional venture into part-time work.
In every aspect, my dad is a provider. His history paints that picture plainly. Wherever a financial demand has arisen (cars, home, my college, my recreational activities... the list is endless), so has he to that occasion, often occupationally stretching himself beyond what any one man should – and certainly beyond what many husbands and fathers are willing to. That by zero means translates to I – or anyone in the family – always got what I/we wanted (which to me is a good thing). But it does mean I lived a childhood and young adulthood free of actual concerns until I was firmly established on my own, and the significant portion of credit goes to him.
In college (a rather expensive, private one, for which I only got a "half ride," at that), I found myself nearing the end of a four-year pursuit of a teacher certification, eyeing a future in teaching high school English, a career choice I grew less excited about with each semester. And then in the latter part of my junior year, I realized that waiting on me in my senior year was a semester of student-teaching, which made me even less excited. Always having a predisposed adoration for all things London, I decided to ditch the student-teaching idea and the teaching career altogether and study abroad the following fall semester – quite possibly the wisest decision I ever made for my future. But nothing about London, or really studying abroad anywhere, comes cheaply.
In steps The Man, The Provider, who with the extremely generous, checkbooked assistance of other family members (high five to you, Mommo, Aunt Phil, and anyone else I've unforgivably overlooked), paid my entire trip by picking up a second job. And a third job.
Three jobs, people. The man worked three jobs – one of which was a freaking convenience store clerk – to fly me to, from, and all over Europe; to allow me to indulge my senses with foreign foods and sights; to immerse me in cultural education and, subsequently, several crash courses in survival and self-development; to let me, in the truest sense of the word, carelessly enjoy a three-and-a-half-month experience I'd otherwise never get to in life.
What else did those three jobs do? Pay for my scholarship-less half of college. My dad wanted me to start my post-college life debt-free. A man who came from one of the smallest houses in Georgetown, Kentucky, and who carried around debt for decades of his life, wanted me to begin my adulthood with a clean slate. That is a gift I'll always treasure and of which I'll always be in awe. It's also one I, to the best of my ability, will always honor by staying out of debt (save for a mortgage – homes are expensive, folks).
This is just one example of Lord knows how many ways in which my dad, as the family provider, has sacrificed his desires for the betterment and happiness of the family. He is the definition of selflessness. Sure, he treats himself to the occasional luxury (why that man owns more sets of golf clubs than I own pairs of shoes is beyond me), but on the whole he and his personal wants and time without hesitation willfully take a backseat if it means his wife or sons can have or experience something we otherwise couldn't. Simply put, his commitment to the good of the family is never in question.
Honestly, I don't see how it gets any manlier than that.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Lesson #5: Take Time, Make Time
A year or so ago the pastor of the church I attend delivered a revealing message that could be boiled down to the assertion that whatever it is to which you give the majority of your time is arguably what you care about the most. In other words, if you ranked the activities that, and people who, comprise your average week by time allotted, it would likely resemble the level of concern and importance you assign them, whether you like it or not.
Now, like everything in life, there are certainly exceptions. Sometimes work schedules conflict – we don't all live the Dolly Parton 9-to-5 lifestyle (or probably any Dolly Parton-related lifestyle, unless of course you own a theme park that bears your name, or you're still getting nipped and tucked at 65+) – so even if you fiercely tried, it might be simply unfeasible to be around a cherished one for more hours than you each work. Or in my current case, I live 400 miles away from my parents, so while we communicate multiple times each week, the aggregate time given them overwhelmingly pales in comparison to the 40 hours per week I give my employer – but that's hardly a fair representation of my priorities (sorry, Turner – let's keep things professional).
The rare exceptions aside, that principle holds more veracity than is comfortable accepting. And it makes sense, right? I mean, the more you enjoy something/someone, or the higher value and regard you give something/someone, the more time you'll naturally give it/him/her/them.
Well, thank the Lord my parents understood this little nugget of truth and ensured they apportioned their time according to their life concerns.
I often tell people that I never had a need growing up that wasn't met. Sure, I had plenty of wants that went unfulfilled – a trampoline, a slip-n-slide, a Power Wheels truck (but, hey, that's what neighborhood friends are for, right?) – and of course plenty of them were granted, but I always had a meal prepared, I always had clothes to wear, I always had the school supplies demanded, and most importantly I always had the time and attention of my parents.
I'm a fervent believer that time and attention trump all tangibles you can give someone. They're also the easiest things you can give someone – and, oh hey, they're free. Yet we colossally suck at giving either to anyone. Sadly, I don't see that changing, as technology and social media continue to evolve in a way that chiefly leads to the wasting of our time and diversion of our attention to the constant buzzing and beeping and tweeting about principally meaningless matters that we nevertheless feel warrant our immediate focus. (Are my eyebrows getting wiry? I feel like Andy Rooney.)
All that to say my parents served me up all the time and attention I could ask for on a silver platter. And is there a childhood need greater than those two offerings? My dad tossed baseball with me in the backyard. My mom read with me on the couch. My dad played rounds of golf with me. My mom taught me at home from fourth through eighth grade. My dad battled against me in chess and checkers. My mom battled against me in games from the '70s you’ve never heard of, like Flinch and Pente. They both took me shopping; attended 99% of my baseball games, no matter how many counties or states away the baseball fields were; and just talked, listened, asked, and advised.
I can't recall a single time I came to them with a request, a question, a need to talk, or a want to do something and hearing a "no." There were no replies of "I've got too much work to do" or "I'm watching TV right now" or "I don't really feel like it." Rather, I felt assured that their time was my time, that I was their priority, and that, true or not, their desire to watch another Gene Kelly flick or read another David McCullough biography or sketch another art piece unfailingly took a backseat to throwing baseball with me or building hotels on Park Place and Marvin Gardens with me.
We just don't have much time here. And the everydayness of life demands our coveted attention. So giving either of those precious, limited commodities to the key folks in our lives is the ultimate display of love and respect. It's how you show people they matter, where they rank in your priorities.
Thankfully I'm perpetually left unquestioning where I rank with my parents' priorities. Hope that backseat is comfortable, Gene Kelly and every program on the History Channel.
Now, like everything in life, there are certainly exceptions. Sometimes work schedules conflict – we don't all live the Dolly Parton 9-to-5 lifestyle (or probably any Dolly Parton-related lifestyle, unless of course you own a theme park that bears your name, or you're still getting nipped and tucked at 65+) – so even if you fiercely tried, it might be simply unfeasible to be around a cherished one for more hours than you each work. Or in my current case, I live 400 miles away from my parents, so while we communicate multiple times each week, the aggregate time given them overwhelmingly pales in comparison to the 40 hours per week I give my employer – but that's hardly a fair representation of my priorities (sorry, Turner – let's keep things professional).
The rare exceptions aside, that principle holds more veracity than is comfortable accepting. And it makes sense, right? I mean, the more you enjoy something/someone, or the higher value and regard you give something/someone, the more time you'll naturally give it/him/her/them.
Well, thank the Lord my parents understood this little nugget of truth and ensured they apportioned their time according to their life concerns.
I often tell people that I never had a need growing up that wasn't met. Sure, I had plenty of wants that went unfulfilled – a trampoline, a slip-n-slide, a Power Wheels truck (but, hey, that's what neighborhood friends are for, right?) – and of course plenty of them were granted, but I always had a meal prepared, I always had clothes to wear, I always had the school supplies demanded, and most importantly I always had the time and attention of my parents.
I'm a fervent believer that time and attention trump all tangibles you can give someone. They're also the easiest things you can give someone – and, oh hey, they're free. Yet we colossally suck at giving either to anyone. Sadly, I don't see that changing, as technology and social media continue to evolve in a way that chiefly leads to the wasting of our time and diversion of our attention to the constant buzzing and beeping and tweeting about principally meaningless matters that we nevertheless feel warrant our immediate focus. (Are my eyebrows getting wiry? I feel like Andy Rooney.)
All that to say my parents served me up all the time and attention I could ask for on a silver platter. And is there a childhood need greater than those two offerings? My dad tossed baseball with me in the backyard. My mom read with me on the couch. My dad played rounds of golf with me. My mom taught me at home from fourth through eighth grade. My dad battled against me in chess and checkers. My mom battled against me in games from the '70s you’ve never heard of, like Flinch and Pente. They both took me shopping; attended 99% of my baseball games, no matter how many counties or states away the baseball fields were; and just talked, listened, asked, and advised.
I can't recall a single time I came to them with a request, a question, a need to talk, or a want to do something and hearing a "no." There were no replies of "I've got too much work to do" or "I'm watching TV right now" or "I don't really feel like it." Rather, I felt assured that their time was my time, that I was their priority, and that, true or not, their desire to watch another Gene Kelly flick or read another David McCullough biography or sketch another art piece unfailingly took a backseat to throwing baseball with me or building hotels on Park Place and Marvin Gardens with me.
We just don't have much time here. And the everydayness of life demands our coveted attention. So giving either of those precious, limited commodities to the key folks in our lives is the ultimate display of love and respect. It's how you show people they matter, where they rank in your priorities.
Thankfully I'm perpetually left unquestioning where I rank with my parents' priorities. Hope that backseat is comfortable, Gene Kelly and every program on the History Channel.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Lesson #4: Give a Little Bit
My parents are no dummies – it didn't take long for them to learn how to get me to surrender and comply to whatever was asked of me, and do so with minimal complaining. All it took was the promise of food.
Go to swim lessons at the YMCA? Buy me a TV dinner at the grocery store on the way home.
Go to baseball practices and games and give it my all? Reward me with drive-thru junk food for each great play.
Go to Tuesday night Pentecostal church services that could range from anywhere between three to six hours? Give me a $2 spending spree at any fast-food chain afterwards. (Hey, in a time when McDonald's hamburgers were just 49 cents, two bucks was jackpot city.)
I'm not kidding. For better or worse, I'm that easy.
That agreement extended to volunteering, which is something for which my mom has always strongly advocated and hammered into my brother and my brain. Whether it was Ehrler's ice cream in Louisville or something salty and greasy from just about any establishment with a drive thru, my mom knew how to tug at myheart stomach strings and lure me in to whatever volunteerism she lined up for us, be it working at a soup kitchen, picking up carelessly disposed trash along roadsides, or feeding hungry soldiers.
Look, I'm not gonna lie and say I did any of these things out of the goodness of my heart. Quite contrarily, it was solely for the promised food that followed. So even in volunteering, it was all about me, me, me. Or at least that's how each volunteer opportunity started.
A couple hours in to serving plates of hotdogs and Ruffles chips or stabbing at old, littered Coke bottles, after my initial childish complacence finally wore off, the feeling that my not-exactly-voluntary labor might yield a reward greater and more satisfying than fatty calories for my spoiled self would indubitably sink in. Did I want to go into that soup kitchen and prep food for, and make small talk with, a bunch of homeless people who looked "funny" and smelled "funny"? Nope. Did I want to walk up and down a highway and make someone's irresponsible litter my sudden responsibility to clean up? Not in the least. Did I want to go all the way to Louisville every other Saturday night and spend hours setting up the same rows of chairs for, serving the same meals to, and hearing the same jokes and performances for hundreds of uniformed men and women as part of a ministry program to appreciate those in the military? God no. Absolutely zero of any of those things sounded remotely appealing. My time would be better spent watching a movie or building a town out of Legos.
That's how I felt beforehand. But then when I unfolded my arms and took my stuck-up nose out of the air and actually got to work, a conflicting feeling overtook me time and time again: I felt small for always thinking I was above meaningful work that positively impacted others, yet I felt big because I was contributing – willfully or otherwise – to something that was bigger than me. I thank my mom for that, for coercing me to give my time and efforts to others, for allowing me to see what my contributions could produce, especially in conjunction with others' contributions.
My mom didn't stop there, however. With her checkbook (my dad, too) she loudly demonstrated the equal importance in giving – and doing so cheerfully – from a monetary perspective, that organizations that serve and contribute deserve financial support from those of us who are blessed enough to provide such funds – and that true giving is giving because you want to and not because someone in power mandates it.
This isn't meant to be a self-righteous, hey-look-at-me statement whatsoever, but as a Christian, I'm an ardent tither to my church, because I feel led to, blessed to, and confident enough in how my church uses those funds to serve the many needs in my community to know that they're doing right by the money I offer up. Now, if you don't believe in tithing, or if you find the organized assembly of people before God to be evil and corrupt across the board, that's cool – there is a plethora of non-religious ways in which you can contribute your time, sweat, and/or money to people, charities, or other organizations in need.
She might not know she did, but my mom successfully taught me how giving in any facet is a privilege, something of which to be appreciative to even be able to do. It's an honor to give. I know that because the elated feeling and general satisfaction afterwards can't be matched.
And for the record, I haven't changed much; I'm pretty much a meal's bribe away from doing or attending just about whatever dreadful thing you want me to.
Go to swim lessons at the YMCA? Buy me a TV dinner at the grocery store on the way home.
Go to baseball practices and games and give it my all? Reward me with drive-thru junk food for each great play.
Go to Tuesday night Pentecostal church services that could range from anywhere between three to six hours? Give me a $2 spending spree at any fast-food chain afterwards. (Hey, in a time when McDonald's hamburgers were just 49 cents, two bucks was jackpot city.)
I'm not kidding. For better or worse, I'm that easy.
That agreement extended to volunteering, which is something for which my mom has always strongly advocated and hammered into my brother and my brain. Whether it was Ehrler's ice cream in Louisville or something salty and greasy from just about any establishment with a drive thru, my mom knew how to tug at my
Look, I'm not gonna lie and say I did any of these things out of the goodness of my heart. Quite contrarily, it was solely for the promised food that followed. So even in volunteering, it was all about me, me, me. Or at least that's how each volunteer opportunity started.
A couple hours in to serving plates of hotdogs and Ruffles chips or stabbing at old, littered Coke bottles, after my initial childish complacence finally wore off, the feeling that my not-exactly-voluntary labor might yield a reward greater and more satisfying than fatty calories for my spoiled self would indubitably sink in. Did I want to go into that soup kitchen and prep food for, and make small talk with, a bunch of homeless people who looked "funny" and smelled "funny"? Nope. Did I want to walk up and down a highway and make someone's irresponsible litter my sudden responsibility to clean up? Not in the least. Did I want to go all the way to Louisville every other Saturday night and spend hours setting up the same rows of chairs for, serving the same meals to, and hearing the same jokes and performances for hundreds of uniformed men and women as part of a ministry program to appreciate those in the military? God no. Absolutely zero of any of those things sounded remotely appealing. My time would be better spent watching a movie or building a town out of Legos.
That's how I felt beforehand. But then when I unfolded my arms and took my stuck-up nose out of the air and actually got to work, a conflicting feeling overtook me time and time again: I felt small for always thinking I was above meaningful work that positively impacted others, yet I felt big because I was contributing – willfully or otherwise – to something that was bigger than me. I thank my mom for that, for coercing me to give my time and efforts to others, for allowing me to see what my contributions could produce, especially in conjunction with others' contributions.
My mom didn't stop there, however. With her checkbook (my dad, too) she loudly demonstrated the equal importance in giving – and doing so cheerfully – from a monetary perspective, that organizations that serve and contribute deserve financial support from those of us who are blessed enough to provide such funds – and that true giving is giving because you want to and not because someone in power mandates it.
This isn't meant to be a self-righteous, hey-look-at-me statement whatsoever, but as a Christian, I'm an ardent tither to my church, because I feel led to, blessed to, and confident enough in how my church uses those funds to serve the many needs in my community to know that they're doing right by the money I offer up. Now, if you don't believe in tithing, or if you find the organized assembly of people before God to be evil and corrupt across the board, that's cool – there is a plethora of non-religious ways in which you can contribute your time, sweat, and/or money to people, charities, or other organizations in need.
She might not know she did, but my mom successfully taught me how giving in any facet is a privilege, something of which to be appreciative to even be able to do. It's an honor to give. I know that because the elated feeling and general satisfaction afterwards can't be matched.
And for the record, I haven't changed much; I'm pretty much a meal's bribe away from doing or attending just about whatever dreadful thing you want me to.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Lesson #3: Do the Hustle
Man, I loved playing baseball. And between ages 5-18 I played a heckuva lot of it. Summer ball, fall ball, all-star team, traveling teams, junior varsity, varsity... As soon as one team ended, I was ready for the next one to start. Standing in the outfield, where between each pitch I'd meticulously dissect every possible scenario based on who's batting, how many runners are on base, how many outs we have, where the ball could be hit, and who's pitching for us, never got old. Running – no, stealing – no, stealing and sliding and scoring – never got old. Diving into first base to beat out what should have been a routine groundout never, ever, ever got old.
But being honest, I was, by all accounts, a very-mediocre-at-best baseball player. I understand adding "very" to "mediocre" doesn't really make sense. You can't just be sort of lukewarm, partially in the middle, or extremely average. Yet I was. I could run, I could throw, and I most certainly could catch. But, my goodness, did I suck at batting. Putting the bat on the ball just never connected for me – literally. I'm not going to tell you how low my batting average was my junior year, but let's just say that in my first at-bat that season I hit a triple – and then never got another base hit (true story).
So, as much as I loved baseball, it seldomly loved me back quite the same. And that saddened me for many years – namely said junior year – because God knows how much heart, blood, sweat, tears, and my parents' finances I willfully poured into that sport, thinking maybe, just maybe something long-term would result from it.
Nothing ever did. (Sorry if I ruined the surprise there.)
I sure didn't walk away from baseball empty-handed, though. Each season I carried off a bat bag full of realizations. For example, despite what you've heard, practice doesn't necessarily make perfect. Good practice can, but if you're practicing the same wrong thing over and over again, you're getting no closer to mastering how to do it the right way (see my batting above). Most of all, I walked away with the best piece of advice given to me thus far.
Have you ever been asked that question, what's the best piece of advice you were ever given? I have several times, and my answer is always the same. And it's only one word. My dad gave me it in a truck ride to a baseball practice.
"Hustle."
He said other things, all of which I've long forgotten. I'm sure they were wonderful words. But he kept going back to that word: hustle. Just hustle. If you achieve nothing else, achieve hustle. You can't always control the outcome, but you can always control your level of hustle.
Click! Light bulb activated.
It immediately resonated with me. I got it, message received. Matter of fact, the message was received so clearly that I wrote the word "HUSTLE" on the inside of my ball cap's bill just in case I needed a quick reminder a look-up's length away during the moments hustling felt like the nonessential I could short-cut out. So I ran, I slid, I dove, I pushed, I sweated. I ran to my field position, I ran to the dugout, and I ran during every play, even when there was nothing to run to. I decided that, though others would likely inevitably produce better results than me, no one was going to out-hustle me.
But the hustle didn't stop there. The more I kicked those two syllables around in my head, the more I understood how implementable they were in realms well beyond those of a baseball field. Friends, coworkers – people in general – like good results, and good results matter. But everyone loves and respects great effort, effort that emphatically yells undying determination and loyalty. That's hustle. Hustling shows that, look, I might not get this right the first or second time, but no one's going to question my desire and effort to along the way or in the end. People resoundingly appreciate that.
Hearing that advice from my dad also told me that, to him, he was less interested in what I ultimately accomplished – or whether or not I even accomplished anything tangible – and more concerned with, and able to be impressed by, my level of effort put forth. As I looked at all the screaming fathers around me who somehow attempted to vicariously live out the dreams they never achieved through the batting averages and strikeout counts of their sons, I realized how rare my dad's expectations of me and principles for me were. That earned my respect.
That said, he did become the screaming dad once, but of course only because of a perceived lack of hustle. During a game in my 13-year-old league, I wore a batting helmet that was too big and blocked my vision when running. I hit a ball to right field that yielded what should have been an easy stand-up double, but the helmet kept falling down over my eyes. I was tagged out nearly walking into second base. My dad exploded. He came into the dugout after that inning and called me out in front of my team for not hustling. Needless to say, I didn't dig that. So in my next at-bat, I reached first base. Then I stole second. Then I stole third. Then I scored on a wild pitch. After scoring, all the parents, including my dad, clapped and cheered. But as I walked to the dugout upon being called safe at the plate, I looked at him and yelled in front of all the parents, "There! Is that good enough for you?" Cue awkward silence. He and I still laugh about that often.
At the end of my high school senior year's baseball season, which proved to be my life's final baseball season, I was presented with the Hustle Award. Sure, it was a crappy trophy under 10 bucks, but I don't recall that award even existing before. And that was all the validation I needed. In my mind, mission accomplished.
Today I'm still hustling – which, granted, has different connotations here in Atlanta. But I can't not hustle, because I feel like I'd be cheating myself and, far worse, disappointing my dad. And that's the last thing I'd ever want to do.
But being honest, I was, by all accounts, a very-mediocre-at-best baseball player. I understand adding "very" to "mediocre" doesn't really make sense. You can't just be sort of lukewarm, partially in the middle, or extremely average. Yet I was. I could run, I could throw, and I most certainly could catch. But, my goodness, did I suck at batting. Putting the bat on the ball just never connected for me – literally. I'm not going to tell you how low my batting average was my junior year, but let's just say that in my first at-bat that season I hit a triple – and then never got another base hit (true story).
So, as much as I loved baseball, it seldomly loved me back quite the same. And that saddened me for many years – namely said junior year – because God knows how much heart, blood, sweat, tears, and my parents' finances I willfully poured into that sport, thinking maybe, just maybe something long-term would result from it.
Nothing ever did. (Sorry if I ruined the surprise there.)
I sure didn't walk away from baseball empty-handed, though. Each season I carried off a bat bag full of realizations. For example, despite what you've heard, practice doesn't necessarily make perfect. Good practice can, but if you're practicing the same wrong thing over and over again, you're getting no closer to mastering how to do it the right way (see my batting above). Most of all, I walked away with the best piece of advice given to me thus far.
Have you ever been asked that question, what's the best piece of advice you were ever given? I have several times, and my answer is always the same. And it's only one word. My dad gave me it in a truck ride to a baseball practice.
"Hustle."
He said other things, all of which I've long forgotten. I'm sure they were wonderful words. But he kept going back to that word: hustle. Just hustle. If you achieve nothing else, achieve hustle. You can't always control the outcome, but you can always control your level of hustle.
Click! Light bulb activated.
It immediately resonated with me. I got it, message received. Matter of fact, the message was received so clearly that I wrote the word "HUSTLE" on the inside of my ball cap's bill just in case I needed a quick reminder a look-up's length away during the moments hustling felt like the nonessential I could short-cut out. So I ran, I slid, I dove, I pushed, I sweated. I ran to my field position, I ran to the dugout, and I ran during every play, even when there was nothing to run to. I decided that, though others would likely inevitably produce better results than me, no one was going to out-hustle me.
But the hustle didn't stop there. The more I kicked those two syllables around in my head, the more I understood how implementable they were in realms well beyond those of a baseball field. Friends, coworkers – people in general – like good results, and good results matter. But everyone loves and respects great effort, effort that emphatically yells undying determination and loyalty. That's hustle. Hustling shows that, look, I might not get this right the first or second time, but no one's going to question my desire and effort to along the way or in the end. People resoundingly appreciate that.
Hearing that advice from my dad also told me that, to him, he was less interested in what I ultimately accomplished – or whether or not I even accomplished anything tangible – and more concerned with, and able to be impressed by, my level of effort put forth. As I looked at all the screaming fathers around me who somehow attempted to vicariously live out the dreams they never achieved through the batting averages and strikeout counts of their sons, I realized how rare my dad's expectations of me and principles for me were. That earned my respect.
That said, he did become the screaming dad once, but of course only because of a perceived lack of hustle. During a game in my 13-year-old league, I wore a batting helmet that was too big and blocked my vision when running. I hit a ball to right field that yielded what should have been an easy stand-up double, but the helmet kept falling down over my eyes. I was tagged out nearly walking into second base. My dad exploded. He came into the dugout after that inning and called me out in front of my team for not hustling. Needless to say, I didn't dig that. So in my next at-bat, I reached first base. Then I stole second. Then I stole third. Then I scored on a wild pitch. After scoring, all the parents, including my dad, clapped and cheered. But as I walked to the dugout upon being called safe at the plate, I looked at him and yelled in front of all the parents, "There! Is that good enough for you?" Cue awkward silence. He and I still laugh about that often.
At the end of my high school senior year's baseball season, which proved to be my life's final baseball season, I was presented with the Hustle Award. Sure, it was a crappy trophy under 10 bucks, but I don't recall that award even existing before. And that was all the validation I needed. In my mind, mission accomplished.
Today I'm still hustling – which, granted, has different connotations here in Atlanta. But I can't not hustle, because I feel like I'd be cheating myself and, far worse, disappointing my dad. And that's the last thing I'd ever want to do.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Lesson #2: Punch Fears in the Face
Two things in this world freak me out far above anything else (and, no, the thought of a Nickelback/Creed supergroup isn't one of them – but that's a great guess, well played): bugs and public speaking.
Think debilitating fears.
Now, bugs are hiiiigh on that list, but they're nowhere near the stomach-turning, hands-dampening fright induced by the mere thought of public speaking. I'm talking a crippling fear, folks. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
Jerry Seinfeld has this bit where he talks about how absurd our collective fear of public speaking is, pointing out how it's the number-one fear among Americans, second to the fear of death, the punch-line being that more people would rather be in the casket than give the eulogy. The first time I heard that bit, I was laughing uncontrollably – less for its "gotcha" shot to the funny bone and more for its uncomfortable truth for me personally. Preach it,Pastor Rabbi Seinfeld!
My guess is that fact about me surprises you. Anyone who knows me tends to find that impossible to buy. But, so help me God, that's as truthy as truth gets.
Quite honestly, I hate being the center of attention, I kid you not. (I'm much more reserved than I present myself, but that's courtesy of an enormous amount of self-training and my mandatory "me" times, during which I charge my gregarious battery.) The pressure in the center of everyone often overwhelms me, essentially because it's there where I go from just talking to suddenly performing. In the back row you can fall asleep and fart, and no one notices. But the closer you get to the front, the more lines of vision you fall within and the less margin of error you receive. All at once your words have weight and your every nuance and idiosyncrasy and wardrobe choice are dissected by the masses (I know this because in the crowd I'm absolutely picking apart those ahead of me, limb by limb). It's on center stage where I catch myself in the silence found in between words realizing that the only sound at that moment is coming from my mouth – otherwise, there's a loud clash of nothingness. It also doesn't help that I speak with the articulation of a Word document in Wingdings.
As I left college and stepped into career mode, I gradually leaned in to that fear, looking for more and more ways to avoid being in the foreground, where I could be impactful in the workplace without being visible. This went on for years. And I knew the entire time that continuing this slow step into the shadowy back row would hinder me from career (and confidence) growth, where I would at some point hit what many would deem a job opportunity but I would deem my glass ceiling simply because that opportunity required a set percentage of public speaking – even if minimal – and I would end up deciding to stay within the confines of my comfort zone and thus stay put.
But then I learned some history about my parents. Growing up I always knew my dad had a slight stuttering problem – but I had no idea how far along he had come in improving it and how he had faced similar fears of public speaking due to this vocal impediment. I had never considered how he dealt with all the teasing a vulnerability like stuttering welcomed through grade school. That he, too, considered all the career paths that offered a safe haven from public speaking. That he, too, sweated the introductions of himself in meetings, even forgetting his own name and job title sometimes.
I also always knew my mom could never stand to be in the center of anything. A woman of numerous tangible talents, she has favored her very reserved, introverted side for as long as I can recall – virtually to the point where she would rather keep her talents to herself if the alternative meant public acknowledgement, especially in the form of theatre. Yet I never considered how much she wrestled with what she felt was a calling to be more open with her God-given abilities to play the piano and create calligraphic or sketched art. That she, too, enjoyed the practice but loathed the performance. That she, too, obsessed over the possibility of making a mistake and being scrutinized by her peers.
It was all too familiar to me. The palpitation, the perspiration, the panicky apprehension. The step in the public light might last only minutes, but the rush of worry and mental anguish preceding it would last days, weeks, months – there was no time limit.
And then my parents decided to face it, to punch their ugly fear square in the face.
My dad took a speech class in college. He even considered pursuing a vocation in speech pathology. He put himself in circumstances in his decades-long career in state government in which he'd have to speak, he'd have to address individuals, then groups, then crowded rooms. He pushed himself to considerably diminish his stuttering affliction, hugely aiding him in commanding great respect among his colleagues, climbing the ranks in state government and the Air Force, and becoming – all biases aside – easily the most likable person I've known.
My mom got involved in a ministry run by her church where she played piano at a retirement home. Which led to enough comfort to get behind the piano at church to occasionally provide ambiance. Which led to a fill-in role on the worship team as needed. Which led to a permanent spot on the worship team. And she grew more accepting to the idea of giving demonstrations of her astounding artwork in various opportunities at church, at her alma mater, etc. She now is beginning to teach calligraphy classes out of her home.
That affected me. My parents didn't change the world, they didn't cure a disease, and they didn't become filthy rich as a result, but they voluntarily went completely against their comfort level and marched toward their fear – the same fear I share – and they punched it square in the face. That greatly, greatly affected me.
It resonated with me over years, until I ever so slowly decided to just deal with my own stumbling block. I decided whatever opportunity in which I could speak to just a few people – no number was too minor – would give me confidence. If I could present in front of coworkers, if I could grab a mic somewhere and just hear my voice in the presence of strangers, if I could sit with folks I'd known for two seconds and make them laugh within five minutes, I knew I could push myself closer to that holy grail: to stand before tens, hundreds – how many ever – of strange and/or familiar faces and just speak comfortably, comically, competently, and confidently. So, that's what I'm pursuing now.
...I'm still working on the whole bugs thing.
Think debilitating fears.
Now, bugs are hiiiigh on that list, but they're nowhere near the stomach-turning, hands-dampening fright induced by the mere thought of public speaking. I'm talking a crippling fear, folks. Hate it, hate it, hate it.
Jerry Seinfeld has this bit where he talks about how absurd our collective fear of public speaking is, pointing out how it's the number-one fear among Americans, second to the fear of death, the punch-line being that more people would rather be in the casket than give the eulogy. The first time I heard that bit, I was laughing uncontrollably – less for its "gotcha" shot to the funny bone and more for its uncomfortable truth for me personally. Preach it,
My guess is that fact about me surprises you. Anyone who knows me tends to find that impossible to buy. But, so help me God, that's as truthy as truth gets.
Quite honestly, I hate being the center of attention, I kid you not. (I'm much more reserved than I present myself, but that's courtesy of an enormous amount of self-training and my mandatory "me" times, during which I charge my gregarious battery.) The pressure in the center of everyone often overwhelms me, essentially because it's there where I go from just talking to suddenly performing. In the back row you can fall asleep and fart, and no one notices. But the closer you get to the front, the more lines of vision you fall within and the less margin of error you receive. All at once your words have weight and your every nuance and idiosyncrasy and wardrobe choice are dissected by the masses (I know this because in the crowd I'm absolutely picking apart those ahead of me, limb by limb). It's on center stage where I catch myself in the silence found in between words realizing that the only sound at that moment is coming from my mouth – otherwise, there's a loud clash of nothingness. It also doesn't help that I speak with the articulation of a Word document in Wingdings.
As I left college and stepped into career mode, I gradually leaned in to that fear, looking for more and more ways to avoid being in the foreground, where I could be impactful in the workplace without being visible. This went on for years. And I knew the entire time that continuing this slow step into the shadowy back row would hinder me from career (and confidence) growth, where I would at some point hit what many would deem a job opportunity but I would deem my glass ceiling simply because that opportunity required a set percentage of public speaking – even if minimal – and I would end up deciding to stay within the confines of my comfort zone and thus stay put.
But then I learned some history about my parents. Growing up I always knew my dad had a slight stuttering problem – but I had no idea how far along he had come in improving it and how he had faced similar fears of public speaking due to this vocal impediment. I had never considered how he dealt with all the teasing a vulnerability like stuttering welcomed through grade school. That he, too, considered all the career paths that offered a safe haven from public speaking. That he, too, sweated the introductions of himself in meetings, even forgetting his own name and job title sometimes.
I also always knew my mom could never stand to be in the center of anything. A woman of numerous tangible talents, she has favored her very reserved, introverted side for as long as I can recall – virtually to the point where she would rather keep her talents to herself if the alternative meant public acknowledgement, especially in the form of theatre. Yet I never considered how much she wrestled with what she felt was a calling to be more open with her God-given abilities to play the piano and create calligraphic or sketched art. That she, too, enjoyed the practice but loathed the performance. That she, too, obsessed over the possibility of making a mistake and being scrutinized by her peers.
It was all too familiar to me. The palpitation, the perspiration, the panicky apprehension. The step in the public light might last only minutes, but the rush of worry and mental anguish preceding it would last days, weeks, months – there was no time limit.
And then my parents decided to face it, to punch their ugly fear square in the face.
My dad took a speech class in college. He even considered pursuing a vocation in speech pathology. He put himself in circumstances in his decades-long career in state government in which he'd have to speak, he'd have to address individuals, then groups, then crowded rooms. He pushed himself to considerably diminish his stuttering affliction, hugely aiding him in commanding great respect among his colleagues, climbing the ranks in state government and the Air Force, and becoming – all biases aside – easily the most likable person I've known.
My mom got involved in a ministry run by her church where she played piano at a retirement home. Which led to enough comfort to get behind the piano at church to occasionally provide ambiance. Which led to a fill-in role on the worship team as needed. Which led to a permanent spot on the worship team. And she grew more accepting to the idea of giving demonstrations of her astounding artwork in various opportunities at church, at her alma mater, etc. She now is beginning to teach calligraphy classes out of her home.
That affected me. My parents didn't change the world, they didn't cure a disease, and they didn't become filthy rich as a result, but they voluntarily went completely against their comfort level and marched toward their fear – the same fear I share – and they punched it square in the face. That greatly, greatly affected me.
It resonated with me over years, until I ever so slowly decided to just deal with my own stumbling block. I decided whatever opportunity in which I could speak to just a few people – no number was too minor – would give me confidence. If I could present in front of coworkers, if I could grab a mic somewhere and just hear my voice in the presence of strangers, if I could sit with folks I'd known for two seconds and make them laugh within five minutes, I knew I could push myself closer to that holy grail: to stand before tens, hundreds – how many ever – of strange and/or familiar faces and just speak comfortably, comically, competently, and confidently. So, that's what I'm pursuing now.
...I'm still working on the whole bugs thing.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Lesson #1: Instill Gratitude
About a mile up the road from the house in which I grew up was a convenience store/gas station called Sacks. I loved Sacks. But I didn’t love it for its mammoth size (it was the convenience store equivalent of a Toyota Prius), its upkeep (the uneven floors and snack racks hadn't seen a bottle of disinfectant in their lifetime), or its charming staff (I mean, it was a convenience store); I loved it because of its, well, convenience. It was nearby, it offered all the bargain-priced junk food a child "needs," and we knew everyone there. Most importantly, going there meant little Claude could expect a quick sugar fix.
I mean, I really loved that place.
You could find an Anderson in there once, twice, maybe five times a day. It was my sweet tooth's savior, my dad's brief mental escape, and my family's plan E for whatever item someone forgot at the grocery store and the other grocery store and Wal-Mart and K-Mart.
All that to say we stopped in enough to be deemed a regular, if not a valued favorite. Yet we didn't stop in enough for me to get so comfortable as to be allowed to leave without saying "thank you" to the clerk after my dad paid for the Ho Ho's or Big League Chew or candy cigarettes I picked out, because my dad wouldn't let me. I can't tell you how many times I grabbed my snacks and turned for the door, only to have my dad chastise me with a "Nuh-uh… What do you say, Claude?"
"Thank you, ma'am (or sir)," I'd half-heartedly mumble with eyes rolling.
Thank you. Two words, so simple. Two very routine syllables to utter, yet it seemed like such a chore. What did I have to say this for anyway? They knew us – we were there all the time. And it wasn't like they actually did anything that deserved my gratitude; if anything, they took my dad's money and made us Andersons that less closer to rich. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time? Couldn't I just leave the disgusting filth of that store and its underwhelming employees and climb into our luxurious Dodge Omni one time without forcing a thank-you that I didn't mean anyway?
My mom showed no less insistence in her coercing me to communicate my thanks where appropriate. Every Christmas, every birthday, high school graduation, college graduation, and any other calendar event that resulted in gifts I certainly didn't deserve was followed by a pestering onslaught of "Have you written a thank-you card yet?" reminders. It reached a point where I no longer looked forward to receiving gifts, because I knew it meant eventual, obligatory thank-you cards telling the giver how much I enjoyed the $20 check and some exaggerated report of how I spent it.
"Thank you, Grandmother (or Aunt or Friend)," I'd reluctantly scribble with mouth sighing.
Thank you. Two words, followed by maybe a couple postcard-length sentences to provide further context. Couldn't possibly be simpler. It kept me away from Nerf basketball and my remote-controlled car for a whopping three minutes. But why did I have to do this for every gift? Wasn't a phone call good enough? Or couldn't my thanks just be assumed without being stated? I mean, I obviously enjoyed the gift – they'd probably later see photographs with the wrong date stamped of me enjoying the gift, which clearly portrays my inherent gratitude. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time?
But later in life I got it. I got a few samples of that bad aftertaste that sets in once you part ways with hard-earned money or sacrifice time and energy or emotionally invest yourself, all toward giving something that was supposed to make someone's day, unexpectedly bless them, or say "I love you" – only to receive a half-hearted thank-you. Or a reluctant thank-you. Or no thank-you at all. And I realized how much a cheerful, grateful demeanor – a true display of humility and honor to receive a gift or service that someone may or may not have had to do – was and is and will always be worth to someone. I realized, when looking back at all those times my dad pushed me to say "thank you" and my mom refused to let me not write "thank you," that they were instilling in me one of those rare habits that can be deemed good: the habit of expressing sincere gratitude.
The expression of gratitude doesn't have to be grandiose. It doesn't have to be flowery or poetic. It can be quick and to the point – but it must be sincere. It's important.
Someone did something for me, someone gave something to me, and that particular someone may have devoted a lot of little moments of thought, time, and effort simply for one solitary moment of satisfaction in seeing my need or desire met. For me to not devote one very minor moment toward expressing sincere gratitude in return would be, at best, unacceptable and, at worst, insulting and hurtful. It'd be breaking a good habit.
It took some time to develop, but I now have a hugely habitual need to express gratitude to people as warranted. I'd say my parents deserve a thank-you for that. A whole-hearted, non-reluctant, very sincere thank-you.
I mean, I really loved that place.
You could find an Anderson in there once, twice, maybe five times a day. It was my sweet tooth's savior, my dad's brief mental escape, and my family's plan E for whatever item someone forgot at the grocery store and the other grocery store and Wal-Mart and K-Mart.
All that to say we stopped in enough to be deemed a regular, if not a valued favorite. Yet we didn't stop in enough for me to get so comfortable as to be allowed to leave without saying "thank you" to the clerk after my dad paid for the Ho Ho's or Big League Chew or candy cigarettes I picked out, because my dad wouldn't let me. I can't tell you how many times I grabbed my snacks and turned for the door, only to have my dad chastise me with a "Nuh-uh… What do you say, Claude?"
"Thank you, ma'am (or sir)," I'd half-heartedly mumble with eyes rolling.
Thank you. Two words, so simple. Two very routine syllables to utter, yet it seemed like such a chore. What did I have to say this for anyway? They knew us – we were there all the time. And it wasn't like they actually did anything that deserved my gratitude; if anything, they took my dad's money and made us Andersons that less closer to rich. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time? Couldn't I just leave the disgusting filth of that store and its underwhelming employees and climb into our luxurious Dodge Omni one time without forcing a thank-you that I didn't mean anyway?
My mom showed no less insistence in her coercing me to communicate my thanks where appropriate. Every Christmas, every birthday, high school graduation, college graduation, and any other calendar event that resulted in gifts I certainly didn't deserve was followed by a pestering onslaught of "Have you written a thank-you card yet?" reminders. It reached a point where I no longer looked forward to receiving gifts, because I knew it meant eventual, obligatory thank-you cards telling the giver how much I enjoyed the $20 check and some exaggerated report of how I spent it.
"Thank you, Grandmother (or Aunt or Friend)," I'd reluctantly scribble with mouth sighing.
Thank you. Two words, followed by maybe a couple postcard-length sentences to provide further context. Couldn't possibly be simpler. It kept me away from Nerf basketball and my remote-controlled car for a whopping three minutes. But why did I have to do this for every gift? Wasn't a phone call good enough? Or couldn't my thanks just be assumed without being stated? I mean, I obviously enjoyed the gift – they'd probably later see photographs with the wrong date stamped of me enjoying the gift, which clearly portrays my inherent gratitude. Besides, I was just a kid, so they weren't expecting me to do it. Why did I have to say it every single time?
But later in life I got it. I got a few samples of that bad aftertaste that sets in once you part ways with hard-earned money or sacrifice time and energy or emotionally invest yourself, all toward giving something that was supposed to make someone's day, unexpectedly bless them, or say "I love you" – only to receive a half-hearted thank-you. Or a reluctant thank-you. Or no thank-you at all. And I realized how much a cheerful, grateful demeanor – a true display of humility and honor to receive a gift or service that someone may or may not have had to do – was and is and will always be worth to someone. I realized, when looking back at all those times my dad pushed me to say "thank you" and my mom refused to let me not write "thank you," that they were instilling in me one of those rare habits that can be deemed good: the habit of expressing sincere gratitude.
The expression of gratitude doesn't have to be grandiose. It doesn't have to be flowery or poetic. It can be quick and to the point – but it must be sincere. It's important.
Someone did something for me, someone gave something to me, and that particular someone may have devoted a lot of little moments of thought, time, and effort simply for one solitary moment of satisfaction in seeing my need or desire met. For me to not devote one very minor moment toward expressing sincere gratitude in return would be, at best, unacceptable and, at worst, insulting and hurtful. It'd be breaking a good habit.
It took some time to develop, but I now have a hugely habitual need to express gratitude to people as warranted. I'd say my parents deserve a thank-you for that. A whole-hearted, non-reluctant, very sincere thank-you.
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