stosh walsh

Leadership

Want to Join a Social Media Revolution?


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I’ve been waiting to write this post for almost a year.

In April 2013, I had the privilege of speaking at TEDx Marinette.  The “idea worth sharing” I introduced that evening was “Lead Like They’re Dying,” which sought to change our leadership frame of reference.  Many of you who have followed this blog have seen and shared that video–if you are among them, thank you.  (And if you have no idea what I’m talking about, click here to watch it.)

As part of that event, I also enjoyed the opportunity to address a group of students from local area schools.  In that session, I introduced the concept of #30forothers.  In short, I invited those students to join me in starting a social media revolution, and I’d like to invite you to join us also.

The concept is simple, and anyone can participate.  30forothers is a commitment to use social media for 30 days a year as a means to edify, uplift, and extol others.  You can view the 30forothers TEDx video below, or check it out HERE.  Use #30forothers on Facebook and Twitter; like the 30forothers Facebook page, and follow @30forothers on Twitter to see the encouraging tweets of others.

The intent is to highlight character, effort, and ability, or thank, admire, and appreciate people. More than anything else I have ever written or done, I hope this helps people.  I hope it helps you help people.  So many people need encouragement, a reason to hope, the feeling that someone believes in them.  We all have the power to provide that, and a means to that end is literally right at our fingertips.

One of my favorite quotations is attributed to Philo of Alexandria: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.”

Let’s remember that.

I hope you’ll join us.  I hope you’ll make someone else’s day today.  I hope you’ll share this concept with everyone you know.

Let’s start a social media revolution!

Faith

The Problem of Pain (and what to do about it)


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Among the many questions with which we must wrestle in this life, two of the biggest are, “How do I respond to my pain?” and “How do I respond to the pain of others?”

Our responses determine our view of just about everything else: whether or not we believe in God, what we think of him if we do, how we interact with our families, even the extent to which we are satisfied or happy with our lives.  It is a cruel truth that responding to pain in an unhealthy way, any unhealthy way, will actually make that pain worse, or create a new kind of pain.

This is why so many people just avoid pain altogether—their own and that of others.  Ironically, they have a kind of wisdom: that if so many of the potential options are ill-fated, then it is perhaps better to choose to do nothing.  Of course, this crumbles under examination, because it fails to address the initial pain.

For that is the common denominator of the human condition: that all of us, regardless of station or gift or persuasion, will experience pain.

Too many times, we ask the wrong question.  When we experience pain, we ask “Why?” in an effort to understand the reason or purpose behind what we are facing.  But the question we should be asking is “What?”  What must I do, or not do, in this situation, with this pain, with these people?  That, I contend, is the place where peace and healing reside.

So what do we do with our own pain?  Some of us turn it into something else, and instead of grieving, for example, we become angry, or self-critical, or hurtful to ourselves or others.  Some of us take it on and become overwhelmed by it, leading to depression or despair.  Some of us self-medicate, looking for anything, everything, that will give us some kind of relief from having to feel or think about that which ails us.

The ash heap is uncomfortable.  It is no wonder we avoid it, sometimes at all costs.

But what should we do?  What can we do?

I will not speak for others, but the defining moments in my own life and my own pain have come, without exception, from moving toward my pain instead of away from it.  For years I turned it into anger, and used it to fuel achievement and striving.  I had a counselor tell me that anger is not a pure emotion—that it always masks something else—once I realized this truth, and that converting my pain to anger did not bring awareness, peace, or healing, I was free to get into the real work of journeying through my pain.

That did not make it easier.

But it did make it possible.

Many years of moving toward pain later, I have neither insight nor authority to share beyond what I borrow from James: that pain develops perseverance, and perseverance leads to maturity.

This in itself is enough, but I think we can be forgiven for seeing it as a bit of a letdown.  All that for maturity?  Surely another way exists.

It is not just our own maturity, though.  What do we do with our own pain is only one question.  We must also come to what we do with the pain of others if our lives are to find expression and fulfillment.  And it is in this that our pain’s true worth exists (Yes, pain has worth—inestimable worth—again from James, to the point of joy).

We cannot heal ourselves.  Rather, what we do with our own pain is to endure, to gain patience, to assume a posture and recognize our place.  But having done that, the gift of pain is that we can heal others.

“Carry one another’s burdens…”  “Weep with those who weep; mourn with those who mourn…”  These actions heal.  Miraculously and inexplicably, the presence of peace exists with those who have moved toward their pain, not to overcome it as one climbs a mountain, but to know it and recognize it, and fear it no longer, neither in themselves nor others.

Moving toward our pain enables us to move toward others who are in pain.  Like the first responders we admire for going into danger when the rest of us are running away from it, our own pain, addressed, gives us courage to move toward pain wherever it exists.

I am such a person, but I hate doing this.

I like being strong, certain, determined.  I don’t like crying; I don’t like feeling helpless or lacking control.  Pain, whether it is mine or anyone else’s, wrecks all of that.

This week, people I love have been in pain physically, relationally, even organizationally.  As I move toward that pain, the scars of my own pain, and the mistakes I made with it, rush to the surface.  I want to convert it all to anger and confront.

Until peace has its say.  And peace always asks the Dr. Phil question: “How is that working for you?”  And then peace invites me to sit a while.  After those moments, my pain becomes my power, because it enables me to move toward the ones I love in peace, with no agenda other than to bring the presence of peace.  I have insights; I have questions, but those can come in their time.

For now, peace.

For the response to the questions, “How do I respond to my pain?” and “How do I respond to the pain of others?” must only and ever be that which brings peace, that which brings healing.  We cannot heal ourselves, and so we must persevere, but we can heal others, and so we must move toward them.  Carry burdens.  Mourn.  Weep.

I hate this, but until the day when perfect peace comes, I choose to be a healer.

Faith

Why You Mustn’t Give Up


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We are defined.

All of us.  We are shaped, molded, angled, built, crafted…

Intended.

All of us.  We carry the talents, gifts of birth, reflections of a perfect Image…  We are awesome, capable, creative, giving, loving beings…  As we are defined, as we are intended, we are perfect.

Perfect.

But we are also re-defined.

All of us.  We are broken, bent, stretched, spent, undone…

Ruined.

For while we are formed and imprinted with the indelible Image, nearly everything that happens after that seeks its ruin.  All of us have experienced this: our dads beat the hell out of us; our moms told us we were worthless or an accident; we were sexually abused; we woke up depressed this morning in spite of our very best (and medicine’s very best) efforts not to be; our loved ones died; our friends broke our trust; we failed by our own standards or someone else’s…

Over time, we lost faith in the Image, and then in ourselves.  We lost confidence that we were among those who bore it.  We lost hope.

Because we thought we were alone.

Over time, we came to believe that we deserved this.

But we did not.

You did not.

Not then, not now, not ever.

For defined does not change its mind so easily.  Intended does not acquiesce to such persuasions.  And it does not suffer threats to its beloved well.

Friend, You are that beloved.  Then, now, and for always, it is you.  With all your baggage in tow, with all the wounds that never seem to heal, with the messes done to you and the messes you have made, with whatever you woke up with this morning and the day before and probably tomorrow, it is you.

And this is why you mustn’t give up.

It is why you mustn’t believe, not now and not ever, that you are alone.

It is why you mustn’t believe, not now and not ever, that you deserve this.

It is why you mustn’t believe, not now and not ever, that you are hopeless.

You are defined.  You are intended.  Whether you have ever seen a glimpse of it in your life or not, you are wonderful, courageous, beautiful, able—a crowning jewel among all that exists.

You deserve to know that even if you have never seen a glimpse of it in your life, the world and someone in it waits with grand anticipation for something only you can provide.

You deserve to know that you deserve the thanks, admiration, and praise that come from resiliency, and giving your gifts to the rest of us.

You deserve to know that every day you wake up feeling like you did this morning and say, “I’ll do this anyway,” hope is winning.

You deserve to know that even if you never hear it, someone is watching, gaining inspiration from your example.

You deserve to know that we are proud of you whether your life sings or barely gets by.

You deserve to know that we are waiting for your song, and that we know its words because it is our song too.  You are not alone.

Defined.

Intended.

Believe.

And when you don’t, ask.  We’ll tell you.

He’ll tell you.

Beloved.