Positively Notorious

In a recent continuing legal education conference, I sat listening to a lecture that would impact my area of practice very little. I no longer work in the court room on a regular basis and the topic of cross-examination really held little interest for me.

Yet, I sat dutifully and listened. The presenter, a seasoned trial lawyer, was what I expected him to be. Smooth. Great communicator. An accomplished story teller. So, even though I told myself that I had little motivation for listening, I couldn’t help myself. Thinking of preparation and strategy in working with a witness, I found myself recapturing the excitement of law school and my few years as a commercial litigator. In practice, most of my work with witnesses were in depositions. But it was an exciting part of my job.

I also found myself thinking of great attorneys I’ve known and remembering things that I had learned from them. One particular person rose to the top of those memories. I couldn’t help but think about my association with him. I realized that I had never really seen him in the court room or in deposition. I did share office space with him — sort of. He flew into Abilene every Thursday night and occupied the office next to mine on Fridays (when he wasn’t in trial). Yet, I knew he was a great lawyer — by reputation and by the way he handled himself in daily life.

He was greatly feared by large insurance companies, railroads, and other major businesses — and their lawyers. Not because of his domineering style in the courtroom, but because of his intellect and the fact that he had a knack of getting everyone in a room to listen and, to some degree, like him.

I was startled from my memories as the presenter in this particular course summed up his points by telling the story of a famous cross-examination in the famous case of Exxon v. Lloyd’s of London. As he set the scene, I thought, “How interesting! The lawyer in the case was Don Bowen, my hero and friend.”

Suddenly, I became anxious. What if, I thought, Don’s performance in the cross-examination was an example of bad technique? Our presenter had just revealed one of Abraham Lincoln’s blunders on cross. Would Don be similarly maligned?

As the story unfolded, the audience was swept into a wonderful dialog of how a kind, yet brilliant lawyer, gently led an opposing party through testimony that persuaded the jury.

Don Bowen passed away several years ago. I’m sure there were times he made mistakes. I’m aware of some of his personal failings that occurred long before I came to know him. I remember a few times when he disagreed with me on some things. I don’t remember the details of those times, though. The details are blurred by the way he treated me. With respect.

Outstanding experience. To hear a stranger talk about a common friend. And to hear the same theme in his description of a man that I would use. That a person can be strong and commanding while treating those around him with respect.

We should all be so positively notorious.

Doubtless

It happens frequently — even in a small, part-time law office like mine. People come to see me with a financial problem and in the course of our discussions they ask, “I suppose I could just not pay that debt. I mean, what could they do?”

Then I take them through the litany of things “they” could do. And after we talk about loss of vehicles and tax liens and lawsuits, the typical response is, “Well, that’s not so bad.”

Usually at that point I pause, ever so slightly. And almost every time, the individual adds, “I just don’t feel right about it, though.”

That’s a wonderful moment. In that instant, you see a person regain respect for self and connect to their values. When that resurgence begins to build is the moment I explain how I feel about legal measures to reduce or eliminate debt. “The government, through our creditor and bankruptcy laws, has made protection available for those who truly need it — and frankly, that’s not many of us.”

Then I take my clients back through the things they can do. Like adjusting their lifestyles and, thus, their spending habits, and selling things they don’t need. As momentum grows, most of these people begin to see some possibilities. They see the long road ahead and accept the responsibility of digging out. As is often said, you don’t usually get into debt in a hurry — therefore, you don’t get out in a hurry either.

That’s the way that most of life’s troubles are. We move so fast sometimes that we take a few steps down a path that seems a little strange. And rather than check our bearings, we move further. Over time we become comfortable with where we are.

And then something stops us. A consequence attaches to us and things grind to a halt. This new and peculiar environment disorients us. We tell ourselves, “It’s okay to act differently here.”

But most of us know better. Despite the pull, that small voice tells us what is right for us.

You may not have strong spiritual beliefs. But I believe that the small voice is a clear channel to the one who divided right from wrong when it came into this world. The same one who gives us things we can do to get back to where we need to be. The same one who extends grace when we’ve done all that we can do.

Regardless of the struggle you face, or how far you will have to travel to make things right, small steps are available. And as a believer, I’m convinced that God views us more in the light of where we’re heading than in a snapshot of where we are at any given moment.

My Own Medicine - Day Two

Three hours passed. For most of the morning I sat in this man’s kitchen with his wife hovering close by, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing — always wringing her hands.

I had been places like this before. This man was angry at another man. And their conflict had poured over on to the little church they attended. And now, my host for the morning was pressing an ultimatum on the other members of his congregation. “They can support me or they can get out!” were the approximate words he had used at prayer meeting last week.

So, we sat for three hours and I allowed the angry man to pour out his story. As is common in these conflicts, hearing one side of the story tends to make you think that the person in the room with you is right. But experience tells you that judgment must be withheld until the other side of the story spills out.

That tale was poured over me that afternoon. But it didn’t take three hours. No, within about 5 minutes I learned that the angry man had all of his facts straight. “I did everything he is saying. But I did it 25 years ago. And I’ve apologized for the things I did wrong and the leaders from the church looked into the other things and publicly announced that I acted properly. But I’ve apologized privately to him for those things.”

In a few more interviews, I found that the events in controversy were more than two decades old. Sitting again with the angry man, I asked him if, indeed, apologies had been given — years ago.

“Yes,” he said. “But it doesn’t change anything. He was in the wrong and I don’t want him in my church.”

We had a church-wide meeting on the next Wednesday night. As is often the case, it wasn’t pretty, for a while. People had an opportunity to express themselves. I began to think that we were going to get to a pretty good place, when the man who was at the center of the controversy rose and walked over to where the angry man was sitting. Extending his hand, he said, “I’m obviously not doing something right. I want to ask your forgiveness. Would you please grant me that and shake my hand?”

The forty people in the small fellowship hall drew a collective breath and you could feel the oxygen levels drop. Every one seemed to remember at once the angry man’s vow to never accept this apology or shake this man’s hand.

Suddenly, the angry man’s wife stood and pulled her husband to his feet. Others around her stood with them as she gently pushed her husband’s arm forward. Hands met in that space between the men, though nothing was said.

As the contact ended, the church members in attendance broke into song — “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” People were hugging and crying. Their hearts were lifted as they perceived the conflict to be over.

They didn’t see what I saw from the front of the room. As soon as the song began, the angry man gave a scary look to his wife, grabbed his hat and left the room. The conflict lived. The angry man remained angry. Six months later, a new church was founded in the community made up of the few who wanted the man’s anger to be their central theme.

I made one more trip to that church and to that community. I visited the angry man and I asked him why he couldn’t let the anger go.

“You know, I’ve thought about it. But I’ve lived with these feelings for 25 years and now I can’t imagine waking up without them.”

The angry man died a few years later and he was still angry.

As I pray about my personal conflict, I’m discovering that anger has become too familiar to my daily life. I’m planning to sit down with the object of my anger in the next few days. I don’t know what the outcome will be. But I’m thinking, if I can just release my anger, there would be a lot more room for good things.

To make that release, I have to look at the way that anger works in these long-term conflicts. Most of the time anger is the reaction to some deeper fear. And usually the deepest fears are over the loss of relationships.

Day two, find a time to meet. And instead of waiting until the moment of contact, begin releasing anger now.

My Own Medicine - Day One

I remember where we were standing that day. Was it 1987 or 1988? A long time ago.

I was new to the community and truly longed for inclusion and a place where I could offer assistance and receive personal fulfillment. The committee meeting had just ended through a door not ten feet away from the spot where we stood. The meeting was my first with this group. The discussion was interesting. And when I was asked my opinion, I gave it.

That’s when he spoke up. “You’re just clearly wrong,” he said. “That method won’t work. We’ve tried it.” Then to the rest of the group, “I’m telling you, it just can’t be done.”

The ink on my law degree was not quite dry at the time. I looked around the room and saw the other committee meetings looking away from him, hoping not to draw his ire. I decided to disagree with him. And as I recall it, I dissected his argument and persuaded the group to move forward.

On that spot outside the door, I pulled him aside and tried to establish a middle ground. He had made it obvious that he thought little of me and my ideas. I saw him as an intelligent person and someone worthy of getting to know.

“What was that all about,” I asked. “Why so much venom? Have I done something to offend you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My mental picture of that moment insists that he leered at me. However, I’m not sure what a leer would look like, so who knows? “You just had a stupid idea and I’m a realist. I just had to point out how stupid it is.”

I don’t remember what I said to that. I do remember my stupid idea worked. And I realized that he was not a realist — he was a negativist. No “negativist” isn’t a real word. But that’s what he was.

I’ve never forgotten that day. Nor have I ever seen him since as anything but a negativist. I’ve heard he has some socially redeeming qualities. I’ve even had some pleasant conversations with him through the years. But most often, I go back to that spot in the hallway where I decided to judge him.

Twenty years later, I’m still dealing with that decision. And my feelings toward him continue to drain my energy whenever I see him. That’s why I decided last Sunday that I’ve got to go talk to him. I know that we have disagreements over some things. Yet, I know that I can’t discuss those things with him until I stop and listen to him.

I’ve also discovered that two decades of pronounced judgment have built expectations that I’m having trouble overcoming. I expect the conversation to go badly. I expect him to treat me with disdain. And, honestly, if I enter that time with him with those expectations, all will be as terrible as I have forecast.

So over the next few days, I’ll take my own medicine as a doctor of dispute.

In this Day One, I will begin to pray for his well-being and for a dose of humility for me.

Two Punches

I have been known to leave important things in places where they weren’t, shall I say, helpful. Like the four or five times I’ve left my laptop computer at home and not discovered it until I walked into my office. Or the countless times, I’ve put my cell phone in my desk charger and forgotten about it — until Nancy tracks me down on another phone and asks why I’ve been ignoring her calls.

But I never forget to carry my Peet’s Coffee card. There’s no way I could forget to have that business-card-size passport to caffeine with me. No, when there’s free coffee at stake, my mind is like a steel trap.

The deal with a Peet’s card is that the cashier punches it every time you buy coffee. Buy nine cups and the tenth cup is free. Nothing tastes quite as good as a cup of free coffee. Although, coffee at work is free and it tastes no where near as good as a free cup at Peet’s. I guess it’s because I’ve earned the free cup by keeping up with my card and remembering to have the cashier punch it.

Recently I noticed that some of my friends — I’m on a first name basis with all of the cashiers (of course, they wear name tags) — have been punching my card twice. I thought I was special. But I worried about it a little bit. I mean, was it fair to other customers that these lovely people are partial to me?

A couple of months ago, I decided to do the right thing and speak up.

“So, what’s so special about me?” I asked.

The young woman looked puzzled. “What?”

“Why are you giving me two punches?”

She smiled sheepishly and tapped a little sign next to the register.

“Senior Citizens receive two punches” it read.

“But I’m not a Senior Citizen,” I protested.

“Are you sure?” she inquired. “You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. And you get free coffee twice as fast,” she said helpfully.

“I am NOT a Senior Citizen!” I assured her.

“Okay, if you say so.”

I’ve noticed that she still punches my card twice when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I guess she thinks that I’ve just forgotten how old I am.

I won’t allow this to go on much longer. That’s just the kind of guy I am. And besides, I WILL be a Senior Citizen by Peet’s standards on my next birthday.