Feedback

“Hey, I’ve got an idea for you!”

“Have you ever thought about . . . ?”

“I don’t understand why you do this like you do. . .”

Sixty-nine students. Six instructors. Two support staff. Five days. Almost 40 hours. Five hundred bottled waters and sodas. Pop-Tarts and granola bars. Countless Power Point slides. A couple of handfuls of role plays. Videos. Fishbowl mediation. Debriefing sessions. Discussions. Hallway conversations. Lunch table talk. Emails at night.

Oh, and a requested evaluation form at the end.

We were blessed a few weeks ago to have our online conflict resolution students with us for Residency Session. We had folks from around the world and from all walks of life – human resource professionals, ministers, teachers, fitness instructors, paralegals, attorneys, insurance executives, police chaplains, customer service representatives, accountants, nurses, higher education administrators, non-profit organization executives. Oh, and our best known local personality, our NBC television news anchor. The group was simply incredible.

They worked together well. They helped each other – for the most part. The measure of the week was in its good spirit.

By the time the closing ceremonies ended, our faculty and staff was exhausted and ready to move on. Yet, we all felt profoundly enriched by getting to be with these marvelous people.

The week after still spun slowly in the afterglow. But there was that insidious evaluation form to review and tabulate. All in all, the feedback was fair and well-balanced. The students recognized some of the same weaknesses we had spotted. They praised the week heavily for the most part.

But we had to ask the question that must be asked – “What could be done to improve the Residency?” The answers ranged widely from choice of breakfast food to too much review material to too little review material to too many role plays to not enough role plays. We received criticism for making the schedule too long and making it too short.

We first reviewed the evaluation form at our staff meeting. Despite the praise, all we could focus on was the minority report. Instead of feeling pleased that our students and our friends were honoring us with their openness, we became initially defensive.

Feedback. We seek feedback. Yet, when we receive feedback we almost always look on our critics with astonishment. As if to say, “Yes, I asked you for your opinion, but I really didn’t expect you to give it to me.”

And now, a few days later, a few of those negative comments still sting. But more and more we have begun to see the beauty of welcoming conversation – even when it points out our deficiencies.

When we bring people to our peace tables and we urge them to be honest with each other, why are we surprised when well-intentioned feedback breeds defensiveness and spurs escalation of the conflict? It’s at those times that we should remind those sitting with us – and ourselves – that honest opinion and well-meaning intent should be treasured as gifts.

Even the best of us tire of feedback occasionally. Challenge yourself and those in conflict who you assist to seek feedback, to listen for meaning, to test for grace, and to respond in kindness. For without feedback, deep relationships will not be fed.

And we all desire and need deep relationships.

No Place . . . No Table

She stood quietly to the side as others gathered around with their questions or personal stories or parting greetings. As the others left the room and I turned, her eyes clouded and she carefully chose her words.

“I understand that I have an obligation to make peace with others. But what if,” she faltered a bit, “the others won’t allow me a place at the table?”

I had heard the question before from at least a dozen people. And at least a dozen other times, I listened carefully and asked questions to see if I could catch a glimpse of an understanding of why there was no room for the questioner at the peace table.

There are various reasons that arise. Most common are those that surround relationships that move too fast. Words are said that aren’t heard. Or meanings are heard that weren’t intended. In those cases, the prescription for the problem revolves around the idea of slowing down.

With this woman, I explored that possibility. “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. I’ve tried that. And we did have some conversations. But now they say they’re tired of talking. More specifically, they are tired of talking to me.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m no longer welcome. I’ve seen their peace table and there’s no chair for me.”

I asked more questions. As she told her story and as her passion for the conflict grew, I could almost see the scene. She stood at the door and watched as they pulled away the one empty chair and announced that her place was gone.

“Why do you think they did that?” I asked.

At first, she said she didn’t know. But as I drew her story out, she suddenly straightened and stopped breathing. When she finally opened her mouth, her tears started again and she gasped for air.

“They don’t want to talk to me any more because I told them I didn’t believe anything they said. I refused to listen to anything I didn’t agree with,” she stopped for a breath. “I lost my place at the table because I wouldn’t hear their story.”

We talked a while longer and her emotions overcame her. “What have I done? How will I ever regain my place?”

I never have any specific direction to give at this point. Instead, we talked about things she shared in common with them. Perhaps, I suggested, there is something there that would cause them to invite her back.

“But what if there isn’t? What will I do?”

“Then you must set a new table with places for them,” I replied. “And you must explain that the table is meant for them and their story.”

“Do you think they’ll come to my table?”

I really don’t know how to answer that question. What I do know is that each of us needs to have a peace table set and waiting. In all likelihood, it will be filled with a few guests we expect and many more we don’t.

Is your table set?

Road Trip

It’s a line I borrowed from someone else, but it’s true.

Abilene, Texas is centrally-located — it’s right in the middle of nowhere!

And that’s why I often find myself in the car and moving down the road toward a meeting or a conference or a consultation. Even though we have airline service here, most of the places I need to go are driving destinations. For by the time you show up an hour or so early for your flight, fly to Dallas, then connect to another flight and/or get a rental car, you can just about drive where you’re going.

My general rule is drive if it’s less than seven hours. For Texas destinations, that puts El Paso, Brownsville, and a few eastern boundary cities outside my reach. But, come to think of it, I usually drive to those places, too.

Most of my trips are 3-5 hours, one way. And I’ve been known to make those in a single day, round-trip. Like my trip to San Antonio a few weeks ago for a four hour meeting. Four hours down, four hours there, four hours back. I’ll make a similar trip tomorrow to Austin. The meeting could be as long as six hours. And, I’ll call my son, Justin, just as it ends to see if he can meet me for a visit over coffee or a coke, before I head home. So tomorrow could be 16 hours of road trip action from the time I open the garage door until I put it down.

With cell phone coverage being what it is, there are only rare moments when I will be unavailable. I’ll talk to my office once or twice. And I plan to call the West Coast late in the day to discuss details on a training session that will be scheduled next fall. Of course, there’s also the call to a prospective student that i didn’t work in last Friday. I’ll fit it in between Brownwood and Lampasas tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow’s trip will start off a little easier than the San Antonio trip. Peet’s Coffee should be just opening as I’m making my way out of town. By the time I reach Cross Plains, I will be one with a medium Major Dickinson brew. And about that time, the coffee will be signaling its desire to become separate again.

With travel mercies, I’ll be home at this time tomorrow. Weary from the road. Wondering how far behind I’ll be for missing a day at the office.

Yet, as glamorous as all that sounds, there’s something comfortable about a road trip. A definite place to go, with a purpose for being there, and a home coming to look forward to.

A good portion of life doesn’t always seem that comfortable. Not everything is so definite. And for some folks, coming home doesn’t hold that much promise. But as I think more and more about why I’m here, the more every day seems like a road trip. A lot of territory to be covered, things to do, and a promise of home.

Heavenly Bamboo

Not bamboo at all, it seems. Although the sturdy bush hails from Asia, it thrives under the official name of Nandina Domestica. And tonight was my night to bring it under control.

Earlier in the spring, we brought in a professional to clean out the flower beds and bring the flora of the back yard into some semblance of regulation play. The worker was fantastic. He trimmed and raked and brought order to the wilder regions of our eastern territory. But we noticed soon after he was gone, the bushes — particularly the Nandina — grew with a vengeance. Up, out and across the bare expanses separating them, the bushes spread and flourished.

I attacked them with my old electric hedge trimmer. And while the carnage was great, I could tell that the war wasn’t over. Fairly extensive collateral damage was sustained during the fracas. Yet another extension cord was badly nicked from — shall I say — “friendly fire?”

That engagement led to the purchase of a new cordless hedge trimmer. This one with 22 inches of cutting capability. As soon as I had it home and charged, I waded into the jungles that had become our backyard beds. Trimmings flew. I stepped back about thirty minutes later feeling pleased that I had brought things back to what I consider to be normal.

That was two weeks ago. Last night, as I was mowing, I noticed that the Nandina had resurged. It’s no wonder they call this “Hitler Bamboo” and “Nandina Megalomania.” Some bushes had grown as much as a foot in all directions.

So, with my new trimmer at the ready, I plunged in again tonight. As I swung that reciprocating sword around and through the bushes I had visions of Edward Scissorhands. My shadow played against the back fence and, with the trimmer out before me, I saw more of a figure from a well-played game of Guitar Hero.

Back and forth and over and through. Carefully dodging the little teeth as they swung by my jeans, I expertly worked my way through the dense forest. And once again, I triumphed. Clippings collected in the big rolling trashcan, I headed back toward the garage satisfied. But a small voice floated across the lawn behind me.

“We’ll be back.” My confident stride lessened a little. I knew they would be back. Along with the bermuda grass that grows with great gusto in the same beds, even though it struggles not four feet away in the lawn under the tree. And the weeds and the red oak that sprouts from the acorns that drop.

Nandina, like most hardy and persistent things, will come back. And, its growth seems to be hastened when it is given a little attention. It’s not unlike anger, jealousy, and discrimination. When pushed down and cut away, these sinful behaviors find new ways to surface. The only way to get ready of those little pests is to eliminate them completely AND replace them with something else.

That’s the ultimate answer to Nandina conquest. Root them out, systematically. Plant something else in their place.

Yet, I find I like the hardy bushes. They have a nice color and beautiful berries. Socially redeeming qualities, perhaps? So they’re not coming down. And, I have to become content with their less attractive behaviors. That’s the price I must pay, I suppose.

I do wonder if moments of anger, jealousy, and discrimination continue to flourish in my life for much the same reason. Perhaps I just like them a little too much. And I’ve become accustomed to the price.

Where in the world is …?

So, I was able to pull together all of my material to teach the introductory letter on the book of James last night. Since I’ve taught the series before, it was simply a matter of reworking outlines and reconnecting thoughts. The folks who showed up were gracious and kind. In short, I came home last night looking forward to the remaining weeks.

I think a part of my good feeling had to do with my expectation that I will have time to continue my study and preparation. Things have been so busy the last two years, I feel like I’ve been away from some important things. But now, things have lulled a bit. Yes, I know that another storm is coming in mid-summer. Now. Now things are smooth and calm.

I’ll be returning to my regular schedule of work-related travel soon — working with individuals, businesses, nonprofit organizations and churches in conflict. I look forward to the work, although being away from home is hard. And the travel itself can be very taxing.

My wife, Nancy, is a big fan of the Today Show. That’s an accurate statement. Although you could narrow the field a bit and say that she’s a big fan of Matt Lauer. Hardly a week goes by when she doesn’t tell me about something Matt said or somebody Matt interviewed. The last few days she’s been telling me where Matt is. This is “Where in the world is Matt Lauer?” week.

So far, the way I understand it, he’s been to Argentina, the Netherlands, Laos, and today he’s in Istanbul. Because of his extensive travel, Matt claims that he has no time to shave. So added to the travel log today was Nancy’s comment that Matt’s beard looks pretty scraggly.

As I was about to leave for work, Matt was telling his adoring audience about his rough travel schedule. Since last Friday, he’s spent 53 hours in the air speeding to all of these exotic locations. And, he gave out a key bit of information. He said, “After the show, we’ll do a little sightseeing and then get back on ‘our’ plane and head to our next location.”

Aha! That’s how he does it. A private plane. Because I know that if I were sent out on a similar business trip, this would be the listing of locations for “Where in the world is Joey Cope?”

Day 1: Stuck in Abilene because of bad weather in Dallas forcing flight cancellations.
Day 2: In Dallas, but on standby waiting to get on planes because of the problem with yesterday’s cancellations.
Day 3: Now in Cleveland, Ohio, because of rerouting due to problems at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport of an undisclosed nature.
Day 4: In Dallas, waiting on a connecting flight to the original undisclosed location.
Day 5: Because of bad weather at the original undisclosed location and at Dallas, stuck on a plane on the tarmac in Abilene. And because this is not the regular airline that serves Abilene, FAA regulations forbids passengers to deplane — even if you live here and your car is only a couple of thousand feet away accumulating parking fees.
Day 6: Even though I’m supposed to be back home in Abilene now, I’m in Dallas standing at a car rental counter. No flights back to Abilene until the FAA okays the maintenance reports for my airline.

No, all of that hasn’t happened to me in one trip. I’m just saying that if I was to undertake a globe-trotting jaunt like Matt Lauer, this is what it would look like.

Next year, I would like to see Matt make his swing across the continents on commercial flights. That would be a real adventure.

As we talked about James last night, I think that we see that life is really more like a trip around the world in coach class than it is by private jet. Things happen. Some good things are a part of the mix. Yet, disappointments abound. Yet, if you’re ever going to make the journey, you just keep showing up. Oddly, if we place faith in a being greater than we are, we primarily remember the good things.

So, if anyone asks you “Where in the world are you?”, just tell them, I’m right here where God can find me. And I’ll get where I’m going on His good time.

Distracted, perhaps in a good way

I often have good intentions. Notwithstanding what has been paved with good intentions, I believe that thinking and planning and working toward good things is, in itself, a good thing.

Yet there is something to be said for actually accomplishing something. And, on occasion, I’ve been known to get a project all the way to completion. Not today, it seems, but on occasion.

Tomorrow night at church I will be teaching the first of five lessons on the book of James. I’ve been focusing on this study for almost two years — particularly in the ways that James approached conflict and its causes. I’ve learned a lot about this letter and I’ve taught this material in a number of settings. One of my big fears is that some of the good folks who have been in previous classes will come to the class. It’s not that I don’t want them there. I’m just thinking that it will be really awkward when they realize that they’ve been through all of this with me before and they’re wishing they had chosen one of the other classes.

I have learned more about the message of James since the last time I taught. In fact, I have some very fresh insights that I’ve been exploring. And I had good intentions of reconstructing all of my outlines to include them.

Things happen, however, and I found myself thinking during lunch today about how I would have this evening, at last, to retread the first lesson. As my email inbox bulged this afternoon with various and sundry requests from students and faculty, I struggled to keep up.

The biggest distraction was a late afternoon meeting. It was the second day that I was summoned to a late afternoon meeting of great import. Yesterday’s was informative and, I thought, fairly positive. Today’s was less so. Mainly because it was a follow-up meeting to yesterday’s and because there was little more that could be said. Don’t get me wrong. The meeting content was very important, but I was distracted by my experience because my fellow meeting-goers seemed, for the most part, really discouraged.

My initial reaction was to be frustrated with those around me. Then as I left the meeting I began wondering what, if anything, I could do to improve their demeanor and make things easier. Hence my distraction.

And I was pretty heavy into these thoughts of making things better when it struck me — maybe the idea that I could help my friends was being presumptuous.

And with the thought that my help was probably not what was needed, my distraction melted and I was left staring at the book of James. But it’s getting late. My demeanor is waning.

And tomorrow will be a better day. Do you think God sends distractions when he knows that our later efforts will be better? Or is that just one of the most innovative justifications of procrastination that you have ever heard?

Tomorrow night. James, the first chapter. Be there. I’ll be ready.

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.

Standing Room Only

Growing up in West Texas, I had a pretty well-developed system for knowing who my friends were. Friends were the guys — and occasionally the girls — you spent time with. Looking back, I’m not sure that the great majority of that time was very productive. But, even today, it seems like quality time. We played ball and pretended we were people we would never be. We shared dreams and schemes and, on occasion, the blame for schemes gone bad. In simplest terms, we were there for each other.

Eventually, of course, I found my best friend, Nancy. And I’ve poured most of my friend energy into that relationship. I’m not certain that she would say that all of that effort on my part has had happy results — or even that there has been all that much investment at times. Thankfully, our love and friendship has grown because of her enormous capacity for others.

I know that similar cues that determine friendship exist in today’s relationships. Perhaps the activities are less strenuous. And now the dreams shared are sometimes those lying broken around us. The happy times are no less happy, though. However, with the pressure of life as an adult, there seems to be less quality time for friends.

Or so I thought. A friend of mine recently went through a period of crisis. I was one of a number of folks who went to his side. Part of our function was to simply be there and absorb the moment with him. If you’ve ministered to people who are sick or who are grieving the death of someone close, you’ve probably heard this activity described as “sitting with” the suffering person.

Years ago, I was mentored in “sitting” by a long-time minister at our church, Brother Horace. A good brother at the congregation had died suddenly. I was dropping off some things at the church office that day as Brother Horace was making his way to visit the family of the deceased. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked.

I was in my early twenties and, other than family, I had never gone to visit a bereaved family. Reluctantly, I said yes. But in the car on the way to their home, I became nervous. “Brother Horace,” I questioned, “What will I do when I get there? What will I say?”

“Simple. Say what seems right. And if you have nothing to say, just sit. Through the years, I’ve never had any one recall what I had to say, but almost every one remembered I was there. Being there is the key.”

And so it is with friendship. In my friend’s crisis, I came to realize that there was no place for me to “sit.” Those spots were taken by individuals who had been there more often. No, my place was just inside the door. Standing just a bit to the side.

I just happened to run into this friend downtown, recently. And even though my perception was that my involvement was very slight, he was effusive in his greeting. He thanked me over and over for what I had done.

The expression on my face must have been one of puzzlement. He paused as I stuttered, “I really wasn’t that much help.”

He moved closer and whispered, “But you were there!”

Friendship and love can grow in even the shallowest soil. And so I’m called back to Brother Horace’s sage advice. Say what seems right. And if you have nothing to say, just sit. And to that wisdom, I add this corollary. When there is no place to sit, just stand.

My Own Medicine - Day Three

I had planned to plan for my meeting.

The phone call was made that put things in motion. Eventually, fifteen minutes was set aside for later in the afternoon. Good. I had time to release anger and to plan.

But life happened and I had to attend to this detail and that. When the chime on my phone warned me that the appointment was ten minutes away, I sat down purposefully to prepare. And, at that moment, I saw his car turn into our parking lot. My time for planning and rehearsing was gone and the moment was here!

As I walked toward the lobby to meet him, I realized that something had happened. A quick look back in my memory and I realized that, in answer to earlier prayer, my anger had slipped away about the time I tapped his number into my phone that morning.

Our meeting was to be short. He had another appointment close by. I felt no personal anxiety as I sat across the table from him. We exchanged pleasantries and then I grasped for the one expectation I had managed to solidify.

“I want to honor your time. So let me just say, I’ve asked for this meeting so that I can apologize and ask for your forgiveness.”

His eyes grew wider and his face, already pleasant, became more so. He sat patiently as I explained how I had judged him almost 20 years before. And then, I detailed how I had allowed that judgment to color everything that he did or said since.

He was gracious in his forgiveness. Because of my actions and withdrawal, he had not really been aware of the tension I felt. We talked about things in general. I told him that there were some present matters that I disagreed with him on and we would have opportunities to talk. But I promised that I would never allow my past judgments to interfere with honest discussions.

I teach others about this moment. Yet here I was with this glorious instant unfolding. Now, in this day three, I am committing to continued conversation bolstered by my pledge to discard old and worn judgments. With the self-imposed anger gone, I’ve started to realize that those things that I’m in disagreement with could well have solutions close by.

I may revisit this self-medication topic. For now, please know that I understand that reclaiming a friendship is not accomplished with a three-day injection — even with the best of medicine. Reconciliation is a life-time pursuit.

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.