The Complaint Department by Carolyn

Do you remember when department stores had a Complaint Department? Some poor soul sat behind a counter and listened to customers' gripes all day, every day. As horrid as that job would be, the benefit of it was that the complaints were (hopefully) heard by someone who could fix them, or had some control over the way things were done in that store. I think that is a concept that we need to consider using in our daily lives.

In my previous life as an assistant principal, I received many complaints from parents about teachers. Always, always, I asked if the parent had talked to the teacher about the issue before calling me. More times than not, the answer was no. This always surprised and disappointed me. I could not understand why a parent would not talk to the teacher if there was a problem. Wouldn't the teacher know far more about the situation than I, a relative outsider, would? Wouldn't the teacher be able to clear up any misunderstandings that had occurred when the student came home with a story about something that had happened in class? I am sure I made many parents unhappy when I insisted that they call the teacher to discuss the issue before involving me in it any further. How can the teacher make positive changes or clear up misunderstandings if never approached about the problem? I believe that, whenever possible, you should take your complaints to the person who has control over the situation.

Likewise, when friends have complained to me about problems with co-workers, their bosses, relatives, business people, whatever, I have encouraged them to talk to the person who could answer their questions, explain the situation, or make a change if needed. I'm happy to listen, but it does no good to air your grievances to someone who has absolutely no control over the problem. It might make us feel a little better to rant and rave and vent our spleen, but it does not resolve anything. The problem is still exactly what it was before the gripe session.

Even worse, the rancor caused by the discontent continues. Not only is the problem unresolved, but there are hard feelings between the person with the complaint and the source of their complaint. Most often, the target of this rancor is blissfully unaware that a problem even exists, because the one who is unhappy has never voiced that opinion to the right person.

This year, this has been a particularly painful problem for me at work. I have become aware that there are people who do not like the way I do my job. This is no surprise - the nature of my job as an instructional coach virtually guarantees that not everyone will approve of the way I do my job. A large part of my job is to (gently) push teachers a little beyond their comfort zone into what have proven to be best practices. Pushing gently is tricky. Some people prefer not to be pushed at all; others thrive on being pushed. I totally understand that. What I find most difficult to understand is why any of my coworkers would not come talk to me about their dissatisfaction instead of letting their resentment build up so much that they spew venom to others about me. That seems unfair.

A few years ago, we studied a chapter of a book* that dealt with how to meet complaints from others. The authors wrote about how important it is to guide employees to meet criticism with curiosity, rather than defensiveness. They advised us to ask ourselves, "What part of this problem have I caused?" I have worked on this response myself many times since reading that chapter. It is not a natural response, but it can be done. I like to think that I could (eventually, if not immediately) meet complaints with more curiosity that defensiveness. However, if complaints about me aren't brought to me, I never have the chance to be curious about the way I do things. If we don't approach others about our dissatisfaction, we deny them a chance to explain themselves or to improve what they do.

I know that it is difficult - most of us shy away from confrontation - but perhaps we need to make an attempt to take our complaints to the correct complaint department - to the person who has control over the situation. It would probably be healthier and make us all happier if we did.


*Chapter Two, "Curiosity", of Radical Change, Radical Results by Kate Ludeman and Eddie Erlandson, 2003, published by Kaplan Business

On Vulnerability by Andrea

vulnerability

noun

1. Capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt, as by a weapon
2. Open to moral attack or criticism

Whether I am clicking through TED Talks or scrolling through blogs and social media post, conversations around the meaning of, need for and results of vulnerability abound. A simple query “how important is vulnerability in relationships” yielded 49 million results in less than a second.  Social researcher, Brene Brown, touts vulnerability as the cure for what ails us in society today.  Without it, we supposedly cannot be the people we have been created to be.  We will not build deep relationships or truly interdependent communities without it.  She goes as far as to claim, “When we shut ourselves off from vulnerability, we distance ourselves from experiences that bring purpose and meaning to our lives.” A lack of vulnerability costs a lot.  But how can a concept which opens one up to wounds and criticism be so important to every human relationship?  

Four recent encounters with extremely vulnerable women left me intrigued, inspired and a bit confused about what it means to be vulnerable.  Especially as it relates to me.  An invitation to speak at a gathering in a growing community of women who come together to share and hear stories of strength out of weakness resurrected an old fear of vulnerability in me.  Though I have not a natural bent for sharing my feelings (at least the ones I see as weakness or a liability), I have grown tremendously in this area over the last twenty years.  Yet, without a doubt, I have felt God’s gentle and relentless push to share more of myself than I am usually comfortable with at this gathering.  

For months now, I have been resisting the idea of sharing more openly from my heart and life. Why?  Because I pride myself on NOT being susceptible to being wounded or hurt.  Though I cannot ward off criticism from others, I am known for not letting others’ negativity get to me.  I may not always have my ducks in a row, but I am a duck who can just let things like unproductive, negative talk roll off my back.  I am muddy waterproof!  I like identifying myself as one not easily offended.  I really do believe there is great merit in that quality.  Proverbs 19:11 reads a person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense. Though, I could probably count on two hands (with some fingers leftover) the number of times in my entire life that I have felt attacked or criticized by someone.  Alas, I may have to concede, however, that sometimes I am not easily offended because I am not being very vulnerable.  And not being very vulnerable means I am not opening myself up enough to possibly be wounded or hurt; attacked or criticized.  It also may mean I am not open enough to receive greater growth, joy and connection, too

In a full frontal assault, I think God has been trying to challenge my comfort zone.  From stories told by friends and strangers, messages at church and podcasts, books and more, the call to vulnerability has been pretty blatant. But it has taken me a while to see it.  I am sometimes slow to submit, sometimes slow to connect the obvious dots.  I am sometimes rebellious and say things like “That’s just not who I am.”  Recently, in a conversation I initiated about this topic, one of my best friends said to me, “Sometimes who we are is just prideful.”  Wounds from a friend can be trusted- another proverb.

God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.  Humility and vulnerability go hand in hand.  To be humble means to show a modest estimate of one’s own importance.  To be vulnerable can mean to be in need of special care, support or protection.  To be vulnerable is to recognize one’s own need for others, to connect with them on a mind, body, heart and soul level.  I have more family, friends and relationships than I can count.  They are the value of my life. I work in a field where I get to connect with and serve people in some of the most basic yet important ways. In all of my people, I find myself and my joy.   I am connected, no doubt.  But God is calling me higher- or maybe lower, depending on how you look at it.  I wonder if there is a part of my heart I have not yet learned to give to my people.  I wonder if, as Brene Brown proposes, there is some experiences from which I am cut off because it is, at times, challenging for me to say, “Hey, I need something from you.  I can’t always be strong.  I don’t always have the answer.  Maybe this did hurt me or bother me.”  

Vulnerability is multi-faceted.  It is not just opening oneself up to people and asking for what you need.  It is also sharing one’s true self with people- the pretty parts, all dressed up in Sunday’s best, as well as the covered-up wrinkled, flabby parts.  Sometimes, vulnerability is sharing secret thoughts and feelings no one has ever heard.  Sometimes, vulnerability is crying in front of someone who has never seen you cry.  Sometimes, vulnerability is saying “Me, too.”  when someone else is brave enough to let you in on their shortcomings or pain.  Sometimes, vulnerability may backfire.  You might be misunderstood.  You might be hurt or criticized.  You might be humiliated. Your trust may be rewarded with betrayal.  You may be judged. This is probably the biggest fear for me.  What if I speak my truth and it changes, even momentarily, how someone sees me.  Actually, this pondering of vulnerability has helped me to see this truth finally-- and to share it here with you.  

The Roman Brides

By: Susan

I made ñoquis (also known as gnocchi) for dinner tonight.  It is a kind of pasta made from potatoes, eggs and flour.  I once learned how to make it from scratch from two very special ladies that showed me love when I was a stranger in a strange land. 

My first-born was a picky eater.  Up to the age of two she hardly tried anything other than milk.  Most of the pureed fruit and vegetables ended up on her clothes and the high chair instead of in her.  She also never sat still.  My theory was she was too busy moving around and exploring her world to sit down and eat.  That’s why she preferred a bottle or Sippy cup that would allow her to be mobile. 

Photo credit: http://www.la-juvenil.com.ar/productos.php?categoria=11

One night we went out to eat at an Italian restaurant and I ordered the one thing on the menu that was completely new to me.  When the plate of ñoquis arrived, I offered a bite to Miranda and was surprised that she actually took it and asked for more.  She almost cleaned the plate for me.  It was such a momentous occasion in my life as a young and inexperienced mother that I told the story to whomever I met. 

I had two Italian neighbors in my apartment building.  Both widows, both immigrants to Venezuela after the Second World War and both living alone, one two stories below me, and one in the building across.  Neither had grandchildren so they had adopted Miranda as theirs.  They loved to hold her and play with her and watch her while I cleaned or cooked.   Couple of days after I shared the news of Miranda’s devouring ñoquis with the two Señoras, there was a knock at my door.  It was Silvana, the tall, blond one who looked like Gina Lollobrigida. She grabbed Miranda from my arms and ordered me downstairs to learn how to make ñoquis.  Laura, the soft-spoken, more grandmotherly one, was busy in her beautiful kitchen taking potatoes off the stove.  She put the boiled potatoes through a special instrument, which I later learned was a potato ricer, added some flour and cracked an egg on top.  She kneaded the mixture until it resembled a softt dough.  She then rolled pieces of the dough into long strips, cut them into ½” sections and used another special instrument to press a pattern into each piece.  The pasta was cooked in boiling water in a couple of minutes while she made a simple tomato sauce.  She served Miranda the homemade ñoquis and we all sat around and watched her eat. 

I went out immediately and bought a potato ricer and all the ingredients.  If this was what would make her eat, I would be making ñoquis every day.  The first batch turned out fine.  The second one was a bit doughy.  Luckily, I found a place in town that made fresh pasta everyday and I became a regular customer. 

When I eat ñoquis, I do remember it as Miranda’s first food, but the sweeter memory is of the two ladies that befriended me at a time when I lived in a country away from my family.  I didn’t have a lot of friends yet.  I didn’t know what to do with a baby. They must have remembered how they had felt when they first came to Venezuela as young brides, lonely, not speaking the language, not knowing the culture.  They became my guides, my mentors, my friends.  I often wonder how they are doing these days.  Are they still living in Puerto Ordaz?  How are they bearing the difficulties the country is facing?  Did they migrate back to Italy?  Wherever they are, I hope they know how much their love and friendship meant to me.  I know I cannot repay them.  I can only pay it forward by showing kindness and friendship to others.  And by making ñoquis from time to time.

So Far by Kevin, Guest Writer

So far in my life I have taken somewhere around 550,624,000 breaths.  Some of them were short and fearful--like when my sixth grade teacher showed me the book I thought I had lost, and asked me for the book I stole to replace it.  Others were long and luxurious--like deeply breathing in tropical sea air perfumed with the scent of the lei of flowers around my neck, and thinking Hawaii and Heaven just might be the same place.  There have been quick gasps of delight and of pain, long drawn calming breaths and even choking sobs that refused to stay in my lungs.

So far I have breathed the joy of getting my first car, of walking across stages at graduations, and across an altar as my beautiful bride came down the aisle to me.  My breath has caught in my throat waiting for the first newborn cries of my children.  It has stuck there saying final goodbyes to my parents.

I’m grateful for every one of them. However, with each breath I have come closer to the realization that our attitudes, our feelings, our moods and personalities are largely a product of how we choose to exhale.

In times of joy and contentment it is easy to exhale kindness, patience, and affection.  But in times of conflict and strife, it is much easier to blow out hatefulness.  So herein lies the real question, my friends.  Are you going to breathe in anger and bitterness only to spew out ugliness and hurt?  Or are you going to breath it in and transform it into grace, hope, and love?  From this breath on, you do have a choice!

How have you been breathing so far?  

Kevin L. Williams is a child of God, the husband of Angie, and the father of Emilee, Grant, and Gabe.  He is a facilitator of learning for phenomenal 5th graders at Reed Elementary.  

Overcoming the Odds by Carolyn

Last New Year's Day as I drove home from visiting a friend, I saw a billboard that made me smile. Since then, it has made me think.

It said:

Kermit the Frog

Has green skin

Eats flies

Dates a pig

. . . 

Hollywood Star

. . . 

Aim High

It was a public service announcement telling whoever read it that, just like Kermit, we could reach unimaginable heights no matter what our background, no matter what strikes we have against us. Although it may be a little outdated (I have heard that Kermit and Miss Piggy have broken up), it is still a powerful message. 

Our country is currently in a state of unrest that feels uncomfortable to me. I am afraid that the coming presidential election and all the hoopla that leads up to it will be the most divisive time period in our country for decades. I fear that we may be moving backwards in our quest to be an inclusive and peaceful society.

However, in all of the chaos that looms on the horizon, and no matter who is elected to be the chief executive of the United States, I hope that we - all of us - do not forget that our country has been built on the ideals that all people are created equal and that we all have the same rights. 

In addition, ours is a nation in which anyone can succeed, no matter what color their skin, or what they eat, or the friends they claim. Let's remember that all of us have the right to aim high.

On the Color of My Hair

By: Susan

I got my first gray hair when I was twenty one.  I knew then that someday I would have a completely gray head.  I have never been comfortable with wearing too much make-up.  I feel like I am pretending to be someone else and everyone knows it.  I do admire women who have the patience and the talent to enhance their natural beauty and always look well-put together.  But I can't handle it.  I don't have the stamina for it.  In my thirties, the number of gray hairs became too many to just pull out and I had to make a decision about whether to color my hair or not.  My husband, who usually has no opinion about appearances, pointed out that since our children were very small, maybe they would want their mother to look young for a while longer.  I listened and for the next twenty five years I covered my grays with a color very close to my natural dark brown.  But as I said, I am not good with anything that requires maintenance and more often than not my roots would begin to show before I had a chance to buy another box of hair color.  Several times over the past few years I threatened to let my hair go gray but changed my mind as a special occasion or a work presentation came up.  This past Fall, I went to a convention in Minneapolis to be part of a roundtable with my writing partners and I did not color my hair in time! Once I had presented myself to strangers with gray roots growing, there was no going back.  

As my hair has turned completely natural, with lots of white around my face and salt and paper in the back, I have been getting compliments from friends and co-workers.  My friend Paulette, who is a beauty in her natural hair, made a point of telling me how much she liked my hair color.  Others that I usually don't interact with come up to me and say how beautiful my hair looks.  Even my mother, who is an expert in style and beauty, approves of my look.

The response from other Persian women, however, has been very strongly negative. With a great sense of concern friends pull me aside and tell me that I am too young to let myself go.  Those who haven't seen me for a while, cannot hide their shock. I am surprised at how comfortable people have felt letting me know of their disapproval.  All this has made me very curious.  What is it about my decision that is so upsetting?  I know that they truly care about me but could it also be a little bit about their own vanity?  Have I let the cat out of the bag that most Persian women are not naturally blonde? And they would probably look like me if they didn't dye their hair regularly? I promise I do not mean any offense.  I am no one to judge others.  As I said, I admire women who have take the time to enhance their beauty.  But this is me.  I like me this way.  And my husband and kids like me this way too. And that's all I care about. 

Reserve Judgement by Carolyn

Last weekend I inadvertently traumatized my younger son, Kyle, who has just celebrated his 30th birthday. Here's how it came about . . .

A bunch of my family members had gathered to watch my great-nephew's soccer game. I was holding my grandson, Jude, who is 13 months old. He was very eager to get down and toddle around, which was not possible because of the soccer game in progress directly in front of us. I remarked that we needed a leash for him like the one I had used for Kyle when he was a toddler. When he overheard that, Kyle was incensed. "Mother!" he shouted. "How could you do that to me?"

I tried to calm him down. "Son. I was trying to keep you safe." Kyle was an energetic child, to say the least. He did not appreciate lounging in the comfort of a stroller. He wanted down. He was also an escape artist. He could wriggle out of the stroller straps in the blink of an eye. He was curious and fearless as well. He took off in a shot whenever he saw the least opportunity . . . down the street,  across the store, anywhere. (Actually, all of this is still true about him, even as an adult, although I haven't actually tried to keep him strapped in a stroller in many, many years.)

So, with the trouble I had keeping him contained (and with another son just 23 months older to also keep under control), in desperation I bought a leash especially created for children. I tried explaining that to Kyle last Saturday. "Son. It wasn't a dog leash. It was made to keep children safe." In spite of my explanation, he still seemed shocked and resentful. Discussing it at the soccer game reminded me of the affronted looks and snide remarks I used to get from other people when they saw me with my toddler son on a leash. Even with logical and valid reasons, there seems to be something innately shocking about the idea of having a child on a leash. I'm not sure why. We think it is perfectly fine to keep our dogs safe by using leashes. Shouldn't we be as careful with our children? Maybe we think it looks like we haven't successfully taught them to sit still and behave themselves if we resort to such measures. I freely admit I was not totally successful in that area when my children were toddlers. Toddlers are hard-wired to want to move around and explore.

Every few minutes for the duration of the soccer game, Kyle exclaimed, "Mother! Really! A leash?" or something similar. At one point, he launched into a discussion of how he was going to do it differently when (if) he has children. He told us he was going to discuss the need for safety with his toddler and use reasoning to keep his child safe instead of (gasp!) a leash. We all laughed heartily at those unenlightened remarks. We'll see.

After we all went our separate ways on Saturday, I was rather worried that Kyle was still upset over the whole incident. From listening to him that day, you would have thought that I had just informed him that we had found him living in a den with a pack of wolves when he was an infant and hadn't ever told him until just then. Fortunately, he called a couple of days later to chat. Before we got off the phone, he assured me that, while he had been surprised to be told of his time on a leash, he had mostly been exaggerating his horror to entertain the group. I breathed a sigh of relief. As a parent, you hate to think you have caused your child (even a grown child) horrible trauma. Just before we ended our phone conversation, I told him, "Well, if you decide you need therapy to get over this, I will pay for it." :)