Life Laid Down

As a prisoner of the Imperial Japanese Army in the jungles of Thailand during WWII, Ernest Gordon, a commander in a Scottish infantry battalion, saw firsthand the depths of depravity that can happen when man sinks to his lowest.

At age 24, Gordon was captured while escaping from Sumatra after the fall of Singapore. With other prisoners he was marched into the jungle to build the notorious bridge on the River Kwai.

Starvation, beatings, disease, and dawn-to-dusk slave labor were hallmarks of the death camp. The Scottish and British soldiers, normally bastions of composure, good cheer, and self-discipline, were slowly influenced by death’s destructive grip. Morale broke down, along with concern for one’s fellow man.

Over time, “nothing mattered except to survive,” wrote Gordon. “We lived by the law of the jungle, survival of the fittest. It was a case of ‘I look out for myself and to hell with everyone else.’ The weak were trampled underfoot, the sick ignored or resented, the dead forgotten. All restraints of morality [were] gone.”

Then, slowly, something remarkable began to emerge in the camp.

 

·        Selflessness. A few officers began to pool their meager resources. They sent food to the sick prisoners holed up in the makeshift dispensary.

·        Compassion. Gordon himself became gravely ill, and two fellow soldiers, Dusty and Dinty, volunteered to come by every day and wash his wounds.

“Several men,” Gordon wrote, “in the midst of widespread degradation and despair, kept their integrity inviolate and their faith whole.”

The supreme example of a different way of living came to a climax one horrific evening after a long day of hard labor.

That night, when the tools were counted, a Japanese guard announced that one shovel was missing. One of the prisoners had stolen the shovel to sell on the black market, it was assumed. The crime was heinous, the guard railed. The perpetrator had maligned the Emperor himself, an act punishable by death.

The guard lined up the men in the work party and demanded that whoever took the shovel confess. No one did. The guard ranted and screamed, denouncing the men for their wickedness. His rage reached a new level.

“All die! All die!” the guard shrieked. He pointed his rifle at the crowd and set his finger on the trigger. The prisoners knew he was serious.

Calmly, quietly, from the back of the work party, one solitary man stepped forward.

“I did it,” the man said.

The guard unleashed his fury on the man. In front of the rest of the prisoners, a contingent of armed guards standing by, he beat the man bloody with the butt of his rifle, crushing the man’s skull.

When the tools were counted again, it was found that all the shovels were there.

The guard had miscounted.

One man died in the dust and dirt of the death camp by the River Kwai.

One man died so that others might live.

“It was dawning on us all,” Gordon wrote, “that the law of the jungle is not the law for man. We were seeing for ourselves the sharp contrast between the forces that made for life, and those that made for death.

“Selfishness, hatred, envy, jealousy, greed, self-indulgence, laziness, and pride were all anti-life.

“Love, heroism, self-sacrifice, sympathy, mercy, integrity, and creative faith, on the other hand, were the essence of life, turning mere existence into living in its truest sense.

“These were the gifts of God to men.”

 

* Read more about Ernest Gordon’s life story in the classic book,

Through the Valley of the Kwai, Harper & Row, 1962.

 

Question: what ways have you seen the “essence of life” at work?

How Effective is Your Will-Power?

Early in the morning at a recent conference, I deliberately decided that when lunchtime arrived, I was not going to eat dessert.

I wanted to be sharp that afternoon. I was scheduled to interview an author, and I didn’t want a big glop of sugar muddling my system.

Lunchtime arrived. I expected to eat buffet-style, where you pick and choose what you want. Instead, we 350 attendees bellied up to roundtables. The caterers plunked the main course down in front of us, pre-plated, like your mother would do. Eat up, son.

Dessert was served the same way. A slice of cheesecake was slid in front of each attendee. The caterers were running at full-tilt. No option to decline was offered.

I stared at that cheesecake in front of me. I stared hard. I hadn’t chosen it, and I’d already made a deliberate decision to say no. But the whipped cream looked so smooth. So velvety.

I ate the cheesecake.

In the heat of the moment, a man’s logic doesn’t work as well as he thinks it will. His brain shuts off, or he’s tired and wants a pick-me-up, and the deliberate decisions he made in cooler moments tend to be forgotten. What then?

Fast forward 11 hours. The conference was over, my interview was done, and I drove back to my hotel room in the rental car. I reviewed my notes, called my wife and said goodnight, and settled in to watch some TV before sleep.

Now, before I had ever arrived in that hotel room, I had deliberately decided that I wouldn’t watch anything harmful on TV. Visual garbage is not a chosen part of my life. It muddles my relationship with my wife, wastes time, and destroys self-respect.

But when I turned on the TV in the hotel room, the regular channels didn’t come on at first, as they seldom do anymore in hotel rooms. A screen came up—and the option staring me straight in the face was for adult channels.

I stared at that option like I’d stared at the pre-plated cheesecake. I stared hard. I hadn’t chosen the adult channels, and I’d already made a deliberate decision to say no. But the option had been set right in front of me, and I am red-blooded like any male.

Have you ever been there?

Well-meaning leaders are quick to say that sheer will-power is the key. A man always has the option to say no. So grit your teeth dude, and turn it off.

But a recent New York Times article showed that sheer will-power isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Will-power is actually a limited resource, the study found. Will-power gets depleted throughout the day, and the more stressed we are or the more decisions we make, the less self-control we have come evening.

That’s bad news for a man alone in a hotel room.

What’s the solution?

A wise leader prepares in advance, while his logic is still sharp, for the moments in the future when his will-power inevitably won’t be as strong. He uses his will-power, yes, but he’s wary of it, too. He knows it can be depleted, so he plans ways to make it as difficult as he can for his illogical self to take him down wrong roads.

It’s the same principle as that used by a man who turns over his keys to a designated driver at the start of a party, not the end.

Here are two actions I’ve taken:

·         Install a filter.

I use a family filter called Covenant Eyes on all my computers. It’s about $5 per month, and sometimes means a slight inconvenience, but the service is well worth it—not just for me, but for all members of my household.

Having a family filter is a sign of strength, not weakness. A man wants to safeguard what’s valued.

·         Develop accountability.

Whenever I travel by myself, I’ve set up an accountability system where I phone a trusted friend after the trip and we talk through any integrity issues. I’ve given this man permission to ask me any hard question, and I’ve vowed to always answer honestly.

Again, that’s strength, not weakness. The decision is rooted in a desire for integrity.

That night after the conference, fortunately I flipped channels and didn’t watch anything harmful on TV. For that moment, my will-power worked, and I had the good sense to move on, no matter how tantalizing the dessert might have looked.

I don’t say that to pat myself on the back. And not every decision I’ve made has been as wise.

I say it because this is every man’s battle, and I’m with you in the fight. 

 

Question: How do you best safeguard your integrity?

 

In Defense of America

The United States gets its share of heat. America meddles too much in other people’s affairs, people say. Live and let live, and keep your neo-colonialist fingers out of other people’s business.

True, this country makes its share of mistakes. But, in spite of our collective shortcomings, there is still much to admire in this country. We Americans can—and should—hold our heads high.

 

This endorsement comes from a foreigner, actually. I grew up in British Columbia, came to America when I was 17, and have chosen to live here for the 27 years since. It felt mighty strange for me as a freshman in college to register for the American draft. When I first heard students saying the Pledge of Allegiance, I didn’t know the words.

I’ve grown to admire this country deeply though, and today it feels like home. Perhaps, because I’m still a relative newcomer, I’m permitted to tell a few stories that may counter some of the anti-American sentiment that at times shows up among our colleagues, acquaintances, and sometimes even ourselves.

Hopefully these stories cool the heat, offer perspective, and invite discussion. Let me tell just two.

Story one:

A while back I was talking with some Canadians friends. Good guys, yet both had adopted an arm’s length perspective about America. We were bullies, they said. Or at least the rest of the world looked at the U.S. that way.

Perhaps, I said. But hostilities exist, so how does North America collectively meet them? Consider that Canada itself is a country rich in natural resources—timber, oil, fishing, and minerals.

Plenty of other countries (or the militant extremists within their countries) want what Canadians have, and not all of those other countries are on friendly terms with the Great White North. What’s to prevent any of those rogue countries from marching into Canada and taking charge?

Nothing against the Canadian military, but it’s necessarily small by comparison. The larger America military is simultaneously protecting Canada’s interests too. It puts a person in a difficult position to both criticize something and benefit from it at the same time.

And other countries besides Canada fall into this same boat. Some may like the sound of this, and some may not, but most of the free world benefits either directly or indirectly from the umbrella of protection offered by the American military.

“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf,” wrote George Orwell.

That’s what I tried to communicate to my friends. Don’t kick over the ladder you stand on. When I lived in Canada, I, too, benefited from the protection of the United States. That instills gratitude in me, not derision.

Story two:

On a recent taxi ride from a hotel to the Dallas airport, I struck up a conversation with the driver. He was wrinkled and gray-haired and told me how he had lived in Ethiopia as younger man. He loved his country of origin, but the government there had squashed him and his family, and he was forced to flee.

During the asylum process, he was given the choice to live anywhere in the world. He chose the U.S.A.

I asked what he thought of his decision today.  

“I’ve never regretted it,” he said. “Not for a moment. My children grew up well in America. My daughter became a nurse. My son an architect. My wife and I have always had a clean place to live, a car, and enough food on our table. It sure wasn’t like that in our home country.”

I love that story. Versions of it can be found in every state in the union. We were all foreigners once, and either we or our ancestors came to this country looking for a better life.

Years ago, Thomas Jefferson had this crazy idea that all men are created equal. Each person has the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

That’s what this country is all about at its core—the idea that all people are free to make something of their lives.

Man, that’s a good idea. A great idea, in fact.

Sure, this country has made mistakes, and I hope we never cease to debate those mistakes vigorously and set those mistakes right whenever possible.

But, in spite of our collective mistakes, there is still much to admire in this country.

We Americans can—and should—hold our heads high.

 

Question: What else is to admire about America?

 

 

When Daughters Wish their Fathers were Celebrities

“Dad,” said my 9-year-old daughter, Addy. “Some kid in the park asked me if you’re a celebrity. Are you?”

“What did you say?” I asked, curious about how she answered the question.

“That you sign autographs, speak all over the place, and write all those boring books for grownups. So I guess that makes you a celebrity.”

I could see pride in my daughter’s face. As well as uncertainty.

“Well … maybe I’m sort of a celebrity to a small group of readers,” I said. “But I’m not like Justin Bieber or iCarly or anybody, so I wouldn’t exactly call me a celebrity.”

“Oh,” Addy said flatly. She frowned, clearly disappointed.

It’s easy for parents, particularly us dads, to want to be celebrities in the eyes of our children. We want to be the people they brag about to their friends, the red-caped superheroes in our children’s eyes, the men worthy of their awe.

A few weeks back I met an everyday dad who, by all practical definitions, should be a huge celebrity in the book world. He’s co-authored books with far-reaching implications, books that have undoubtedly impacted your life, although his influences are so subtle they often go unnoticed to the average eye.

He and I were part of a team of editorial consultants brought in to work on a book with another, much huger author. This everyday dad could have been as famous as the huger author, yet he’s worked hard to keep his name out of the limelight, and purposely led a quiet life. I asked him why.

“My three kids are still at home,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re my first priority, and I want to invest every hour available in my children while I can.”

Invest every hour available.

Good words for a dad to remember.

After the consulting session was over, I flew home and drove across town to my kids’ day camp, which was having a “family fun night” complete with games and prizes. Both my kids ran to greet me, and we hugged for a long time.

First priority was balloon animals. Zach, our 4-year-old, was eager for a yellow giraffe. And Addy, with more coolness, wanted a penguin.

We lined up with all the other kids and parents in the balloon maker’s line.

Now, I had just spent the last 10 hours standing in airport lines and being wedged into airplane seats. I had endured jaw dropping turbulence over a rain-soaked Denver that had caused the middle-aged woman ahead of me to repeatedly shriek POR EL AMOR DE DIOS!

The absolutely last thing I felt like doing was standing in one more line that evening. But there I was with my two kids, the line slowly inching forward. I tapped my foot, thinking, You know, if I were a balloon animal maker with a long line waiting, it would be: snake; sword; snake; sword.

But no. Our balloon animal maker was a master perfectionist. The Michelangelo of balloon animal makers. We were eighth in line, and it took him 60 minutes—one solid hour—to shape the seven animals for the seven kids ahead of us.

Finally we reached him. An exquisitely-crafted giraffe and penguin became ours at last. My kids were happy. And I was happy. We could finally go home.

I bet you’ve stood in a similar long line for your kids when you didn’t want to. Maybe literally. Maybe metaphorically.

Nothing against Justin Bieber or iCarly, but neither one of those celebrities is going to do that for my kids.

That’s why an involved, time-engaged parent who puts his children’s needs ahead of his own will always be the true man of awe for his children, every time he invests every hour available, whether his kids realize the far-reaching importance of those actions or not.

You see, since the evening in the balloon maker’s line, I’ve changed my mind on how I define the word.

The next time some kid in the park asks my daughter if her dad’s a celebrity,

I’m going to tell her to say yes.

 

Question: What is one simple thing you’ve done to show your kids you’re available to them?