“Love your enemies.”

—Jesus

Nope, not going to do it.

It makes a ton of sense to love friends, sure. To love our neighbors as ourselves. Even to love people from whom we might gain something.

But to love our enemies? Nah, we hate these folks! At very least, we dislike them powerfully.

On December 20, 1943, in the skies above war-torn Europe, two bitter enemies—an American B-17 bomber pilot and a veteran German fighter ace—met in what is undoubtedly one of World War II’s most remarkable encounters.

The American bomber, piloted by 21-year-old West Virginian Charlie Brown, was severely damaged. Bullets from German fighters had chewed the bomber to pieces. Others bullets had shot straight through the fuselage, and several crew members had been hit and were near death.

The German fighter plane, piloted by Franz Stigler, was poised to blast the bomber from the sky. It was Franz’s job to kill the enemy. His sworn duty was to triumph in blood.

In fact, encountering a wounded bomber was Franz’s lucky break. Other fighters had already done the initial damage, and when Franz flew up to the bomber, it was the most badly damaged airplane he’d ever seen still flying. That meant an easy target. And in the kill-or-be-killed quest to reach air superiority, the odds against the German’s survival were much worse than the American’s. Of the 40,000 German fighter pilots in WWII, only 2,000 survived.

But what happened in that tense moment when Franz and Charlie came to stare at one another across the frozen skies only can be described as otherworldly.

The American 8th Air Force would, in fact, classify the incident as top secret for decades.

The German military sealed the record as well. Franz was ordered never to speak of the act again, at risk of facing a firing squad.

What happened was, very simply . . . mercy.

Franz didn’t turn his machineguns on the Americans.

Instead, Franz risked his own reputation, career, and even life, to fly for miles in close proximity to the bomber’s wingtip, providing a “shield” for the damaged enemy plane.

Instead of killing his enemy, the German fighter pilot escorted the sputtering American bomber to safety.

Some explain what happened that day as two warriors fighting under the ancient code of chivalry. The enemies respected each other, at very least.

Others see the incident as an isolated glitch. It was a moment of extraordinarily odd warfare, never to be repeated.

For some, it can be surprising, even unnerving, to discover that a member of “the wrong side” can be decent.

I call the incident true religion.

In incidents of war, like in incidents of life, even good men sometimes forget their own souls. When German fighter Ace Franz Stigler was alone in the presence of his enemy, he was master of his own decisions. His enemies’ lives were in his hands. Yet Franz chose to remember his humanity.

He flew by a higher call.

Today, when we are in the presence of people we dislike, or people who may actually be our enemies, our invitation is to do the same.

Read the fuller account of Franz Stigler and Charlie Brown in the new book A Higher Call (Penguin) by Adam Makos with Larry Alexander, available everywhere December 19.

Question: Have you ever ‘loved’ an enemy or seen an incident where someone else has? What happened?

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0425252868/ref=as_li_tf_til?tag=buccomsboo-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0425252868&adid=1VDYCGFW825T24EKN8QR&&ref-refURL=http%3A%2F%2Fmbtesters.blogspot.com%2F

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Dateline: two weeks after the election, everywhere, USA

 . . . and another thing, Mr. President. Just wanted to say congratulations, shake your hand and all that.

It’s been a long, hard election season, and we voters did a swell job raising complex questions with no easy answers. Even though we’d like those easy answers to exist.

So solving all the problems of the world is your job for another four years. Let’s get on with business, alrighty?

I wonder if you could do something about the economy. Do it quick. We need jobs, and we need them bad. Higher wages all around would be nice too . . . particularly for me.

And it would be swell if you could end all the wars around the globe. Every war that’s ever happened is the responsibility of the POTUS, so keep our military small and politically correct, while still protecting our domestic and international interests—okay?

By the way, Mr. President, you need to make sure we’re well respected in the world. Not seen as arrogant, because we don’t want other nations thinking we’re strutting our stuff. But we need to be seen as powerful—really powerful—even to those dictator types like Chavez who only understand power their way. So could you sort that out please, Mr. President?

And, Mr. President, would you put it on your agenda tomorrow to stop global warming? Man, I’m sick of taking vacations in the rain. I want a president who ensures no weird weather from here on out. Your new middle name needs to be Mr. Sunny Days President. No crop failures. No hurricanes like we had a few weeks ago with Sandy. No famine or pestilence. Never.

And another thing, Mr. President: Would you puh-leez fix health care? I hate spending more each month on health care than I do on my mortgage. But for goodness sake, don’t do what the Canadians did. If we’ve got the flu, we want to be able see our doctors more than once in five years. Well, maybe you should kinda do what the Canadians did. You know—make health care ABSOLUTELY FREE and all.

Could you make sure America stays middle class? Keep out the Mexicans is what I’m talking about. And the Pakistanis, they’re starting to worry me. And anyone with the last name Ahmadinejad. But I don’t want to carry a passport when I fly. And I don’t want to be profiled. You’re really starting to press my civil rights, Mr. President. So just watch it, okay?

And another thing, Mister President—don’t spend any more money. But make sure the roads are fixed, the schools aren’t shuttered, and no child gets left behind.

Thanks, Mr. President. It’s gonna be a great next four years.

Question: What do you hope President Obama accomplishes (or not) in the next four years?

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That morning at the 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.

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?

In the heat of the moment, a man’s logic doesn’t work so well. 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.

Well-meaning leaders are quick to say that sheer willpower 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 willpower isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Willpower is actually a limited resource, the study found. Willpower 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 willpower inevitably won’t be as strong. He uses his willpower, 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 willpower 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?

Links:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/21/magazine/do-you-suffer-from-decision-fatigue.html?_r=2&pagewanted=all

http://www.covenanteyes.com/

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In May 2004 at age 35, I officially opened my own editorial business.

Five months later, my business officially failed.

What followed was what my wife, Mary Margaret and I, today call “our poor season.” We weren’t poor by global standards—we still had a roof over our heads and ate three meals a day.

But by G8 standards, we were broke. We were uncertain about how to pay our bills, in danger of losing our house, and fearful and stressed about our immediate and future financial situation.

During the winter of 2004-2005, I applied for more than 80 jobs. I went on interviews, attended job fairs, networked with business owners, and passed out copies of my résumé by the dozen.

Blame the collapse of the newspaper industry. The field was flooded with hungry, well-credentialed journalists looking for work. Time after time, the answer was no.

Today, almost a decade later, Mary Margaret and I talk with people who have experienced similar seasons. We have good friends, for instance, a surgeon and his wife, who tell about the few years in medical school right after their daughters were born. They lived in an apartment with rats.

It’s fair to say that many people go through at least one season of financial difficulty sometime in their lives. It’s often part of the ladder-climbing experience when just starting out. Or it occurs between jobs, or is due to an injury or downed economy.

This is what we learned about poor seasons from talking with others, and also from our own experience.

1. You discover you have good friends.

Some people experience financial difficulty and react by feeling embarrassed. They clam up and try to keep up appearances of financial success. We chose to go other direction. We openly talked about our situation with the people closest to us, seeking their emotional support and gleaning their advice.

It’s funny. Word gets around, and weird things begin to happen. Someone brought us ham. Another person fixed our car for free. If you’re normally in the position of being self-sufficient, it can feel strange at first to receive the kindness of people in your community.

But it didn’t feel like a hand out to us. It felt like a hand up. People knew we would do it for them if needed, and it was simply our turn to receive.

2. Your character gets shaped for the better.

I don’t look back and speak about our poor season with fondness. Those weren’t “the good old days,” and, no, I’d never want to go through that time again. But out of that season came good. It created empathy with people who struggle financially. It created a good type of humility, a recognition that we’re all in this life-thing together.

And it created an appreciation for the simple things of life. I remember when my wife and I were finally able to afford a $40 Costco membership. We were literally wahooing and giving each other high–fives.

3. Desperation can become one of your greatest allies.

If you have a job you dislike and dream of doing something different, it can be easy to continue on year after year. You’re filled with angst, but your steady salary makes it difficult to walk away.

Desperation can provide the courage needed. The same is true if you’re flat out of work. During our poor season, I became fearless in how I approached my job search. I’d talk to anybody, anytime, about any opening. I’d brazenly ask people for career-oriented favors—either to be introduced their boss or to put in a good word for me about an opening.

Ultimately, my desperation propelled me to create my own job. Several months later I restarted my editorial company. And the second time around, it succeeded.

How about you?

Have you ever gone through a “poor season?” Perhaps you’re there now. What have you learned along the way?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G8

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When 20-year-old Burton “Pat” Christenson went to war in 1942, he took with him something tough men aren’t often known to carry.

In addition to his rifle, grenades, and a trench knife, he carried a sketch pad.

Pat joined Easy Company of the 101^st Airborne, the elite fighting unit eventually nicknamed the Band of Brothers. He wanted to do his duty and “get to the heart of the fighting,” he wrote in a letter home.

The young man emerged as the strongest of the strong. At Camp Toccoa, where the men trained, Pat held the camp physical fitness record. A remarkable feat, considering the strength, agility, and speed of the men he competed against.

A true renaissance man, Pat also emerged as the unofficial artist of the company. Pat had never studied art formally, but he loved to draw. The art helped him cope, said his son in an interview with me. It helped him process the unthinkable.

Pat parachuted into Normandy on D-Day. He fought in the mud and blood of Operation Market Garden, and in the hunger and snow of Bastogne. He filled page after page with detailed pencil sketches of the war.

Pat’s art is graphic, vivid. One sketch shows a soldier clutching his hand over his eye. The soldier’s been hit by shrapnel, and blood gushes around his hand and spills over his face. The soldier’s other eye is open in shock. He’s aware of the horror that’s happened to him.

“Only those who were wounded severely,” Pat scrawled underneath the sketch, “know the conflicting emotions and anxieties that race through a person’s brain, if one is still conscious after being hit.”

He drew pictures of the fighting in Belgium. One shows a man’s leg exploding, being hit from mortar fire, the picture a tribute to his friends Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye, who both lost legs in Bastogne.

Pat was wounded more than once, but he lived through the war. He came home in 1945 and went on to lead a productive, community-minded life. He worked for the telephone company in Oakland, California, and opened a gym on the side. Famed body-builder Jack LaLanne frequented Pat’s gym and became a friend.

Pet married and fathered three sons. He bought a big house with a huge yard and built an elaborate wooden decking around an exquisite ornamental garden, which he planted and shaped. Whenever the nightmares from the war became too much, he paced around his backyard sanctuary in the moonglow until he could sleep again.

Pat continued his artwork in various mediums. He built birdhouses and made intricate wood carvings that were sold in gift shops in San Francisco and Sausalito. He picked up pieces of cedar and pine in the Sierras and carved figurines. Each year he handcrafted Christmas cards and sent them to his war buddies.

He lived richly and lived well. His friends and community admired and respected him. Eventually he succumbed to lung cancer, and Pat died at home in 1999, his three sons near his side.

Pat Christenson’s story is remarkable in many ways, but what can’t be missed is the important place of art in this warrior’s life.

We men are often taught to bottle our feelings. Or we’re told early that art is only for girls.

But inside every man is a deep-seated need to engage in art.

I’ve noticed a change, fortunately, in how everyday men are viewing art. Manly art is making a big comeback. And I’m not talking about professional art. I’m talking about the art we do for ourselves.

Among my friends, I know:

• An executive manager who sculpts industrial art in his garage with a welding torch.

• A real estate agent who paints on the side. In his portfolio are images of backyard trails he’s wandered in his youth.

• An I.T. consultant who photographs sunsets, cityscapes, and mountains in the snow.

• A fireman who carves wooden boats.

Not all men go to war, but all men encounter challenges that require a processing work. The healthier we are, the more we learn to recognize and articulate our emotions. Art provides a vehicle for self-expression. We grab our experiences and press them through a medium that reacts.

If you’re searching for a way to process what you’re going through, you don’t need anybody’s permission to be an artist.

Every man is an artist—permission’s already granted. It’s ingrained in the legacy of men like Pat Christenson. Simply pull out a sketchpad, set up an easel, fire up a blowtorch, or grab a lump of clay.

What happens next is up to you.

Question: In what ways is art part of your life?

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“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?

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This morning I’ve budgeted two hours to write a blog post. But so far it’s all trash.

I’ve sat and sat and stared at my computer screen and scratched my head and looked up articles and phoned a lifeline and asked the audience, but I still can’t think of a single thing to write about.

Ever been there?

Truth is, I’m zonked. I’ve been on three out-of-town research trips lately. I’ve been rushing to meet two huge deadlines.

Ironically, my mind—because it’s too full—is completely blank.

Blah, blah, blah.

So here’s what I’m going to do, folks. Right now, at this exact minute, I’m going to …

TAKE A BREATHER

And leave.

Maybe I’ll just drive around for awhile. Maybe I’ll take a walk.

Here I go . . .

Okay, now it’s 30 minutes later, and I’m back at my desk. While I was out, my mind started working again, and I thought of this illustration.

The year after college, my good buddy Paul and I took a road trip around the western states of America. One morning just over the Wyoming state line, I was driving and there was nobody out except us, and right in the middle of a highway we needed to screech to a stop because a herd of sheep was crossing the road.

Yep.

We sat and sat. We sat some more. Something was wrong with the sheep, I guess, because they wouldn’t cross the road like they needed to. So the sheepherders were running back and forth and shouting at the sheep to move their fleecy hinnies, but the sheep just weren’t crossing.

A half hour went by. We kept sitting, engines off. During that time a grand total of five cars backed up behind us. Rush hour in Wyoming.

Finally all the sheep all got across the road, and we were given the signal for traffic to go again.

Boy, it was like a starter’s gun went off. You’d have thunk we’d been waiting for years. We five cars pressed forward in a frenzy. All of us were accelerating and weaving, passing each other and honking, all bucking for position, all trying to get ahead. You’d have thought we were in a NASCAR race.

If you could have been in a helicopter right then, you would have seen a completely blank stretch of highway for miles in any direction. But we five cars were bunched together, all desperately trying to be first.

I remember thinking how stupid we all were, even while I had my foot to the floorboard.

So I did perhaps one of the smartest driving moves I’ve ever done.

I pulled off beside the side of the road and let the pack zoom ahead.

That’s the lesson.

Whether you’re sitting at your desk and work isn’t getting done. Or you’re on a freeway with a gang of cars.

Take a breather, speedy Gonzales.

Just take a breather.

Sometimes it’s the best thing you can ever do.

Question: What’s your best technique for taking a breather?

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In most work cultures, an unwritten rule exists that you need to be busy all day long—or at least you need to look busy. Be busy, busy, busy—that’s the expectation.

For instance, when I was working as a newspaper reporter, it just wouldn’t have flown in the newsroom if, during the middle of the day, I had lain down on the floor with my arms behind my head and stared at the ceiling for half an hour.

But I propose that sometimes that’s exactly what a leader needs to do.

A leader needs to purposely step away from the fray of busyness to collect his thoughts, dream up new ideas, or figure out how existing ideas can be most effectively implemented.

The wise words of author and researcher Bob Passantino come to bear:

“Creative thinking is one of the most important aspects of good research. Don’t think that you’re not working if you’re not pounding on a keyboard or conducting an interview on the phone. Sitting and thinking through your research project, organizing your thoughts and goals, and creating a workable action plan is essential for good research.”

Oh sure, you’ve got to fit your creative thinking into the established cultural practices of your workplace. That might mean going for a walk around the block, or taking a drive, or taking a power nap in your office, or going on a retreat. However you think best.

But be skeptical of the leader who constantly trots around the office all day long with a piece of paper in his hands. He might look like he’s leading, but it may be he’s doing nothing more than running to the water cooler and back, worried he doesn’t look busy enough.

When it comes to the need for creative thinking in leadership situations, I’m reminded of the Herman Melville’s description of the whale harpooner from the classic novel Moby Dick.

In days past, when men used to row out in small boats to hunt whales, one man—the whale harpooner—was responsible for making the first strike into the whale. The harpooner sat at the front of the boat and needed to have a very strong arm and precise aim. Ultimately, the success of the entire mission depended on how effectively the harpooner did his job.

Ironically, for most of the expedition, while every man on board the small whaling boat was furiously at work, the harpooner wasn’t.

All the other men rowed in frenzy.

But the harpooner sat still and undisturbed.

The harpooner wasn’t trying to look busy. He was mentally preparing himself for the vital activity he needed to do. Melville wrote, “The harpooner sits in tranquility and rises with a sense of calm to do his work.”

Real leaders know their task is not simply to look busy.

It’s to sit silently, think creatively, and then in a burst of intensity, strike the whale.

Question: How do you best collect your thoughts, dream up new ideas, or figure out how existing ideas can be most effectively implemented?

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Have you ever thought through the differences between being efficient and being effective?

Some leaders, particularly in this day and age of technological wonders, aim to be efficient above all else. The problem is that efficiency can become synonymous with busyness. And in the fray, effectiveness is forgotten.

Years ago when I worked in a newsroom, one of the main evaluations for our stories was word count. We were a free newspaper and didn’t use any wire services. That meant we had to generate all the content ourselves. Each reporter needed to produce 1,000 researched, written, and edited words per day.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad discipline. We quickly learned how to be good, fast writers who never balked at the sight of a blank sheet of paper. There was an additional expectation that our stories had to be written well, or at least passably well.

But here’s where it got tricky . . .

I confess there were moments—particularly when I was tired or stressed or tight up against a deadline—when all I really wanted to do was hit my word count and go home for the night. I sacrificed effectiveness for the sake of efficiency.

That mindset technically fulfilled the requirements of the job—I was busy getting a lot of words written.

But that mindset didn’t always produce the best writing I could do. I wasn’t always as effective as I could have been.

I don’t fault the newspaper owner. He wanted us to be competent, quick writers who wrote a lot of stories so his business could stay afloat. And to his credit, his business persevered through some very tough years in the newspaper industry.

Down deep, I knew he also cared about producing effective writing. Just like me, he wanted to help people lead better lives.

Have you ever felt that tension?

You need to be efficient,

but you also want to be effective.

Being effective means you work to accomplish a purpose. You produce an intended result. You create actual and significant change. You truly get things done, and done well.

When you evaluate your work habits with an eye to effectiveness, important questions must be asked:

• How much lasting and significant change did my activity produce?

• How well did I connect with people?

• How many people actually read my reports?

• How many people interacted with my tweets, blog posts, or Facebook status updates?

• How many products were genuinely improved by my attention to them?

• How much progress was truly made in the meetings I was in?

• Was there a good reason for doing what I did?

And yes—in the midst of asking all those good questions—is my business staying afloat?

A leader must be efficient, but he must also be effective.

And in the long run, effectiveness should always trump efficiency, never the other way around.

Question: In what ways are you efficient? In what ways are you effective? Do you tend to lean toward one or the other?

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Slightly more than 14 years ago—March 16, 1998, to be exact—a young flaxen-haired beauty and I rode the tramway to the top of a mountain in Palm Springs, California. We walked out into a sunny snowfield in a clearing in the woods. I read portions of my journal to the girl, the parts that talked about the bottomless well of love I’d fallen into. And then I asked her to marry me.

Yes, she said yes, she said yes, she said yes.

As far as it meshes with today’s popular notion of what’s required to get engaged, the girl and I did everything wrong. We hadn’t saved a big pile of money for a fancy wedding. I hadn’t yet bought her a diamond ring worth at least two month’s salary. We barely knew each other. We had never lived together.

They say it takes at least 12 lengthy months to properly plan a wedding. Maybe two full years, if you really want things done right. Give it five years and you’ll really be certain.

But I say you know when you know.

We were married in 12 weeks.

The girl and I moved to Washington State where I worked, and we shared the 500-square-foot apartment I’d kicked around in as a bachelor. We owned one car between us—a Jeep Wrangler—plenty of fun, but low on practicality if you wanted to talk while driving or take a trip with two suitcases. We bought one piece of expensive furniture, a gloriously comfortable couch.

As a wedding present, some jokester gave us a 20,000 piece puzzle. Most of it was featureless blue sky. Over the next six months we worked on that puzzle, frustrated but determined. We finished it, then burned it in the fireplace.

Newly married life was a bit like that puzzle. It required some adjustments, sure. About ten years’ worth, we’d both say today with a grin.

We found it challenging, for instance, to learn all those practical sides of running a household. Who puts the dishes in the dishwasher? Who makes dinner, and what kinds of comments are appropriate when it’s over?

We wrestled with unrealistic expectations. My wife would say, for instance, that no matter how romantic the movies make it seem, it’s completely revolting to wake up and straightaway smooch a person on the mouth.

Oh yeah. There’s junk. People enter a marriage as blemished, imperfect, mistake-making folks. Everyone screams and stomps and throws the remote at the wall when they’re angry.

I did.

I understand why people are hesitant today to offer marriage glowing endorsements. The institution can be a tough road to travel, one that plenty of people stumble along.

Even at the best of times, as my God-fearing grandmother Hazel used to say about her very happy 60-year-marriage to Grandpa Bob, “I never once considered divorce. Murder maybe. But never divorce.”

Strangely enough, she was quoting the late Ruth Graham, wife of Dr. Billy Graham.

That’s Ruth’s and Grandma’s wisdom. Do you see the truth in it? They knew marriage was tough. But they also knew marriage was good. Deep from the beginnings of time, people were meant to be together.

And that’s why I believe in all the potential for wonder and goodness and security and fun that a marriage holds out to people, even today. We are not modern people. Bah. We are not bound by the superfluous conventions that others insist are required before a marriage takes place.

It takes a bold man to get married. You know when you know.

If you are married right now, take this day to remember your engagement. Remember the promise and hope that day held out. Use that memory to fan into flame the love you now have.

And if today you are in a committed relationship and vacillating on the choice of marriage, then my encouragement is to gather your journal and a bouquet of wildflowers, take the tramway to the top of the mountain, and boldly proceed.

Question: What’s the most challenging thing about being married, being single, or being in a close, unmarried relationship?

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