Because of Who You Are

I experienced 2 incidents this week that reinforced the notion that we are ever in the spotlight as leaders, whether we intended to be or not. Both of these I would have taken for granted but for being attuned to opportunities to wield the influence others grant me.

The first occurred as I was shaving. My son came in to the bathroom and immediately wanted to shave also. This in itself was not a surprise, as he does this from time to time, but then he asked me a good question, “Dad, why do you shave?”

“Because I have to,” I responded.

“Do I need to shave?” he asked.

“Well, not really,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Is it fun to shave?” he continued.

“Not really.”

“Is it fun for you to shave?” I asked.

“No, not really,” he replied.

“Then why do you do it?”

“I guess because you do.”

I guess because you do. That won’t be the only thing he does just because I do it, and I am certain that whoever your followers are, there are things they are doing, or trying to do, for one simple reason: because the leader does it.

The next incident involved not one of my own children, but one of their teammates on the soccer team I coach. We saw him at the 4th of July parade in our town and greeted him. As he walked away, he moved quickly to his mom, and I overheard his raised voice telling her that he had seen “his coach,” a fact about which he was obviously animated.

I hadn’t done anything special or out of the ordinary. I was just “his coach.”

I was “just” shaving–something I do without thinking about it.

But someone else is thinking about it. Someone else is watching.

Live up to their eyes.

When Followers Are Away

My children are staying with close family friends for a few days in order to attend a camp.

In some ways, this provides a welcome respite from the norm, and enables my wife and I to spend time together without the usual interruptions and distractions of our regular routine.

It is also, however, disconcerting for a few reasons.  First, the obvious concerns about how our children will behave in our absence linger.  This, though, provides an insight into leadership: it is how followers conduct themselves when the leader is not present that reflects most accurately the quality of the leader’s influence and training.  Followers must be trusted to carry themselves well, praised when they do, and gently restored when they do not.  Otherwise, they will remain in constant need of their leaders’ actual presence, which hinders growth and desirable outcomes of all kinds.

Maybe more important, though, is the second reason: it is disconcerting for me as a leader, and I must be aware of my own feelings in order to lead well.  The simple fact is, I miss my kids.  I am affected when they are away; I am emotionally attached to them because of my compassion for them, my investment in them, my hope for their futures.

And this is a good gauge for how committed we are as leaders.  How emotionally attached are we to those who follow us?  How invested are we in hoping for the futures of those who look to us for leadership?

We can find out by listening to our hearts when they are away.

An Open Letter to Fathers

We are someone’s hero.

Though we feel as though we have failed in moments—even many of them—the fact remains.  We are the most important person in someone else’s life, someone who suffers without our countenance.

It is a heavy burden to bear, being a father.  It involves so much more than paternity; so much more than position.  We have an inheritance to give, a legacy to bequeath.  Our best intentions will not ensure it; only our actions will.  We cannot take for granted that position or presence will suffice.  No, those must be coupled with the hard work of attention.

Are we paying attention?

It is attention that determines our outcomes as a father.  We will be judged, almost exclusively, on whether or not we paid attention. 

And so much rides on whether or not we pay attention.  Others soar or crash with or without it.  We have experienced this, no doubt, ourselves; we know it to be true.  And yet, it is so easy to become distracted, distant, selfish.

But prioritization is the antidote for distraction.  It is well within our reach, but how often do we reach for it? 

It is the heavy burden to bear—being last—serving when we’d rather be served, sacrificing when we’d rather have our own way.  But that is the way of prioritization; that is the way of attention; that is the way of inheritance and legacy, even heroism.  It is the way of fatherhood.

And fatherhood, in its truest forms, extends even to those who are not related to us.  At our best, we pick up where others left off, or never began.  We embrace the burden, learn to love it, let it change us into something we could never have been on our own.

We become fathers.

We become heroes.

And it is never too late to become what we might have been.

Poll: What do you think of the new design?

I’ve made some changes to the layout/design, as well as to the “About” page.  Let me know what you think!

New and Improving

“That’s new and improved right there,” I said, flexing my bicep for my kids to feel it.

We joke around about this a lot, and my children have actually taken to flexing for me, and saying, “Feel that.  Is that new and improved?”  “How about mine?…”

We smile and laugh, but important assumptions (and implications for leadership) lie just beneath the surface: improvement does, in fact, happen, and there’s a way to know how much of it has happened.

For example: last year, running for 20 minutes (2 miles) was an accomplishment for me.  Yesterday, I ran for 77 minutes (over 8 miles).  That’s improvement; it’s measurable, quantifiable.

But that isn’t the point.

The point is the assumption. 

The assumption is not that I have improved, but that I am improving.

I assume it for myself, and others, and I endeavor to drive it.  And that makes the difference between measuring improvement and leading improvement.

Pride Comes Before…

“Pride comes before a fall.”

But not if your pride is in others.

I’ve learned something very important about leadership in the last few weeks, as each member of my family has accomplished something that stirred my pride in them. 

First, I’d been coaching my son in soccer for the last few weeks, and we’d come to the final game.  He’d started out sheepish, not being very aggressive, discouraged when his team wasn’t winning, and not very willing to give his best effort.  During this last game, though, something changed.  We’d been playing in the yard for the last few weeks, and I’d seen him improve just because he’d been gaining familiarity with the ball, but this was different.  All of a sudden he had confidence. 

During the previous several games, he hadn’t yet scored a goal, and I knew he wanted badly to do so.  Not long into the final game, his moment came.  The ball came out of the group to him, and he kicked it through the maze of legs to find the net for our team’s first goal.  He celebrated by running and sliding on the ground (I think his parents let him watch too much television), obviously pleased with his first every tally.  Late in the game, though, the teams were tied, and he got the ball on the sideline.  I barely had a moment to wonder what decision he would make before he made it: he took one player on, cutting to the inside, then another, freeing himself for an unobstructed shot–another goal!  The winning goal!

I smiled, and blinked back tears as I realized that I was prouder of my 7 year old son’s goal than I had ever been of one of my own, or of anyone else’s, though I played and coached at a high level.  In a father’s eyes, this might as well have been the goal that sealed the World Cup.

A few days later, I was informed by my daughter’s school that she would be receiving a special award at the end of the year ceremony at her school.  I rearranged my schedule to be there, and learned that a piece of art she had produced–a cardinal on an evergreen branch– had been chosen to appear as the holiday greeting card for the next school year.  As a result, the school had it framed, and plans to display it in a prominent place.

But the great thing was that they hadn’t told my daughter.  For her, it was a complete surprise.  She heard her name called, and came to the front, where the principal and her art teacher met her with the framed artwork for her to display to the rest of the school.  She was proud and embarrassed all at once, and again, I blinked back the tears of pride, knowing that I was more pleased with this recognition than I ever had been of those I have received myself.  Already she has two framed pictures on display at her school, though she has been there only a year. 

And then, last Saturday, I rose early to run a 5k race with my wife–her first–and encourage her through it.  I kept time for her and tried to help her maintain the pace at which she’d trained, adding encouragement from time to time.  As she increased the pace for the last stretch of the race, I was proud of how well she finished, and of the dedication she’d shown in getting to the point of being able to run that far.  A few hours after the race, we looked at the posted results, and learned that she’d finished in the top quarter of her age group in her very first race!  And one last time I felt more proud of what another had done than of what I had accomplished myself.

Initially, I think it is possible only in our closest relationships that we are happier for the accomplishment of others than we are of our own, yet it is the maturation of leadership that extends this pride to others who are outside that immediate circle, and draws them into it as a result.

Pride comes before a fall, but not when you are leading well.

“Fans”

Last week, I posted about my neighbor–a fan of Illinois, but a bigger fan of his son.

Unfortunately, I came upon his antithesis recently.

I was watching my nephew’s high school baseball game–a regional final.  In the late innings of a close game, one of my nephew’s teammates had advanced to third base, but made a base running error and was picked off.  It was a big mistake; one that shouldn’t have happened; one that put the team’s chances of winning in jeopardy.

I didn’t see the reactions of his teammates, but his coach threw his hat on the ground in disgust and glared at the player upon his return to the dugout.

Strike one for his confidence, I thought.

Unfortunately, though, it didn’t end there.  His father was pacing the sidelines, cursing aloud and deriding his son’s mistake.  When the boy’s mother tried to intervene, saying, “he’s just a kid; he already feels bad enough,” her husband responded with, “this isn’t little league anymore, and he’s going to feel even worse when I talk to him about it.”

Strike two.

The player came up later in the game and got a crucial hit.  His team won, but it was clear his father hadn’t forgotten the incident.  The good play he made hadn’t made up for the error he committed earlier.

Strike three.

These scene, or one very much like it, plays out altogether too regularly at our parks, in our homes, and in our organizations.  

When I think about the two examples of fans I’ve seen in the last couple of weeks, I certainly know which leader I’d rather play for.  But the leadership question is, “What kind of leader am I?”

Do people want to play for you or not?  How do you know?

Fans

My neighbor is a big University of Illinois fan.  He graduated from there; his wife graduated from there; they fly a big orange flag outside their house almost year ’round; they wear Illini clothing.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I saw him in his driveway last week wearing a brand new University of Indiana sweatshirt.

I had to ask, and as I did, I realized he had replaced the Illinois flag with the crimson banner of Indiana.

“Why?”

“Our son was accepted to Indiana, and will be going there in the fall,” he replied.

My neighbor is a fan of the Illini, but he is a bigger fan of his son.  It is one thing to support, but it is another to support in spite of your own biases and preferences in favor of those you serve.  My neighbor and his wife have done that, to their great credit.

Accommodating the Needs of Others

My wife handles the hair braiding duties in our house. (This should come as a surprise to no one.)

She was away tonight, though, so I bathed our kids and got them ready for bed. I do this regularly, and I actually can braid my daughter’s hair, but it is never as good as when my wife does it. Furthermore, my wife often uses a French braid, which is better, as it stays in overnight despite having been slept on.

I’ve watched her do this many times, and decided that tonight I would try it. Most of the reason for this is that I know my daughter likes it better when she has a “tight braid,” as she calls it.

It turned out OK. Still not as good as my wife’s, but when it was finished, my daughter turned around and said, “this one is better than your usual braids.”

Mission accomplished.

Simple and everyday, but meaningful because it sent the message to my daughter that I was willing not only to try something I might not be good at on her behalf, but also to learn her preferences and seek to accommodate them.

Who could use a little accommodation from you? Whose preferences do you need to spend more time learning?

Assumptions

You don’t need me to tell you that making assumptions can sometimes end badly.

What I learned this week, though, is that others might perceive we are assuming, even when we are not.

My son was playing with a friend on a playground while my daughter was at soccer practice. After they had been gone only a few moments, his friend, crying, returned to her mom.

A minute or two later, my son came to check on his friend.

I just observed from afar, not thinking much of the episode, but when practice had finished and we were returning to the car to go home, I asked my son what had happened.

“She got whacked,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Were you the one who whacked her?” I asked.

“No, some kid poured water on her,” he replied.

Later that night, I apologized to him.

Here’s why: I wasn’t assuming that he’d been the one to harm his friend, and then gone to check on her, but the question I asked might have led him to believe that’s what I thought.

I needed to apologize, clarify, and encourage him–he’d actually been a terrific friend–stopping what he’d been doing to see that his playmate was OK.

And he needed to hear the encouragement that what he did was right, instead of thinking, or even wondering, whether or not I assumed the worst.

As a leader, I have to be careful not just about what I assume, but also about what other people think I might be assuming.

A tall order to be sure, but such is the mantle of leadership.