“I’ve just about had enough.”

A phrase most often coupled by parents with “Don’t make me come back there.”

Some how, some way, we all want to set boundaries on what we can live with.  And often, we want to back that up with some promise of force or other action if any one is so bold as to cross that line.  After all, don’t people need to know that invading boundaries invokes consequences?

I’m a boundary-loving person — but not big on consequences.  That’s not to say that I don’t impose consequences.  I’m just not thrilled about it.

Yet, consequences are a natural . . . well, uh . . . consequence of life.  Any action I take or word I speak holds tremendous potential for ripples.  And when the boundaries are the right ones, then the attendant, well-reasoned consequences serve a noble purpose — even if the consequences are difficult.

But what happens if my “line in the sand” is misplaced?

Perhaps because of my distaste for imposing consequences, I’m fairly even-handed in dealing them out.  My difficulty, it seems, comes in staking out the wrong boundaries or sometimes the right boundaries for the wrong reasons.  That’s not to say that the lines I draw aren’t close to the right vicinity.  However, if I can’t explain why they’re there, do I dare defend them?

William Ury in his book, The Power of a Positive No, addresses this problem with his concept of packaging a “No” as three answers.  The first answer is a “Yes!” to yourself and your own values.  The second is a firm “No.” to the person or persons making demands or asking you to shift your boundaries.  The final answer is a “Yes?” that can spur further conversation.

Even though I violated all sorts of writing styles in including them, the punctuation on those answers is important.  The exclamation point on the first “Yes!” shows the enthusiasm and positive energy we should feel in recognizing where our own interests are.  The period on the “No.” makes it a calm, flat statement.  A negative answer is often delivered with anxiety and in a way that provokes argument or, even worse, ends all conversation.  A healthy, well-meaning “No” leaves room for continued dialog.  The question mark on the final “Yes?” invites others into a discussion of what could be.  In other words, “Yes?” says, “Your position or request is outside of my current boundaries.  Could we talk about our common interests and see if there is some place we could agree?  Who knows?  Perhaps our boundaries could use adjustment.”

I’m not sure that my “first yes” in all situations bears that exclamation point.  I doubt whether I’ve always invested in discovering and testing those personal boundaries. Since it’s the first piece of a positive “no,” my work is cut out for me.

I’ll be taking drawing lessons in the near future.  Who would have thought that sketching an exclamation point could present such a challenge?

On her way to pick-up our granddaughter, Landrye, from KidsQuest Day Camp today, Nancy stopped and bought two balloons — a black one and a white one.

With Landrye right beside her, she made her way to the foot of the majestic and moving sculpture, Jacob’s Dream.  Towering high above, Jacob’s ladder to heaven is filled with angels — the largest known depiction of this Old Testament story in the world.  As a spot for special moments, this little bit of West Texas real estate is prime.

A guessing game ensued between grandmother and granddaughter, “What is special and black and white?”

The answers tumbled out rapidly,  “A zebra.  A panda.  A white tiger.”

“Think of one at our house.  Black and white and really special.”

“Snoopy!”

Nancy smiled as she thought of our little dog.  Mottled with black and white fur, she won hearts with her incredibly attractive face and soulful eyes.  Over fourteen years old and a sweetheart, Snoopy was technically a farm dog.  For a number of years, she had been Nancy’s dad’s companion.  Criss-crossing the half-section of farmland, she had proudly chased barn cats and occasional wild turkeys.  Primarily she was known for her tail-wagging.  Standing maybe 8 inches tall to the top of her head, she was a bundle of energy.

When we lost Nancy’s dad, Snoopy moved to her adopted home in the city.  She was a wonderful companion to our old beagle for several years until Tipi moved on to a place in our memories.  Snoopy became the center of our attention and she lavished love on us.

Early this morning, Snoopy spent her last moments with us and on this earth.  Worsening seizures and other complications of a dog whose life would be measured at almost 100 human years brought her to that point of no return.  She left us with her same spirit of sweetness.

The news of her passing was not shared with everyone.

Nancy now turned to Landrye.  “The black balloon stands for our sadness.  The white balloon reminds us of the gladness we feel when we think of God’s care for all creatures great and small.  Now, when we think of Snoopy, we see her released from the pain that her many years brought her.  In our hearts, she’s a puppy again.”

As the balloons left their hands and floated skyward, granddaughter and grandmother felt their sadness and their gladness weave together into a memory.  Landrye understood.  A friend had been lost.

We often measure the passing of someone or some thing loved by releasing only one balloon.  The dark one.  The one of questions.  The one that drains our energy.

Today, Nancy reminded Landrye and me — and now you — of that all-important, all-healing second balloon.

When life presents sadness, God provides gladness.  And that gladness never overshadows the sadness.  Instead it twists together with the threads of difficulties and misfortune to form a fabric that stretches heavenward — our bridge to a loving and caring God.

I don’t get as many letters from credit card companies as I used to.  You see, a little over a year ago, heeding the dire warnings of those who guarantee to protect me from identity bandits, I signed up with a service that monitors my credit accounts and warns me if some dastardly persons are using my good name in a way that drains my money and ruins my reputation.  One of the side benefits is that this service also puts my name on a number of “don’t solicit” lists.

I also signed up for the “do not call me during dinner” service provided by the federal government.  I still have companies calling me — I don’t really expect a government service to be entirely effective (guess there’s still a bit of Republican hanging on) — but now we just use our caller id to screen out those nuisance calls.  Of course, some make their way through and leave messages that I have little interest in.  Mostly political calls (which are exempt from the do not call register) and usually recorded messages from our governor and congressman — both Republicans, by the way.

If you’re thinking that I’m writing here about political affiliation, let me assure you that I’m not — and I am.  What I’m really talking about here is how we take a combination of experiences and brand people with an identity that fits our purposes.

So, if you’re a Republican, it’s easier for you to talk with me about politics if you can assign me the label of Republican or Democrat.  You may get a little edgy if I tell you I’m an Independent or a Libertarian.  I’m not, but let me confuse things even further.  I am actually a member of the “informed voter” party.  And no, that doesn’t mean that I’m really a Republican or a Democrat.  I have definite views and beliefs.  However, you can’t neatly box me in with anyone else.  I can’t vote a straight ticket.

Beyond political parties, we like branding people as liberal or conservative, moderate or progressive, capitalist or communist.  It’s just easier for us.  This spills over into other areas of life, as well.  If we perceive that a person is not as adept in our mother tongue as we are, we talk to them differently.  Have you ever listened in on your conversations with a baby or small child?  Or a foreign speaker?  Or someone with less education?  Or someone from a different race or culture?  It’s often obvious that we choose to categorize such folks rather than to talk to them (and more importantly, about them) as people.

Instead of taking someone else’s private information in order to steal money or misdirect communication, I believe that I may often be guilty of taking personal identities and changing them to what is most convenient to me.  I assign motives and characteristics.  I blame. I seek to exalt myself.

Perhaps I am an identity thief, of sorts.

For today, at least, I’m pledging to drop my labeling scheme.  For today, I will listen to each person who crosses my path as an individual who is worthy of my respect — free from bias.  For today, I promise not to steal the identities of others simply to recraft them for my gain.

Might be a good day to visit with me.

Might even make tomorrow a better day.

Way back in my grade school years, my family took a glorious trip to Fort Worth. It was something school-related, involving my brother Carl’s extracurricular activities. But it was a glorious trip for me because I was allowed to miss school.

Adding to the excitement was our good fortune to stay with friends of my parents who lived in Fort Worth. Their youngest daughter was one year older and I thought of her as more of a cousin. We had great times together.

On this particular trip, I remember sitting in the middle of their living room floor playing some board game. My friend’s mom was baking cookies. Normally, smelling those cookies would be true bliss for me. Unfortunately, I developed a tremendous, sickening headache. And the smell of those cookies became forever attached to memories of the pain I was feeling.

Now, I’m not sure what kind of cookies were being baked. For whatever reason, I have associated macadamia nut cookies with that ugly experience. So through the years, I have avoided macadamia nut cookies. A few years ago, in a moment of adult rationality and at the urging of others who claimed that the macadamia nut cookie was at the height of pastry evolution, I tried one. The morsel was barely in my mouth before the nightmare of memories returned. I was back in that living room, smelling those cookies . . . head throbbing, nauseated, miserable.

Earlier this year, in an effort to be healthy, I purchased a can of mixed nuts “specifically formulated” to provide high protein and great satisfaction. I grabbed the can off the shelf, seeing the almonds and the cashews. After I got to my office, however, I noticed that the third entree was the much-touted macadamia.

I avoided those little round pieces for quite a while. Inevitably, I grabbed one by mistake. It wasn’t heaven on earth, but it was pretty close to paradise. For the first time, I understood what all the macadamiaphiles had been preaching. What a glorious taste sensation! And to think that all of these years I was robbed of that because of some relatively insignificant baked dough surrounding this little jewel.

I’ve noticed that a lot of people are like macadamia nut cookies. I see the lumpy stuff that surrounds them and that often hides what is inside. And I avoid those people. Sadly, sometimes I even vilify them.

Yet, in a special moment, I’m given the opportunity to see them “outside the cookie.” And I discover the true value of them as people.

If you struggle from time to time with your feeling toward others like I do, you might want to think about brushing past the cookie to get to what’s truly inside.

Last night, a new acquaintance began telling me about his recent experience buying sandles. He walked into a store last week, found a pair that he liked, and then asked the clerk to bring him a size 10-and-a-half and a size 11. He explained that his shoe size was 11 but that his experience with sandles was that they are often a little bigger than the size professes.

The clerk returned with two pair — sizes 10 and 11. “We don’t have half-sizes,” he reported. My new friend tried on the 10 “just because it was there” and was amazed when it fit perfectly. Curious, when the clerk left to ring up his purchase, he grabbed the contraption that gauges feet and found, indeed, his foot measured a size 10.

“I have a closet full of size 11 shoes,” he told me, “and now I’ve discovered that I’ve been buying the wrong size — most of my life!”

While I found the story interesting, I didn’t have a clue of his rationale for telling it. Until he added, “I’ve learned a lot through this experience. It seems that I’m quite capable of limping through life with the assistance of things that don’t really work. Now, I’m on the lookout for things that fit me and giving things a chance that I’ve refused to even consider. The future seems much brighter now.”

Openness to doing things differently — thinking, talking, listening — does tend to brighten up the future. Try on a different size shoe today. Particularly if its well-worn by someone else. You might discover some new possibilities.

Recent life experience is taking me places. All sorts of places. Frankly, if you had told me two months ago about the journey I was about to take, I would have canceled my ticket.

Now that I’m down the road a bit, I have a different view. I have been enriched by the things I’ve seen, the emotions I’ve felt, and the words I’ve heard. All of those good things sprout from a central source — the people I’ve met.

Two months ago, I would have avoided most of these individuals. Nothing personal. I just thought I had no need to know them and no real curiosity about who they might be, where they might live, or how much we might have in common.

Last week, sitting in a crowded room with total strangers, I begin to see how their lives threaded through mine. My eyes were opened.

Amazing things happen when we begin to see the value of someone else, regardless their circumstance.

The flight out of Abilene was delayed by more than two hours. A 2 p.m. connection in Dallas was now set for 6:45 p.m. and the day of travel that had seemed fairly tame was emerging as a monster.

I had gate-checked my carry-on bag for the short hop from Abilene to DFW. With my new schedule I had several hours before my flight to Virginia, so I dutifully allowed those with immediate connections to deplane and grab their gate-checked items before me.

I retrieved my carry-on and as I turned to head up the jetway, I was blocked by a little girl. She was waiting for her dad, who was gathering a number of items. The four-year-old smiled up at me and asked, “Mister, are you in a big hurry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am not,” I smiled.

Her serious look turned to a big grin and she said, “I’m not either!”

I chuckled a bit and walked slowly to the terminal. Rethinking that bit of conversation, I was reminded over and over that afternoon that this few hours was a blessing, of sorts. For once, I had plenty of time to do everything I needed to do.

A few hours later, I was delighted to see the little girl and her family board the same flight and thought it incredible that they were seated right behind me.

“So,” I asked, “did you have plenty of time to see the airport?”

“All the time in the world,” she answered. “How about you?”

“Plenty.”

When stress is high, blessings sometimes come in unexpected ways. Who would have thought that a five-hour delay in reaching my destination would have been one of them? And what are the chances that I would find someone who shared my view of that?

Blessings do come in difficult times. I hope someone blocks your path and points them out to you.

As I turned to make certain that my hotel door shut firmly behind me, a brief glitter greeted me from the floor. I hesitated for a moment until will power kicked in and I focused on my purpose for the moment.

Picking up speed rapidly, I headed for the elevators. Punching the button, I found myself facing the inevitable delay. I am told that, except in the busiest of times, empty elevator cars in large buildings are dispatched to certain floors that statistically are closest to the most likely source of the next call. If that’s true, then statistically, I never have a room on one of those floors.

As I’m waiting, I take a glance in the mirror that is mandatorily hung next to elevators. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing that I could remedy given the short amount of time and the materials available, I glanced around the elevator landing. Once again, I saw sparkles from the floor.

With nothing else to do, I crouched to more closely examine the phenomena. Extending my index finger, I poked at one glimmer. The expedition was successful. A quick glance revealed a sequin — one of dozens I could see from my position.

The buzzer sounded and I stood and entered the elevator. Transformed from pondering the source of the sequins, I hit the button for the lobby and rapidly descended. As the doors parted, the sight that presented itself caused me to pause. In fact my hesitation was long enough that the doors began to close again. Brought back to my senses, I shoved my hand between the rapidly narrowing doorway and then shouldered my way out.

The lobby was a veritable circus. I’m sure there were adults in the space somewhere. But all I could see were little girls in lavish costume. Talking, chasing, tapping feet impatiently, and . . . dancing.

It seems that my lodging for the weekend had been reserved not only for me, but for several hundred diminutive dancers and prancers. Each young lady was primed for a weekend competition. As I made my way slowly through the lobby, I began to see the adults who had parented, coached, and chaperoned.

A different spirit flowed from the old ones. Many appeared to be former dancers. Although this was not their contest, they were dressed in costumes that seem to masquerade as everyday clothing. And they may have gotten away with that, except for two things. First, the heavy make-up that screamed for attention. And second, the obvious nervousness that possessed them. Their charges, the little dancers, seemed to share none of the anxiety. The older, matronly dancers of years gone by seem hopelessly shackled by their concerns.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I was captured by the thought that the sequins lost by the little girls were not mourned by them. Instead, I imagined that each tiny, shiny piece of plastic was viewed by the small ones as simply an ambassador of the joy of dancing — a calling card to evidence the great events of the weekend put to music. Indeed, from their perspective, those sequins weren’t lost at all.

But for those much older, I perceived their concern that every drifting bit of the experience — whether a sequin or a moment or a misguided step from one of their charges — was a devastating loss of opportunity.

How much different the appreciation of those who come to dance and those who come merely to pick up things lost. That’s a major dividing line around my mediation table at times. Peace is so much closer to those who live in the moment and who have joy and hope for the future. And so distant from those who are satisfied with picking up lost pieces and begrudging the things that were once deemed joyful.

My work involves people who are in conflict with other people. And what I do in my work involves creating space that allows those people to get a break from abrasive things that irritate and aggravate them into a painful conflict experience.

Sometimes that space has to be physical space. In those cases, the conflict is so intense that being in the same room is too uncomfortable, too painful. And it’s in those mediations that I become a shuttle diplomat — dispatched with communication after communication that will create a new space for understanding.

Recently I conducted a mediation in another state. The parties asked for total separation and, although that’s not my preferred way of handling things, I agreed given the nature of their dispute. Not having a neutral place to host the mediation, I rented two suites in the same hotel. The suites were 20 rooms apart and arranged so that the parties could come and go without fear of crossing paths.

So, over the course of two days, I shuttled back and forth between the parties. Depending on the message I carried, the 143 paces between the rooms seemed very different. Some trips seemed very long. Other journeys were almost over before they started.

It was somewhere in the second day that I began to see these 143 steps as my space. I realized that even those who are inserted in a conflict for the purpose of creating space for others need that same luxury.

I came to cherish each of the 143. Although I only counted them once, I came to know every one of them well.

Honor the space that you’re allowed. I’m convinced that the true cathedrals of our lives are those spaces that give us room to find peace. And, if I could presume to know the mind of God, those same spaces would be just the sort of cathedral where He would prefer to meet us.

Researchers at the University of Cambridge have discovered that I am a better financial trader than others. The fact that I’m not a financial trader notwithstanding, I am quite pleased with these results.

No kidding! In a recent study, these scientists have compared the ratio of length of a person’s ring finger versus that of their index finger. Those of us who had longer ring fingers were anywhere from five to ten times more successful as financial traders.

It’s getting a little late in life, but I’m thinking about a career change. Not that I want a new career. It’s just that I’ve been told all of my life that my lack of height has been a barrier to my success — particularly in matters of leadership. Tall people are leaders. Short people are followers, plodders, and generally unexciting.

But now, seemingly, I can be both follower, plodder, and unexciting while still being immensely successful — and possibly wealthy if I follow my own trading advice. That’s a powerful draw as I reach the closing years of my professional life.

Seriously, why is it that these quirky study results catch our attention? Is it because there is some scientific evidence that we might have some advantage over others? (By the way, the people with longer index fingers are generally superior engineers, mathematicians, and computer scientists. So, I’m not better than everybody. In fact, if I were a financial trader, I’m pretty much at the mercy of engineers, mathematicians, and computer scientists to be able to technically accomplish my work. Who has the upper hand, er, finger, now?)

These kinds of news stories catch our eyes because we long for a way to be different from others — particularly if society views that difference as a positive thing. Yet, many of us who follow a higher calling are already different. But it’s a difference most of the world has difficulty understanding. If I can be a servant leader, isn’t that a better way? I’m pretty sure that doesn’t require great stature or many of the other markers of success — even a long ring finger.

For the record, I don’t put much stock in this latest revelation on my prowess as a financial trader. After all, scientists have already stated that folks like me with elongated ring fingers are generally more gifted in soccer and basketball than others. Evidently a long digit does not substitute for height and speed.

For now, I’ll just fold my hands and forego further finger examinations. I have too much work to do just being me.