Million Dollar Smile

Each year this organization of men came to the Children's Home Society Orphanage.

All the boys and girls would get two dollars each. The men would take us in groups of five to downtown Jacksonville, Florida, to do some Christmas shopping.

I remember going with this one gentleman three years in a row. He would take us shopping, then he would ask us if we wanted to go to the movies. I remember watching him closely when we got to the theater. I watched him as he pulled out his wallet to pay for our tickets. He looked over at me and just smiled with his great big smile. During the movie he bought us all the popcorn and candy that we wanted. I remember thinking how wonderful it was that someone would spend their own money on someone like us.

We all laughed at the funny movie and had a really good time. The man would laugh really hard and then he would pat me on top of the head. Then he would laugh really hard again and reach over and rustle my hair. I would just look at him, and he would just keep smiling with his great big wonderful smile.

That trip to the movies was the first time in my life that I ever felt as if someone really cared about me. It was a wonderful feeling which I have never forgotten, even to this day, decades later. I don't know if that man felt sorry for me, but I do know this: If I ever win the big lottery, that man will find out that he carried a million-dollar smile.

This is why I believe it is so important that organizations and clubs, such as the Shriners and Jaycees, continue to reach out and help the children who are less fortunate. In my particular case, it was this one man's personal act of kindness that will be remembered for years to come. Just one little simple act of kindness.

It is these little-tiny acts that will insure that when some confused child goes off the deep end one day, he or she will forever remember that small glimmer of kindness that was shown to them by someone. That little speck of hope, that little dim light of goodness that will forever be stuck somewhere in the far reaches of their confused mind.

I thank you, kind Sir, for a memory which I now share with my children and grandchildren fifty years later.

Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.

Finding Center

As the yellow corn pollen fell to the New Mexico earth, the words of the medicine man whispered clearly in my mind, "Bless the place that we chose, for it is the center of all that is to be." Prayerfully, I stood on that place and drank in the beauty and significance of this moment. The late afternoon sun wrapped the August rain columns with a golden cloak that swept cool mist over the high-desert mountains. This pristine valley, that stretched and rolled before me, would now be home to a new purpose.

The cool breeze filled my senses, bringing the scent of the coming rain. As I breathed in the fragrance, my heart stirred with gratitude in recognition of the honor that was being bestowed on this land. Oso Vista Ranch had been chosen to host the building of a traditional Navajo spiritual dwelling, called a Hogan.

The potency of this honor began to reveal itself when, earlier that day, a Navajo Hogan builder handed me a hammer and stake explaining that a Hogan is built from the center out. "When you find the center," he said, "mark that spot and then we will begin." My spirit swooned with the metaphorical perfection of this gentle command.

To find that center, I had stood in spiritual partnership with my dear friend Howard, Navajo medicine man from the Sleeping Rock clan, born for the Mexican clan. I waited patiently as he chose the spot that would not only be the physical center but also the spiritual center of this traditional Navajo Hogan.

This would be a female Hogan: eight-sided, log walls with a single door to the east, no windows and a domed ceiling with a smoke hole in the center. Structures such as these have been the center of Navajo family and spiritual life for hundreds of years.

A female Hogan's walls, being nine logs high, symbolize the nine months of pregnancy and its corner logs, notched together, represent a woman's hands, fingers intertwined over her expectant belly. Every aspect of its shape, construction, dedication, interior and the manner that one moves within it, has significance. It embodies the heart and soul of the Navajo people. The most powerful place in this Hogan is the center. It is in the center that all healing takes place.

The powerful richness that this experience has brought to my work as a purpose coach and consultant to Bob Proctor's programs has been profound. It has strengthened my understanding that the spiritual center to our lives, the place from which we must build and in which all healing takes place, is our life purpose.

The discovery and expression of our purpose is why we are here. Living it brings meaning and fulfillment like we have never before experienced. Every aspect of our lives and every project that we choose will breathe with new joy when we find that center.

As I watch Oso Vista Ranch emerge as a Navajo cultural and spiritual healing center for the Ramah Navajo community and the people of the world, I realize just how much of my purpose is expressed through this project. Culture, family, healing, personal growth, purposeful living and service are my passions. I value them above all other things.

Building a project based on these values has given my life immeasurable joy and meaning. It is an experience that has caused a Renaissance in my soul. I am, more than any other time in my life, completely fulfilled.

I've found that shifting my life to the foundation of purpose has filled every void and healed every wound. It has added a depth, richness and bliss to my life that can me achieved only by creating alignment between my life's work, my divine essence and my connection to the Source of all that is.

As our lives touch for this brief moment, I pass the hammer and stake to you and say earnestly, "Find your center and build from there."

Margaret Merrill

Margaret is a success coach and author.

The Happiest Day Of My Life

It started innocently.

Many years ago I worked in an office with large windows facing a busy overpass. I was standing by one of those windows one day when a woman in a passing car looked up and made eye contact. Naturally, I waved.

A chuckle escaped my lips as she turned and tried to identify me. It was the beginning of a year of window antics. When things were slow, I would stand in the window and wave at the passengers who looked up. The strange looks made me laugh and stress was washed away.

Co-workers began to take an interest. They would stand from view, watch the reactions I received, and laugh along.

Late afternoon was the best time - rush hour traffic filled the overpass with cars and transit buses, and providing lots of waving material for the end-of-day routine. It didn't take long to attract a following - a group of commuters who passed the window every day and looked up at the strange waving man.

There was a man with a construction truck who would turn on his flashing-yellow light and return my wave, the carpool crowd, and the business lady with her children fresh from day care. But my favorite was the transit bus from the docks that passed my window at 4:40pm. It carried the same group every day, and they became by biggest fans.

After a while, waving became boring, so I devised ways to enhance my act. I made signs: "Hi," "Hello," "Be Happy!" and posted them in the window and waved. I stood on the window ledge in various poses, created hats from paper and file-folders, made faces, played peek-a-boo by bouncing up from below the window ledge, stuck out my tongue, tossed paper planes in the air, and once went into the walkway over the street and danced while co-workers pointed to let my fans know I was there.

Christmas approached, and job cuts were announced. Several co-workers would lose their jobs, and everyone was feeling low. Stress in the office reached a high. A miracle was needed to repair the damage caused by the announcements.

While working a night shift, a red lab jacket attracted my attention. I picked it up and turned it in my hands. In a back corner where packing material was kept, I used my imagination and cut thin, white sheets of cloth-like foam into trips and taped them around the cuffs and collar, down the front, and around the hem. A box of foam packing and strips of tape became Santa's beard and when taped to the hat, slipped over my head in one piece.

The next working day I hid from my co-workers, slipped into the costume, walked bravely to my desk, sat down, held my belly, and mocked Santa's chuckle, as they gathered around me laughing. It was the first time I had seen them smile in weeks. Later my supervisor walked through the door. He took three steps, looked up, saw me, paused, shook his head, turned and left.

I feared trouble. The phone on the desk rung a few moments later, "Mike, can you come to my office please?" I shuffled down the hall, the foam beard swishing across my chest with each step.

"Come in!" the muffled voice replied to my knock. I entered, and sat down. The foam on the beard creaked, and he looked away from me. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, the only sound was the hammering of my heart. "Mike..." This was all he managed before he lost his composure, leaned back in his chair, and bellowed with laughter. He held his stomach, and tears formed in his eyes, as I sat silent and confused. When he regained control he said, "Mike, thanks! With the job cuts it has been hard to enjoy the Christmas season. Thanks for the laugh, I needed it."

That evening, and every evening of the Christmas season, I stood proudly in the window and waved to my fans. The bus crowd waved wildly, and the little children smiled at the strange Santa. My heart was full of the season, and for a few minutes each day we could forget the loss of jobs.

I didn't know it then, but a bond was forming between my fans and me. It wasn't until the spring following the Santa act that I discovered how close we had become.

My wife and I were expecting our first child that spring, and I wanted the world to know. Less than a month before the birth I posted a sign in the window, "25 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." My fans passed and shrugged their shoulders. The next day the sign read, "24 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." Each day the number dropped, and the passing people grew more confused.

One day a sign appeared in the bus, "What is B DAY?" I just waved and smiled.

Ten days before the expected date the sign in the window read, "10 DAYS UNTIL BA-- DAY." Still the people wondered. The next day it read, "9 DAYS UNTIL BAB- DAY," then "8 DAYS UNTIL BABY DAY," and my fans finally knew what was happening.

By then, my following had grown to include twenty or thirty different busses and cars. Every night they watched to see if my wife had given birth. Excitement grew as the number decreased. My fans were disappointed when the count reached "zero" without an announcement. The next day the sign read, "BABY DAY 1 DAY LATE," and I pretended to pull out my hair.

Each day the number changed and the interest from passing cars grew. When my wife was fourteen days overdue she went into labor, and the next morning our daughter was born. I left the hospital at 5:30am, screamed my joy into the still morning air and drove home to sleep. I got up at noon, showered, bought cigars, and appeared at my window in time for my fans. My co-workers were ready with a banner posted in the window:

"IT'S A GIRL!"

I wasn't alone that night. My co-workers joined me in celebration. We stood and waved our cigars in the air as every vehicle which passed acknowledged the birth of my daughter. Finally, the bus from the docks made its turn onto the overpass and began to climb the hill. When it drew close, I climbed onto the window ledge and clasped my hands over my head in a victory pose. The bus was directly in front of me when it stopped dead in heavy traffic, and every person on board stood with their hands in the air.

Emotion choked my breathing as I watched the display of celebration for my new daughter. Then it happened: a sign popped up. It filled the windows and stretched half the length of the bus, "CONGRATULATIONS!"

Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as the bus slowly resumed its journey. I stood in silence, as it pulled from view. More fans passed and tooted their horns or flashed their lights to display their happiness, but I hardly noticed them, as I pondered what had just happened.

My daughter had been born fourteen days late. Those people must have carried the sign, unrolled, on the bus for at least two weeks. Everyday they had unrolled it and then rolled it back up.

We all have a clown inside of us. We need to let it free and not be surprised at the magic it can create. For eight months I had made a fool of myself, and those people must have enjoyed the smiles I gave them, because on the happiest day of my life they had shown their appreciation.

It has been more than 18 years since that special time, but on my daughter's birthday I always remember the special gift they gave me.

Michael T. Smith

About 10 years after this event happened a version of the story was printed in a small local newspaper in Halifax, Nova Scotia - where the events occurred. The day it ran the editor had 3 calls from people who were on the bus. You just never know how you can touch the lives of others.

A Radical Approach to Becoming a Great Leader

Each and every one of us has the opportunity to be a leader at different times of our lives, whether it's a leader in our business, our home or our community. The challenge for many of us is that we don't have the fortitude to step up to the plate to become the type of leader that people trust. This true story below is an inspiration to anybody ready to make real changes in their life.

As a regional manager at a major brokerage firm, Michael had been working on his own leadership skills for several years, but despite his efforts, his retail branch region had been consistently ranked last or second to last in his company's employee opinion survey, and in this rare company where surveys are taken seriously - the results are published and ranked - this was bad news for Michael's career. He was losing his credibility as a manager. Then he had the epiphany.

Even though the surveys specifically reflected the views of front-line branch employees whose lives were affected by their immediate supervisors, Michael assumed that he was the problem, not the supervisors. Just allowing himself that realization was a risky endeavor: suddenly, responsibility rested squarely on Michael's already sore shoulders, the Blame Game was no longer an option, and he launched himself irrevocably into do-or-die mode. Then he cranked up the risk factor one more notch.

He gathered his management team together, stood up in front of the conference room and said, "I'm screwing up; the numbers show it, so I want you to tell me what I'm doing wrong and what I need to do to improve."

"I'm going to leave the room," he went on, "and I'd like you to get very specific and write down your ideas on flip-chart paper. When I come back, we'll talk through each item."

And he walked out.

A half-hour later he came back and knocked on the door. "We're not done yet," they said.

Finally, after ninety minutes, they let him in. All the walls were covered in flip-chart paper: list after list of suggestions for his personal improvement as a human being. He kept his balance, took a deep breath and proceeded to:

Accept What You Hear (And Show It)
Michael knew that his reaction in that moment would make or break the whole exercise, as well as his personal credibility. So he took a radical approach and responded authentically.

"I'm really disappointed," he said, "in myself. I had no idea there'd be so much."

He didn't defend, justify, or make excuses. All he did was ask some questions to make sure he fully understood each item, and they talked together for the next couple of hours. Imagine the intestinal fortitude that Michael needed to keep that conversation going for that long. "And another thing, boss..." was said more than once, I'm sure.

And then, at the end of the day, with rolls of flip chart paper tucked under his arms and a pounding sensation behind his eyes, Michael looked at his team and said two words straight from the heart:

"Thank you."

That night and the next couple of days, Michael told me, were the most difficult of his entire career. He was devastated and overwhelmed by the severity of the feedback and the immense challenge to follow through. He recovered from the initial shock, however, and went on to:

Do Something About It!
Nobody expected Michael to start at the top of list one, item one and start fixing them all. But they saw him try. He proved through his own actions that the session hadn't been a consultant-assigned exercise that he had been forced into tolerating.

The next round of surveys ranked Michael's organization second from the top in the entire company, with jumps of eighty to ninety percent in some measures. That's a radical leap no matter how you look at it, but the funny thing is, the improvement had relatively little to do with Michael's follow-up actions. It had everything to do with his team.

Steve Farber

Steve Farber is the president of Extreme Leadership, Incorporated - an organization devoted to the cultivation and development of Extreme Leaders in the business community. His book, The Radical Leap: A Personal Lesson in Extreme Leadership is a recipient of Fast Company magazine's Readers' Choice Award.