Ready or not

Advent comes at the end of the year OR the beginning of the year, depending on your perspective.

In terms of the solar calendar, it is timed with the Winter Solstice when it is the darkest time for us in the northern hemisphere. It is a time when nightfall seems to invade the day earlier than normal, always affecting my spirit. The time of daylight is diminished making a not so subtle point as to the dominance of darkness in the fluid polarity with the light. Just as the sun goes down each evening, the sun seems to be absconding with the light that brightens our existence. As if there were a cosmic theater director, it is accompanied by colder weather, adding to the feel and tone. For me, it messes with my mood.

This is when the Church has chosen to dramatically play with the theme of darkness and light. On Advent One, a single solitary light maintains its place within the darkness. Each week, one light is added to the Advent wreath of greenery to make the sensual point of the light coming into the darkness. Liturgically, it is the season of hope coming into despair, of light breaking through the darkness with the very Light of the World, what Christians claim is the key to understanding what life it ultimately all about..

I remember before I became a catholic, sacramental participant, Advent wasn’t even on my radar screen. After the Thanksgiving parades, Georgia Tech-Georgia Freshman game, a family feast of turkey and dressing, it was a countdown to the Christmas holidays, the arrival of the Sears Wish Book for perusal and coveting practice, and the transition from football to basketball.

Christmas Eve might be a service, maybe not. My first Christmas Eve Eucharist, as in communion at an Episcopal church, happened at the Cathedral in Atlanta when my high school girlfriend and I decided to attend the live broadcast of the Midnight Mass. I sensed the mystery of the whole gig without really knowing what it all was about. It was more about the romantic sharing of the time with another person, choosing just the right gift, and celebrating the special night. It was framed more in a social light, and I enjoyed it.

But my introduction to the true sense of Advent happened when I got to know the Trappist monks at the monastery in Conyers. I was introduced to the progressive notion of the season by a white bearded monk named Joachim who looked as if he was from Central Casting for Lord of the Rings. He had a kind of magic quality that seemed childlike to me, even in my old age of college. He recruited me to help him set up the nativity crèche outside the monastery church and to place and move the Holy Family of Mary and Joseph slowly toward the destination of the manger in Bethlehem.

That was Advent to me until my first Advent as a priest. I had been ordained in August, August 15th, the Feast of St. Mary, as I had requested, due to my devotion to the Blessed Virgin, thanks to that of my friend, Joachim. After all, I had carried her from Nazareth tot Bethlehem, at least there on the monastery grounds. We were close.

Advent has a special relationship to the Mary with her expectation of the baby Jesus, but particularly her receptivity of the intrusive news of this coming birth. As a kid, I was impressed by the willingness of Mary to be used of God. As a teen, McCartney’s simple phrasing of “Let it be” caught me in its radical receptivity. And then as a want-to-be biblical scholar, reading the Greek New Testament, the words of Mary shouted at me in my reluctance to hand over my agency to anyone other than myself. Let it be? Are you kidding me?

That first Advent as a priest found me in an idyllic setting of a Cathedral. It felt monastic as I was able to rise early, work-out early in the morning at the Buckhead Towne Club, steam and shower before joining in the communal Morning Prayer in Mikell Chapel. There, I would join a cluster of aging priests, often the Bishop himself, reading the Scripture for the day, chant the Psalms, and offer our prayers for the Church and the World. What a grand way to structure my day, to begin my work in prayer. It was, if you will allow me, damn near perfect.

Maybe it was the romantic sweep of the time, but I remember beginning Advent that first year, on that first Monday, like today, with the one lit purple candle on the deep green of the Advent wreath. I offered a prayer to God, doused with the young sincerity of fresh meat, asking God to surprise me, to break into my life in a way that will shake me up into a fresh apprehension of the Divine Presence.

I had absolutely no idea what I was asking. Rookie mistake.

I had no clue as to what was coming, or I would have ducked under my choir stall.

I asked. God delivered.

I don’t need to tell you the gory details of how my life was profoundly disrupted that Advent season. I will just say, it happened. Know that I could convey my meaning in a much more picturesque way….IT happens!….but I will spare you.

That first Advent as a priest, I learned to be careful on what one asks for. Do you really…..really….really desire to be receptive to what God has for you? Dare you say the awesome and awful words: “Let it be!”?

My world was turned upside down and life was changed in a profound way. Let me add quickly, it was a good change in the long run, thank you, Eagles. But in the rest of that season, it shook my foundations, disrupted my regular routine, and made me face some realities that I had been missing. This is the stuff of Advent. Expectation. A willingness to look afresh at the one, wild life one has been given.

These days, I approach Advent by looking in front of me, not so much as I do normally, sorting through my past, remembering the stories I have collected in my sojourn, searching for threads of meaning

I find that I tend to think spatially. It orients me, gives me a sense of being in place. So for me, Advent is a special season that is all about looking to the horizon, looking out in front of me for something new that is coming, even a surprise.

Surprised by an inbreaking insight, I learned something new about that a few years ago. I had wild experience when I had the opportunity to work at a hospital in Montana, in Big Sky country. The sheer open landscape made this legendary land come to life for me in an invigorating way, much as the rocky coastline of Maine redefined what the ocean was. It broke through my native familiarity with my Southern homeland, and quickened my view, giving me the eyes of a child, at least for a season, a moment.

It got even more real when a local told me about the expedition party of the famed Meriwether Lewis and William Clark and how they came right through this very plot of land. After I did some research on that daunting trek, the sojourn became a powerful image for me in the Discovery Party of Lewis and Clark. After being commissioned by President Thomas Jefferson, these explorers headed West to discover what was there in this wild country of ours. They planned on using boats and canoes to make their way through the West to the far edge of our country, hoping to discover a navigatable water route. Notably, they wound up hitting the Rocky Mountains, which stood as a rather imposing barrier that would test their resilience, their commitment, and notably their imagination. What do you do when the plans you made not longer fit reality? These explorers had to leave behind their boats and find a new way, one that was not in Plan A. Their willingness to change plans, alter mode, imagine anew, think outside the box, whatever the hell the “box” is, became a paradigmatic way of thinking about life. I found it energizing, refreshing. It seemed to fit with the spirit of what Advent might be.

Advent might be a time to consider another way to take as we move forward in our life. In the quiet preparation of Advent for Christmas, questions can prompt a new way of looking at our existence by pausing to ask what we are really wanting out of life? Do you dare to quiet your busyness and listen to what might be going on in your spirit. Dare you look to the horizon to what might be coming?

I have a few questions that I use to prime my spiritual pump. Take a few minutes, pause, and reflect on these four questions during these four weeks of Advent:

What gift do I have that I am not currently using?

What talent am I letting sit still inside me, dormant?

Who might need a special call, a “reaching out” to check on them that would make a big difference?

What do I need to celebrate this season and be more consciously aware of in my life?

My hope and prayer is that Advent might be or become an expectant time for you, a time to look afresh at your life in particular and the nature of life in general.

Here it comes….ready or not.

Dive In….

My grandfather’s name was Roy Glen Pollard, but to me, he was John Wayne. I know that the historic John Wayne has gotten some bad press this week, but I am talking about the American mythic creature that rides through my memory, that John Wayne.

My grandfather was tall, solidly built, with a musculature that denoted his West Georgia hard-scrabble farm roots. He had been in the army during World War I, serving as a medic in his infantry corp. Upon returning to the States, he went into law enforcement in the county sheriff’s department. He opted to leave the sheriff’s office to go to Atlanta because he was averse to arresting his wife’s brother who was a major moonshiner in the county….the stuff of a country music song.

He joined the Atlanta Police Department with Herbert Jenkins, his partner who later became a famous progressive police chief. He walked a beat downtown near Rich’s and also rode a motorcycle, the three-wheel type. He took me on a motorcycle ride when I was a kid which gave me a fascination with Harley’s, a fascination I actualized when I was in East Texas, purchasing a used Longview Police Low Rider to ride on those open Texas backroads.

I have written before about him standing up to some racist comments in a barbershop on Lee Street in the southside of Atlanta, taking himself and me out of the establishment when the N word was being tossed about. He volunteered to work within the black community as a cop before the days of integration. My granddad tried to explain his views on race to me once, couching his thinking is a pretty simple but real faith….we are all God’s children. I am not sure how he forged that out of the hard steel of Southern bigotry but it was real in the way he did life, the way he lived.

His faith pressed him to care for all people, in spite of his tight, puritanical ethics. I am convinced that he took Jesus seriously in terms of focusing on loving one’s neighbor regardless of the cultural chatter as to who counts. My grandfather answered the question of Jesus, “Who is your neighbor?” in a Christ-like way……everyone! But unlike churchgoers and religious bureaucrats, he actually did it. He walked his talk. He picked up the neighbor next door every Saturday night after Mr. Dial had too much to drink. Mr. Dial worked at Fort Mac, which is now Tyler Perry’s studio, although he suffered from PTSD long before it had a name. My granddad would pick him up and put him to bed. not saying a thing about it. It was what a neighbor does.

He sometimes led the singing at Oakland City Baptist Church on Sundays, as he loved Gospel singings in the “country”. I remember watching the Gospel Jubilee with him on Sunday mornings on WSB television before church. He played cornet in the police band, and seemed to enjoy all types of music.

His main sense of community seemed to be the Friendship Class, or “the old men’s class” every Sunday. As a young child, he would stand me up on the front table in front of the class and have me “direct” the singing. In psychiatric diagnostic manuals, it’s referred to as premature identity formation, but at the time, it was like having thirty daddies who loved on me at a critical time in my development. Maybe that is why the picture of me with the “old men” around a table, celebrating my birthday, forms a baseline for my sense of community.

His sense of humor was dry. When he would come out of the house, look on his Chevrolet which had been marked by fresh piles of bird droppings, he would remark with a Matthau-like deadpan, “They sing for some folks….”.

When he had free time, he loved to fish. He had a old white Chevy sedan he called his fishing car that he named “Betsy”. He would go out to a lake in West Georgia, owned by his friend, Dr. McCartney. Doc ran some cattle, for fun I suppose, but had a lake that was a playground for my grandfather and his friends. For me, it was like a Disneyland that I had only heard about in winsome tales among “the old men” about grand days together and the one that got away.

Early on, I had asked my granddad to take me fishing but he explained that I needed to grow up a bit, be a little older. I’m not sure what the prescribed age was but I do remember the morning getting up knowing that this was that Red Letter Day when I was going to get to go with him and “the boys” to fish.

He and I had breakfast together, strong black coffee, and sausage and biscuits, the breakfast of champions and cardiac patients. It was early morning and we were carefully quiet, trying not to wake up my grandmother, who could make it rain inside. I watched as he filled up a red and white thermos with ice water, and packed a couple of biscuits for lunch. I was so excited, I don’t think my feet touched the floor as we ate.

We met the boys at the lake that might has well been Eldorado. This was the day, my grandfather proclaimed to “the boys” that ol’ Dave was going to catch his first fish. I couldn’t be more excited as it was like a baptism-Bar Mitzvah-Graduation-Wedding combined in an extravaganza of a threshold moment known scientifically as a rites de passage, thanks van Gennep. This was MY day.

My grandfather had a plan. We would start our expedition by fishing in the shallows where the early morning fish would be biting topwater, picking off vulnerable insects floating in the water film. Then, we would take the boat out to the middle of the lake where some bigger fish would be, and then, end the day on the dam, near the deep water where the “big ones” would be holding. My grandfather was crystal clear about his goal: me catching my first fish. And he had strategically laid out his tactics, a progressive plan to make sure it happened. He had a plan in his mind, alright. There was only one thing: the fish were not biting.

From the early morning shallows, to the boat, to the dam, the fish simply were not biting. Applying scientific method, my grandfather opined that it might be the way I was holding my mouth, a favorite Southern colloquial saying. Regardless, he was not going to give up on this vision he had of me catching my first fish.

As the day wore on, even I could sense the desperation setting in. Now, this was years before I lived through many seasons of being an Atlanta Falcon fan, but I knew the smell of failure even then. It hung in the air.

My grandfather was undaunted as we stood near our original spot on the bank of the lake, near the shallows where the cattle would cool themselves during the noonday sun. Just like so many times before, I cast my worm, fixed on its steel J hook crucifix, out as far as I could. By then, I had grown tired and my spirit was flagging. I was watching the red and white bobber on the slick, still water, like I had grown accustomed to, not really expecting anything.

And then it happened. The cork begin to slide slowly to the left, and then submerged under the water, indicating the very strike it was designed to display.

“Reel ‘er in, boy!” my grandfather shouted, making no attempt to disguise his enthusiastic agenda for the next few moments of my life. He was being very directive, in coaching parlance,

I leaned back on my little Zebco rod with all the force and weight I could muster. The reel began to scream a high-pitched sound indicating the tension from the weight of the fish on the end of my line. I instinctively began to turn the crank on the reel, trying to retrieve the fish toward where I was, as opposed to where the fish was wanting to go, a classic struggle of wills. It was the proverbial fight of the century…or at least the afternoon.

“The boys” were gathered around, yelling Baptist-appropriate encouragement. I could feel some success as I was slowly succeeding in my efforts to do what my grandfather directed. But then something unexpected happened, something I had never seen before. The fish jumped up out of the water, revealing spectacularly a large bass, the kind Napoleon Dynamite might catch for you to eat.

As the fish broke clear of the viscosity of the lake water, it was like slow motion on the Wide World of Sports. He seemed to be shaking his head at me, saying, “No, I will not be your virgin catch, young man!” and then he descended back into the depths of the water.

I remember continuing to reel the fish in, finally getting it near the bank where we were standing. I could finally see him. It was the biggest fish in the history of humankind. It was, as someone of note recently claimed, “perfect”. It was definitely a “he” as he was sporting a moustache, well trimmed.

As I got him to the bank, his underside seemed to drag on the red clay silt of the shallow water, causing a brief second of release of the pressure on the fishing line to the hook in his lip. Even inexperienced, I could see and feel the hook release from his mouth, in about six inches of water. The fish seemed as surprised as me at his regained freedom, as he stopped and held there in the water.

In that moment, I saw a flash of color to my right in my peripheral vision. It was my grandfather diving into the lake to try to capture my fish by hand. There was an explosion of water as my granddad hit the water, leaving me holding the rod and reel, with my mouth open. When the dust settled, or should I say, the water cleared, the next thing I saw was my granddad sitting in the lake, with water streaming off his head, with a big grin on his face.

Now, I think this is one of the first stories I ever told in a sermon. I remember it as the first story I told at the Cathedral in my initial sermon from that storied, vaulted pulpit. I remember my early nemesis, Mary Parris, a buttoned-down proper Church Lady, opining that a story about a fish was inappropriate in such a regal locus as an Anglican Cathedral, while my friend Conroy blessed it as a fine, even epic Southern tale, bordering on Moby Dick status. More importantly for me, he laughed. Jury was in, Atticus.

In that initial telling, I remember intentionally withholding the outcome of the story, making the poignant point that it did not matter if my grandfather was able to grab the fish. The point I was wanting to make was that he tried. He dove in. He was so clear about what he wanted, he was willing to do whatever it took to get that fish for me, his grandson. I refused to tell the end of the story in order to drive my point home.

It’s funny how the story continued to live on and be relived and rewritten years later. That’s the way of a good story. It lives on, is retold, and finds new ears, and hearts. I told it on numerous occasions and in every parish that became my home. But the heartbeat of the story lived on in another way.

When my family was visiting Georgia for vacation, during our Texas sojourn, my son, Thomas caught a rainbow trout, his first fish, near our cabin on the Cartecay River in Ellijay. His fish got off his hook as he had an environmentally-woke barbless hook, that supposedly would not injure the fish. On that summer afternoon, Thomas’ fish dragged on the river gravel near the end of his retrieve, providing the break in tension for the fish’s esacpe. This time, I am the one who dove into the river, trying to save my son’s first fish.

The imprint my grandfather put on me took. Not only did he teach me by example that all people were of value and to be respected, he taught me to dive in after something I wanted, regardless. He taught me that race was not a determinant in human worth, that no mere descriptive adjective trumped the definitive noun, person. He taught me to tend to those who had fallen, who hurt with the pains of life. He taught me to love music and the mystery of nature. His imprint goes to the marrow of my bones and the depth of my soul. He taught me to dive in to life itself. And in this season of remembering, I am thankful.

And, just to be clear, I caught that trout that day, diving into the cold water of the Cartecay. Like grandfather, like grandson.

Chasing Grace

This past weekend, I officiated at the marriage of my niece, Gracie Galloway, to Chase Brown. They had been dating for twelve years, meeting at my former school, Holy Innocents Episcopal School during middle school days. You, no doubt, can imagine the ups and downs of twelve years of relationship across adolescence, college, and young adulthood. Their relationship is a testimony of tenacity and love.

It’s a storybook tale…..young caddy leading the field at Augusta, Cinderella story……wait, that’s another fairytale.

Chase asked Gracie to marry him on the lawn at Cherokee Country Club, with a video production crew discreetly hidden in the hedges. So far so good.

The rehearsal dinner was stunning at Fredricka Country Club’s Boat House, which is, for the uninformed, what we call “high cotton”.

The wedding itself was at historic Christ Episcopal Church there on St. Simons Island. The church building itself was built in 1885. Prior to that John and Charles Wesley preached underneath the live oaks there, after Oglethorpe brought his crew over from England. It had a prior church building which was desecrated by Northern Aggressors…..that’s a joke, son. Actually it was in bad shape so they decided to rebuild it.

There is a charming love story behind the building, intriguing enough to beguile visiting writer, Eugenia Price, to investigate and write the first of three novels on St. Simons, eventually choosing to make it her home. Here’s the story.

Anson Dodge came to visit St. Simons when he was only nineteen years of age. He fell in love with the island and the Christ Church parish, deciding to go to seminary and return as the small parish’s priest. In the process, he fell in love with a young woman, Ellen, and married her. Obviously, Anson was a person of passion, and I assume a romantic.

After the wedding, they went on a European honeymoon which ended unfortunately with Ellen’s death in India. Anson brought her body back to St. Simons, and dedicated his resources in building the new church building in her honor. In an odd Gothic style twist, he placed her body underneath the altar so that he might be near his beloved as he celebrated the Holy Mysteries of Communion. Later, the body was moved and placed in the church graveyard, where they are buried side-by-side. And so it is with that legacy of love, Christ Church offers a holy setting for the vows to be made between two mere mortals, caught in the romantic spell of love.

It is a stunning setting, built with local heart pine boards by shipwrights whose expertiste left a navicular look to the structure, more so than any other church I have ever been in. The wood dates back to 1885, with only a natural patina giving color to the structure. Painted stained glass adds some powerful images of biblical stories, along with tasteful lighting that adds a traditional caste to the setting. The small size of the space only adds to the intimacy, and I can not imagine a better place to exchange any kind of vows, blessing new life, or marking the end of a human’s journey. It defines “holy space” for me.

Honored by Gracie’s request that I officiate, I had two pressing concerns. The first was that I not stumble coming out of the sacristy, using my cane to steady my legs functioning without a quad tendon. The betting odds were mixed between Las Vegas and my nephew, John. My son bet against me, smelling a sure thing and windfall profits to assist in the promotion of his new album. But the old boy came through, moving stealthily across the front of the church, finding the security of a podium to hold onto, thanks to the kindness of the sexton and the church ladies. My liturgical stroll was not quite like my reckless romp of abandon when I would single-hand my sailboat the Galway Harp, in all kinds of blows, with no fear of falling. Those days are long gone, but I made it. One goal down.

The second goal was to move beyond the social trappings of the moment and drill down into the bone marrow of the vows. I said it, not looking for a laugh, but emphasizing the degree of difficulty of what was going on in the small holy space….wedding vows. Two sentient beings making solemn vows to one another, in the context of God and the community. It is a covenant, a triadic commitment between two people, and the God that gave them life, and the community that surrounds them. I did not want Gracie and Chase to miss this.

In the Episcopal liturgy, it is stated that God created marriage as a way to bring joy to God’s creatures. Now, this is an important starting point: God intending joy for those in God’s creation. It wasn’t on a bad day without coffee when God thought up marriage. It was not just to subjugate the physical passions of humans as one Baptist Sunday School teacher and one coach tried to lay on me. It was for JOY….imagine that.

I think about my two kids. I was with a bunch of fellow parents at this wedding. After they were inebriated, plied by wine, champagne, and an adult elixir, brown or clear, they began to opine about their kids, children that we watched grow up together. Now these children are adults, and the question is not about their accomplishments and conquests, but it’s about their happiness. As parents, we naturally and natively care about their joy. It’s in the way we are wired, the Divine imprint that we share with our Creator. That’s a worthy starting point when you start to ponder about God and your relationship with your Creator. God wants joy for you… amazing supposition.

And so, a church full of people gathered to witness these vows. And as a part of the Episcopal liturgy, I asked them if they would do all in their power to support Gracie and Chase in their life together, and they responded, with a little help from the old priest, “We will”. And we did so because we are like God in this way. We want joy to abound for this young couple.

After the vows, we made out way to The Vine for a reception, a venue managed by my own daughter, Mary Glen, who was a nervous wreck trying to make sure things were perfect for her cousin, Gracie. My brother and I have been most fortunate to have our families in close proximity after he began his career in Omaha and I was in the Lone Star State. We both made it back to Atlanta for most of the child raising, giving “the cousins” a gift of life together. Watching the six of them at the reception brought a smile, and led me to make a note to my brother as to what a smart move it was, what geniuses we were. It’s easy for us to agree on that.

The band was killer, 1st Generation, a band out of Atlanta, got the old folks out on the dance floor with some classic Motown and grabbed the younger crowd with some Bruno Mars and Uptown Funk, my favorite. “If we show up, we gonna show out, smoother than a fresh jar of Skippy.” Words to live by.

My fabulous sister-in-law, Cathy, provided some stunning party favors that lit up the night and the dance floor. It was a party her Illinois parents enjoyed, leaving me wishing that my folks could have been there to celebrate the love Gracie has found. It was a good night.

There is a line in the prayers that always seems powerful. May those witnessing these vows find their own vows strengthened and their loyalties confirmed. That was definitely true for me on that special night on this coastal island of Georgia. I like to imagine that Anson and Ellen, and Olin and Doris, maybe even Glen and Glennie May were looking down on the events of that night and experiencing joy. Maybe so.

Blessings on Gracie and Chase as they begin their journey as wife and husband in the covenant of marriage. I’m betting on them.

What is a Coach?

I have been asked recently, what is a coach? Where to begin? First, I am one. I think I’ve always had a coach’s heart, encouraging, pushing, urging one on to one’s potential. I coached young people playing soccer. I have coached basketball, leading a wrecking crew of football players trying to find some gracefulness with the round ball. I have coached young clergy beginning their work of ministry. And I have coached leaders in healthcare and in the non-profit world. After formally studying and going through training, I have been certified as a coach by the International Coach Federation, so I got that going for me…which is nice.

Coaching is one of the helping professions. I have been a therapist, a pastor, a professor, a spiritual director, and most recently a consultant. But coaching is different. Coaching is probably most like that of a therapist in that it pairs persons in a helping relationship.

But coaching is different than therapy. When I was a therapist, there is a presupposition that people are coming to me because of some problem, be it deep in the psyche, boiling on the surface, or in many cases, both. It could be a problem in the self, in the couple, or in the family. As a psychotherapist, my focus tended to be on the presenting problem, understanding how the past affects and forms the present, and helping the person cope with living in the now.

I took on the role of consultant which is somewhat like a therapist for an organization, and I did that work with congregations, dioceses, bunches of bishops (that I call a gaggle, on my good days), a school, a non-profit, and even a city.

Therapy presumes pathology. “Houston….we have a problem.” Something has gone wrong and it needs attention. Therapy tends to focus on the past in order to get a handle on what is influencing the issues in the Now moment. I have found this work fascinating as one must excavate the early relationships and attachments, or lack of, to understand what is going on in the present.

Coaching is more attuned to unlocking the potential for the future. There is a positive attitude to coaching that presumes that persons are naturally potentiated to actualize their gifts and hopes. The mantra in the coaching world is that humans are naturally creative, resourceful, and whole. That’s a mouth full, but more importantly, it fills the mind and attitude of the coach with an optimism for the future of the client. The exciting part of coaching is unlocking the possibilities for the person one is coaching. The presumption is that everything the person needs is inside, waiting to emerge, rather than the therapeutic expectation of pathology.

Pathology that needs to be dealt with; potential that needs to be developed. That is the difference in the classical way in which the literature describes therapy versus coaching. My way of doing coaching seems to be a hybrid of the two, a mix, a mash up of what seems to me to be true about the humans I have known, the people I have experienced, the persons I have encountered. There is both potential and pathology in all of us.

And I know this even more with the experience of my own damn self. As I engage in self-reflection and try to enhance my most important attribute, self awareness, I am profoundly reminded of both my gifts and my liabilities. I am simultaneously broken and whole, combined in a magical, mystery known as my self. I am connected to a past that forms me genetically and psychically in ways that I will never transcend. There are some wounds that I have received that may heal but the scars remain. This has to do with the reality of my past which is now a given. My mirthful way of playing with this determinism is that I am a six foot three inch male with a linebacker’s physique. It’s a good bet that I am not going to be a jockey next year at the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs. I have limitations. It’s part of the reality that I trailer around in my body and psyche. It’s a given.

At the same time, I am full of potential. I have an amazing mind, as does most humans, that has the capacity to imagine a future that is loaded with possibilities. I have the inherent gift of a human being of being able to decide, that is, to make choices. I can exercise agency in determining how I spend my time and where I want to be. Of course, this is within limits, tally ho. My point is that we are a mixed bag of tricks that we trundle forth through our world.

The assumption in coaching is that the person to be coached is the same as the one who coaches. There is no false assumption that sometimes occurs in the therapeutic milieu that one member is sick and the other is whole. Given what I know of other therapists and shrinks, this is more than a false assumption but it is, in fact, the presumed reality brought by many patients to the therapeutic room.

In coaching, there is no advantage, certainly not an ontological one. Rather, the coach comes alongside, my favorite image of coaching, in order to add a perspective to the isolated perception of the other. This is what the coach is selling. It’s all he/she really has to offer. An additional set of eyes that grants depth perception to reality that goes beyond the flat, one dimensional look of the solitary other. The coach may have some expertise in certain areas but the gift the coach brings is a process of pausing the action, calling attention to what is going on, surfacing options that may not be evident, assisting the other that one has come alongside to make decisions, and then to offer a structure of accountability.

This description of a coaching encounter is a schema of most coaching sessions I engage in, be it a regular session with a CEO of a large two billion dollar healthcare system, a session with an Episcopal priest seeking to guide her parish to an agreed upon goal, be it an Operating Officer maneuvering his organization through a change initiative, a young pastor seeking to discover his leadership capacity, a senior clergy person who is ready to retire from parish ministry but wants to explore what’s next, or a middle aged woman struggling to write the next chapter of her life following the ending of the last. The form is the same but the content is wildly and wonderfully different. It’s probably why I love my work.

Again the process is relatively simple.

Situate: where are you now in your life? I love the Marvin Gaye existential press: what’s going on?

Search: What are you going to do with your one wild and wonderful life? to borrow an image from poet Mary Oliver.

Shift: What changes are you needing to make and willing to invest in?

Sustain: How am I going to rearrange my life so as to make this new reality possible and able to be maintained as I move into the future?

My role and my expertise is in this process, helping another human being move, stumble, fall, dance through this process of becoming. Perhaps it is to become the leader one has dreamed of being. Or maybe it’s the negotiating a change in life structure that will be more fulfilling. Finding a new path of promise in this new time of life. Working my way through the process of forming a team of colleagues that is world-beating. This in the stuff of life, and it is, indeed, what we make it.

I am associated with several groups, association of coaches. One is the professional certifying group, the International Coach Federation, that regulates this work and sets ethical standards of the work. The Clergy Coach Network is a group of trained clergy who reach across denominational lines and offer coaching to both clergy and lay leaders. The Coach Training for Leader is a group of trainers who offer learning opportunities to people interested in coaching. And then I have my own group of folks who are some of the smartest, most caring folks on the planet, who are dedicated to the development of people, building capacity, accelerating transformation, and making a difference.

If you find yourself wanting to grow as a person, to develop as a leader, or explore you next chapter, coaching may be the best way to take the proverbial next step. Write to me at and I’ll be happy to help connect to a person who can come alongside and assist you in deciding your next steps on this journey of life.

What is calling you? What prompting have you ignored that needs tending, some attention? What’s next for you in the wild and wonderful life? Coaching can offer an intentional way to move into this next chapter of your journey. I’d be honored to help.

For All the Saints….

Halloween means different things to different people. For me, it literally is the Eve of All Saints Day. That ‘s the day the Church remembers that we are connected with those who have gone before us. There is an icon that shows a wide variety of saints down through the ages who form the “cloud of witnesses” that have contributed in their their time to the legacy of the Church. On All Saints, we think of the spiritually connective tissue that links those of us in the Now to our past. And in my reflection, I also add the link to those who are to come in the future, the people who will be celebrating All Saints Day one hundred years from now, a thousand years from today. That gives me a sense of gratitude for the past and a sense of hope for tomorrow.

I come to a deep sense of that connection to the past when I visit the monastery in Conyers where there is a place behind the church where the monks are buried when they die. I have attended a number of those liturgies of “The Burial of the Dead” there in this holy plot of land.

When a monk dies, the body is washed, placed in the monk’s habit, and then put on a bier and placed in the Church where vigil prayers are kept through the night, a monk always present by the side of the deceased brother, chanting the Psalms. This vigil lasts through the night until on the next day when a Funeral Mass is held by the community. After the liturgy, the body is taken by the community outside for a blessing and then is lowered into an earthen grave, to join the graves of brothers who had also been in the community.

It is a very REAL moment as the body has not been embalmed, so there is no hiding from the gray, lifeless pallor of the skin. Rather than the heavy make-up and lighting effects that I grew to detest in Southern funeral homes, this stuff is in-your-face reality. The monk is dead, at least the body is. A simple shroud envelops the monk as he is lowered into the Georgia red clay.

The only stage prop is the Pascal Candle, which is the very same candle that was carried into the darkened church on Easter morn, a single light that proclaims that light has overcome darkness, and there is an experiential recognition that goes way beyond our Hallmark Card, Cadbury Egg Easter extravaganzas. In this moment, this simple, single candle delivers a message of hope in the middle (“midst” for you South of Gods) of ding-dong death.

One of my Flannery O’connor moments came when I was officiating at the funeral of a dear friend, a South of God minister, Hank Durham. Hank had been a part of a Bible study group that met at the monastery to translate the Gospels from the original Greek into English, even if our rendering had a distinctive drawl. I have written about this group of men, half Baptist ministers and half Trappist monks. We would meet monthly for many years, and the fruits of friendship, understanding, and scholarship were priceless. Through the time, Hank became a valued friend. I was so honored that his wife asked me to join my pastor, Dr. Estill Jones, in officiating at the funeral.

When Estill and I walked out for the service, Hank’s copper-colored coffin was in the center of the sanctuary of the chapel. All was in order until we got to the front of the casket. There before God and everyone was a flower arrangement, which is not out of the ordinary in and of itself. Such is the custom in the South of God funeral. No Paschal Candle to which I referred earlier, but a flower arrangement.

But this floral arrangement was “special” as the SNL Church Lady would opine. It was a flowered white cross. Okay so far. But in the center was a red plastic toy telephone, with the receiver off the hook, with a banner proclaiming “Jesus Called”.

Estill and I turned toward the front of the chapel so that the congregation could not see the two of us laughing. I would swear I heard Hank laughing from within the casket. We stood for some time, trying to compose ourselves in this most solemn moment. The congregation, no doubt, marveled at the deep spirituality of this short-tall mixed pair of ministers pausing in reverence., where, in fact, we were laughing our asses off.

Finally, we turned to face the congregation, with Estill muttering the opening lines of the rite. Humor, retrospectively, is most appropriate as it takes as its root, humus, of the earth, dirt. For from dust we come and to dust we shall return, comes to mind. Our bodies are ultimately fallible and will cease to function with heartbeat and breath. We are marked by death from our first breath, but the Church audaciously places the mark of the Cross, as a proclamation of Life, not death.

On this All Saints Day, my mind returned to the saints buried in the simple graveyard of the monastery, with a concrete cross to mark this person beneath, decomposing in the clay, as Christ’s own forever. Quite a claim.

It made me think of some specific saints that I knew from that group of monks, these holy persons living with a vow to follow the Christ in his way of being, servanthood.

Folks like Patrick, who was a New York cop before he heard a call to the monastery to radically seek a connection to God. His story is told in the popular travel narrative, Blue Highways.

Father Anthony, a charismatic priest who was popular among the laity of the area, who had a gift of healing. He ran the retreat house for years and did not suffer fools. Ask me how I know this.

Gus, was the abbot, an actual friend of Flannery, recorded in her journals and letters. He was the monk who allowed me to come to the monastery to write and try on my vocation as a possible monk. He is also the monk who laughed out loud when I confessed that I could not fade that celibacy thing.

Joachim was the most joyful person I have ever known It was my treat of helping Joey set up the creche for Christmas. He had a special devotion for the Blessed Virgin Mary and instilled in me a special appreciation for her receptivity that I am trying to embrace.

This past year, Father James, a highly regarded spiritual writer died and is on my mind for his passion for communication. He attempted to convey the monastic spirit in a way that might be accessible to folk who live in the normal nine-to-five world.

Similarly, this year, my pastor, Dr. Estill Jones died at ninety-six years of age, after teaching New Testament at the Southern Baptist Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky and pastoring churches in Georgia. His contribution to the formation in my development is incalculable. He put up with my probing questions and encouraged my explorations of faith. For a man short in stature, he made up with his giant spirit. I loved him as a spiritual father.

And so All Saints comes and goes. A reminder of our deep connection with those who have come before us. We rest in the cloud of witnesses who have formed the larger tradition, but sense and remember the specific ones that have touched our brief lives with their care and love.

All Saints brings into sharp focus those folks who have touched us. But why not do that on a more frequent manner? Why not pause, even after the day itself, after the glucose coma of Halloween has subsided and focus on the ones that have touched us deeply?

Who are the people that spring from the rest of their graves in your memory, not to haunt, but bless your lives with love, care, even laughter? As my friend the owl outside my window prompts me, Who?

Didn’t Your Mama Teach You That?

Emotional Intelligence is a shorthand way of talking about how you get along with others. There’s lot more to it, but bottom line, it’s about how you bring the person you are into interaction with the people you deal with in business, your work environment, your social community, and even your family.

I use Emotional Intelligence in my consulting work with leaders. I have talked about it in lectures and teachings. The coaching I provide and the training I do begin and end with an appreciation for the role of Emotional Intelligence. Finally, I use a heaping helping load of Emotional Intelligence in my life, just getting through the work of the day and the tender of the night.

I am thankful to my Mama and my grandmother for teaching me these basics of how you treat other people with respect, as fellow human beings that have inherent worth. That notion of dignity and worth is forged into the Baptismal Covenant I signed onto when I aligned myself as a follower of Christ. And even the country I call “home” asserts from its very beginnings that all people are created equal, endowed with rights, even though we are struggling still to make that real in our common life. I have been able to refine that attitude and those skills in the years beyond the training my family, tribe and country gave me, but it really comes down to how you regard and treat others, just like my Mama told me.

Didn’t your Mama teach you that? Or somebody else with some common sense? The answer I get from many people I work with is “No”, either formally or by their actions as they struggle to get along. They seem baffled by the most simple interactions that some people do simply, natively.

Let me give you a flesh and blood example.

I was doing a consulting gig at a healthcare system in a large Northern city. This system was bleeding financially to the point that their viability for the future was in question. The leadership team had a Chief Operating Officer (COO) that had a bad reputation for treating his staff badly. This reputation had gotten legs, making its way to the group of Catholic nuns who ran the board. The Sisters felt that this man did not understand the mission of the hospitals and needed to have his career redirected, or in common speak, fired.

My colleagues and I found that he was, in fact, the only one on the executive team who kept an eye on accountability and financial responsibility. I find that is true in many families and teams in business: someone had to take on the role of Enforcer. Without him, the doors of the hospital would have been shut long ago. I convinced the nuns to hire me to train him how to behave in a way that would not leave a trail of blood in his wake. But I also took time to inform the Sisters that without people like him, there would be no mission. The hospital would have to shut it’s doors as it could not afford to operate. It would be shut down. Or as I taught the nun who looked like she could have been from central casting in the Blues Brothers, “No Bucks, No Mission!”. I loved it when this Sister borrowed my phrase when she spoke to a hospital leadership group assembled. She had what I call “stroke” or influence. She made the point much better than me. As the Blues Brothers had said it earlier: We’re on a Mission from God! Now, we have to find a way to fund it!

When I began working with this COO, I quickly found that he was a great guy. What was getting in his way was a story that he had been told in his business school, reinforced by many in the business academy of his industry and time. Here it is: the Chief Operating Officer should be the sternest, strictest person on the staff, cutting no slack, demanding that people tow the line, namely, the “bottom line”. Now, this speaks to part of the reality of the job description in terms of a COO driving productivity. But HOW one does that work is variable. This guy thought that it meant that he had to be the “baddest ass” in the hospital, and so he took on a persona of a hard driver without a heart aka The Enforcer.

And so I entered the scene as his coach. While the work was framed in terms of leadership coaching, I was basically working with him in the area of EQ, that is, Emotional Intelligence, which involves how one interacts with one’s peers. Basically, my work with him was about a mindset shift, plus some immediate feedback around the way he led meetings and interacted with peers and direct reports.

My intervention and input provided new options for how he might do his job, widen his repertoire of skills in terms of leadership. The feedback I was able to give to him as I shadowed him in meetings held up a “mirror” so he could catch himself and “see” how he was interacting in the moment. This magical combination woke him up to a new way of being a leader in the organization. The proof of his personal transformation was in the results as he turned around his 360 evaluations with his coworkers experiencing him as a new person who treated them differently.

Truthfully, he had been given an image of a COO as being the a person without a heart. He was natively a good man, so all he had to do was to realize he could treat people with respect and still drive for metrics and accountability.This was such a relief for him to discover that he could be himself and still make his productivity goals. The result was a much happier work place for him and his colleagues. His coworkers were pleased, the Nuns were thrilled, and he was more satisfied with his role in the organization.

When I was leaving the engagement, he seemed anxious as to how he would continue without my support. I explained how he had introjected me into his psyche as a result of his coaching, that I would remain with him in his mind, prompting him even when I was not physically present. Still unsettled, he pushed, “But what about in a board meeting, where I often get into trouble?” My advice was simple and direct, just the way he liked it: whenever you are thinking about saying something in the meeting, simply ask yourself “does this make me look like an asshole?” and if the answer is “yes”, don’t do it! He and I both laughed. When I check in with him quarterly, that is either the opening or closing comment: How you looking?

Truth is, Emotional Intelligence, or EQ, is at least as important as cognitive ability, usually measured as IQ. The good news is that EQ, unlike IQ, can be trained and increased with attention to that dimension of a person. I use an amazing assessment tool to give a baseline of what is the current capacity a person is bringing to the dance. From that starting point, we begin a process of training in which the person attends to his interactions with other persons at work or in relationships. An added 360 component, which adds an assessment by one’s peers, can add a powerful reality check and a measure of progress in one’s EQ development.

Emotional Intelligence has been on the business scene since 1995 when psychologist, Daniel Goleman, wrote a book on how our emotions show up in our business and work. Now an accepted concept in business schools, EQ has been studied and received attention by academics and practitioners who are interested in how this dimension of human capacity can increase effectiveness, and therefore productivity, resulting in a very real impact on the proverbial bottom line.

Emotional intelligence looks specifically at the self perception of the person. It concerns how the person regards oneself, including an awareness of both strengths and weaknesses. EQ refers to how aware one is of one’s emotions, what’s going on internally as one enters the scene of planning and interaction. And , EQ is interested in the orientation one has as to one’s continuing development and improvement.

This sense of self is expressed to the outside world in the form of observable emotions within the context of relationships, both at work and in personal relationships. One’s assertiveness and independence is noted as well as how one shows empathy for the perspective of others, and to groups one is in, such as a team.

Further, emotional intelligence looks at the way in which one make decisions in terms of problem solving and reality testing. Notably, one’s impulse control is in play as decisions are made and actions are executed. How do you do what you do?

Again, the encouraging news is that one’s EQ can be increased with attention to certain dimensions of your self and ways of relating with others. If you are interested in Emotional Intelligence and how it plays into your work or in your relationships, I recommend an accessible text, The EQ Edge, by Steven Stein and Howard Book. If you are wanting to work with someone in the context of coaching, contact me and I be happy to help you increase your awareness of EQ and assist you in your development. It can make a world of difference. How you looking?

Till Death, Do You Part!

The traditional vows of marriage, concluded by the phrase, “till death do you part” always seemed jarring to me. Why introduce the hardest reality of life, that is, our death, our looming finitude, into this most romantic, illusory notion of endless love. Why not play along with the fluffy proposition of romantic love, riding off into a horse-drawn carriage of eternal joy?

In my Episcopal tradition, we now say “until we are parted by death” but it does little to muffle the blare of the trumpeting reminder of our mortality. And maybe that is the Church’s wisdom in injecting a smidgen of reality into the fantasy of the fairy tale…and they lived happily ever after. My play on words in my title attempts to suggest this truth: marriage is work. As a couple, you better be ready to do your part, that is, the work of relationship.

Intrigued by the new Showtime show, Couples Therapy, I began to reflect on ten years of my life consumed by offering couples therapy for those at the Cathedral who were preparing for the marriage rite as well as those who had already “tied the knot” and were now in a full-tilt struggle with making it work.

But I have a more personal prompt on nuptials. I keep looking on my calendar to a day in November circled in red, the Saturday I will be officiating at the wedding of my niece, Gracie. Last year, I did the same for another niece, Annie, who married Kevin in the historic courthouse on the Square in Decatur. So weddings are on my mind.

In a few weeks, I will have the honor of officiating at my niece’s wedding at Christ Episcopal Church on St. Simons Island. I have watched Gracie grow up, watching the infamous “cousins” play together, as my brother’s and my family lived in close proximity, go to the same church and school together. In today’s dispersed world, this is a blessing that I cherish deeply.

I got the rare chance to watch these six Galloway kids enjoy the joys and pains of childhood, play in the emerald waters of the Gulf, walk the coastline of Maine, negotiate the vagaries of adolescence, move into the tentative identities of college,.and emerge into their life vocations. I got to see Gracie take on the mantle of “teacher”, a profession most noble, one shared by my mother and wife. To my amazement, Gracie’s work as teacher is in the very building in which I went to elementary school, located in South Atlanta, formerly Tull Waters, now a Knowledge is Power charter school. Gracie has emerged as a passionate teacher who loves the children she works with in a way that make me proud.

Gracie met Chase, her fiance, at our school, Holy Innocents, and have been connected for “a spell”, as we say in the South. I love them both and am confident in their decision to take these vows before God, their families, and the community. It will be a high point for me in that historic church to witness that union and pronounce them as partners in life. It will be treat to see these two I love move even more intentionally into their joined futures. So you see, marriage is on my feeble, old mind. Did I already mention that already? God, aging is a bitch.

Very rarely in my career did I have the gift of having that deep personal connection with the couples that I joined in Holy Matrimony. At the Cathedral where I served, one of THE popular places to be married, couples would stream in after Christmas engagements to claim their spot in the marriage schedule. It was a competitive, strategic, even vicious moment getting the “right” date, meaning no home football games.

The number of weddings was overwhelming. It resulted in three weddings a week, with a service at High Noon, four in the afternoon, and seven in the evening. This translates into three rehearsals on Friday night as well. This meant around one-hundred and fifty weddings a year. That is a daunting number in and of itself. But in the Episcopal Church, a priest is required to provide premarital counseling for each of these couples being married in the church. This translated into about 600 premarital counseling sessions during that year. God, I love math.

A lot of people think the Church requires the premarital sessions as a kind of a “test” to see if the couple is “worthy” for marriage. Some old priests (back before I was one) used to tell me that the premarital counseling requirement was instituted to make fevered couples pause and think it over before they make the proverbial mistake of a lifetime…..can you say Elvis Wedding Chapel? That makes some sense, but I had a deeper purpose for premarital counseling as a unique opportunity to prepare the couple for what was on down the road, beyond the glitz and excitement of the wedding day.

I pause to note that not all priests are trained in couples therapy. The fact that most Episcopal priests are married and have some experience with the overwhelming bliss of matrimony adds some positive aspects to the counseling, as opposed to celibate priests, although my experience with priests and marriage isn’t all that commendatory.

Some priests, like myself, received specific training in marriage therapy. I was trained as a marriage and family therapist before and after my ordination and had worked as a couples therapist for some time. Other priests had no formal training and basically cobbled together some folk wisdom and bad jokes about the vicissitudes of marriage. So, to address this lack of training, as well as the sheer numbers of weddings, I came up with the notion of doing a monthly workshop that would not only fulfill the requirement of the canon law, but would provide a higher quality of counseling and training.

We offered a Premarital Workshop that was held on one Saturday per month. The priest that was to officiate the wedding could have an initial meeting with the couple to get to know them. Then referring the couple to the workshop, the priest could see the couple after the workshop to see if there were any residual issues and to finalize the plans. This worked out well for the other priests on the staff of the Cathedral but was also extended to the wider diocese of Atlanta as a resource available to them. Smart priests took advantage of this offer. I understand that the workshop continues to happen some twenty five years later.

The workshop itself was comprised of didactic material focused on a wide variety of topics. Communication, basic conflict resolution skills, and the predictable issues in the development of relationships were covered. Unique to our program was an opportunity for a number of marriage and family therapists to spend time in groupings of couples to review their family of origins. The family that one comes from imprints a memory on the children who unconsciously try to repeat some of the same styles and behavior that they learned. Sometimes, persons express a desire NOT to be like their parent’s way of doing marriage, but the power of the unconscious is not to be minimized.

I has an entire lecture based on how my wife and I tried to recreate our respective family’s way of sitting at dinner table. My wife’s family employed a more hierarchical style, seated at a rectangular table, father at one end, mother at the other, closer to the kitchen. The time of the meal was precise, based on the physician father’s return home.The kids sat in birth order, and spoke only when spoken to by the parents, with a board meeting feel. I called it a 50’s family style.

My family sat at a round table, where people’s place was determined by the time one arrived, which tended to be pretty random. The conversation was more of a free-for-all with my extroverted mother orchestrating the festivities while my introverted dad looked on. It seemed to typify the 60’s spirit, sort of Woodstock at dinner. Needless to say, Mary and I had some work to do to get ready for our family. We wound up with a hybrid of the two, using an oval table.

All couples have a difficult piece of work when they first get together figuring out how they will make their particular relationship work for the long haul. It is negotiation of the highest order and the members of this duo have had little training. I know I was shocked at the statistics that point out a 50/50 chance of a marriage succeeding or ending up in divorce, regardless of it occurring within the context of a holy space or a civic office. What does make a difference is a time of preparation which prepares a couple to negotiate the transition from a informal relationship to that of a committed marriage.

By the way, one of my greatest victories in priesthood was a marriage that did NOT happen, thanks to the premarital counseling. The couple was clearly mismatched in terms of values and long-term goals. My office became a safe place for the couple to discuss that hard reality and make the difficult decision to call the wedding off! Then the hard work began: how do we break it to our parents? Recently, I saw the intended groom’s picture on Facebook, grinning, as he stood with his wife and four gorgeous kids. I love it when it works!

I instituted a practice when I was a young eager priest to have my assistant call and schedule an appointment for any couple I married for what I termed as a 12,000 mile check up at the end of a year of wedded bliss. In this interview, I “checked under the hood”, asking about how they have negotiated independence from their family of origin, how they were doing sexually, how they were handling finances, how they managed conflict, how they continued to have fun. This was a mere list to start the conversation which might surface hidden concerrns.

You see, every couple thinks they have the perfect marriage, particularly the younger they are. No one wants to be the first to admit it’s not perfect, that they married the image, or persona, presented by the other and now it was breaking into them it is not all as planned. I always try to warn couples of this reality before they sign on the line in blood, but they never believe me. THEY will be SPECIAL!….and they are not, trust me.

I found that my “check up” sometimes flushed out some good issues in time to correct before a deathly crash. Insight, cognitive skills, and emotional intelligence helps in this work but it’s still a bit of a crap shoot.

Once people make it beyond the first two years, there are other predictable times when marriages tend to founder. One of the first hurdles is the introduction of children into the equation. First, it tends to resurface family of origin issues as each member of the partnership assumes their family did it the right way OR they are reactive with a fervant vow that they ccrtainly would not repeat the grievous error thrust on them. Either way, there is some work to be done to form a parenting partnership.

This parenting will evolve through the developmental stages, so there is constant renegotiation. For my parenting partnership with my wife, her tendency to structure and provide care was perfect for the childhood phase. What a great job and firm foundation of present care she gave our two children. I found that I, in my comfortableness in ambiguity, was better suited for the rodeo known as adolescence. I was happy that we could tag-team this work and get them through this tough time of growth.

There are other seasons of change, signaled by the major shifts of the constellation of family. Empty nest presents a whole new set of issues for the couple, who must now refocus attention on the relationship. The death of the parents present another set of responsibilities as well as a psychic reality that may be troubling. Finally, retirement and aging present a new landscape of possibilities and challenges that confront the once carefree couple with some hard notes of reality.

A parting note in my journey through the course of coupling is to remind you that there is really no place we learn how to do this. There are very few courses that help us to negotiate this challenging course of our lives together. Using an “other” with no-agenda can give a couple an invaluable eye that brings some objectivity to the issues that arise. I have seen marriage therapy save marriages, and more importantly, assist the evolution of a relationship into a healthy couple, with happy partners.

You might take a look at the Showtime series I mentioned at the beginning to see how couples therapy can go. While your relationship may not be as exotic as they ones that hit prime time, it is an important part of your life if you are in relationship. Finding a good couple’s therapist or coach can help you invest the time and energy into your relationship and make for a healthy, joyful future. Marriage is intended for joy, “mutual joy” the marriage rite says, but if you look it in the fine print, it is also work. So as I cleverly put it is the title, do your part!