I met Friederike at our company's annual user conference a few years ago. Like everyone else who meets Friederike for the first time, I was struck by her grace. She had a lovely, engaging smile and that rare ability to focus on the person she was talking to, as if nothing else in the world mattered at that moment. Her eyes, the way she looked directly at you, her smile, her whole expression let you know that you had her complete attention. She also had the most beautiful posture of anyone I've ever met. That's important, because it wasn't just the way she stood or the graceful way she walked that caught your attention. Rather it was the fact that that was how she approached the world. She stood up and faced it straight on, with dignity and grace.
I asked her about it one day at our conference. And those who were there will remember me lying as flat as possible on the floor in the middle of the organiser's office, surrounded by all the chaos of a conference in full swing, with Friederike giving me lessons on how to improve my posture. Patiently, she showed me how to flatten my back, vertebrae by vertebrae, slowly pushing it against the floor; and she told me that if I practiced every day I would eventually develop beautiful posture too.
When I heard about Friederike losing her battle, I remembered that moment. Despite being a terrible student, I had learned something valuable from her. With herself as a model, and without ever really trying to, Friederike had taught me to stand a little taller.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Time, heal these wounds
Some of you who know me will remember this story. In a way, it’s about my memory of my mom, who died in 1989. It was because of her that I called the doctor to schedule a colonoscopy when I turned 40 in 2002.
But in another way, it’s about the stories we tell and how they shape who we are. The fact that these stories are not always rooted in historical "truth" may not matter all that much. At the end of the day, stories and memories are the cards we hold on to; cold facts are what we discard. And for a very good reason: Stories trump truth.
Because of my mom, I had the colonoscopy as soon as I turned 40, which is what you do when your parent dies of colon cancer. But here’s the thing: she didn’t have colon cancer…
----------------
If you are still reading, dear reader, I can only assume it’s because, like me, you like a mystery. You know you could just skip to the end. But you’re not that kind of person. You’re patient. If the story is good, you’ll wait. And you know it isn’t about the facts anyway. It’s about how the story unfolds.
In the interest of (somewhat) full disclosure, let me put some cards on the table. My mother passed away in 1989. That much is definitely true. I was there at the hospital the day she died. Still true. I knew she was dying of colon cancer. Not true at all.
But how could that be? How could I not know that? I was definitely there at the hospital that day. But where was I in the years that lead up to that moment?
My memory is sketchy.
What I do remember is what happened on the day after she died. I was at her house, sitting on a barstool in the backyard. There were lots of people around. The TV was on inside. And I was in the backyard, crying like a baby.
I wasn’t a baby, of course -- I was 26 at the time. But the tears pored out of me like water from a faucet. I think I went through a box of Kleenex every 15 minutes. It was pathetic, really.
And I think that somehow in the emotion of that whole period -- during my mom’s illness, during my denial of it -- the facts seemed to float away. Maybe trauma has that effect. Maybe during periods of intense pain you just forget things. Or you remember them differently. Your version of reality changes, re-forms. New realities take over. New identities are formed. You become what you remember.
Not the facts of your life but rather your memory of those facts is what defines your identity.
Let me give you an example. My mom’s dad grew up in the Depression. Few events in our nation’s history have been as traumatic for the people who lived through them. That experience left him with memories that are etched permanently on his mind.
According to a story he told me recently, his grandfather died in 1933, leaving $1,250 to his mother, my great-grandmother. She deposited the money on a Wednesday afternoon in April in a bank managed by John Dowling in Welston, Missouri. The next day, which was the second Thursday in April, the bank closed. In fact, all banks closed. Some didn’t open for two days. Some never reopened. This bank never did, and she never saw that money again. My grandfather was 18 at the time. He had 12 brothers and sisters. They were dirt poor, and he was the only one in the family with a job. They could have used that money. The bank closure may not have been Mr. Dowling’s fault, but my grandfather didn’t have many kind words to say about him.
This memory became for my grandfather a reference point, a map that has guided him through his long life. It’s because of moments like the bank run that he learned to work hard, fight through adversity, build a business with his own hands, and take care of people who depend on you. Who he is is tangled up in what he remembers.
Here’s where it gets interesting. The historical facts regarding bank closures and bank runs in the Great Depression don’t quite jive with my grandfather’s memory. Trust me. I looked it up.
But does it matter? One thing is certain: that experience left in his memory a deep scar, one whose contours he’s very familiar with. His memory has a certainty to it that, in the end, may bear only a passing resemblance to what we call "facts." Not unlike my memory of my mom.
When you lose someone close to you, like your mother, all you’re left with is your memory. But if you’re lucky, she’ll also appear to you in your dreams. I still see her there from time to time. Usually only for brief moments. We don’t usually talk. It’s more like we’re waving to each other as we pass -- as if our not-quite-parallel universes overlap for a moment, then separate again. But I’m okay with that, because I like seeing her.
The good news for her is she looks great. She hasn’t changed a bit in 20 years. You always say that to someone you haven’t seen in a long time, but in this case it’s absolutely true. She lives on in my memory exactly as she was back then. Or more to the point, exactly as I remember her.
She was young, only 48. Too young. And when she died, it was after a period of remission. She had first been identified with ovarian cancer a few years prior, had treatment, and was recovering.
When it reappeared it had spread to a lot more of her body. It took her colon, which strangely is what I remember. But she didn’t die of colon cancer. She never had colon cancer.
And that’s a fact that both of my brothers pointed out to me on the evening before I was scheduled to have my colonoscopy -- after I had spent a day drinking gallons of ginger ale mixed with what I think was paint thinner. I’ll spare you the gory details, but if you’re interested read Dave Barry’s experience.
Suffice it to say, it wasn’t pleasant. And I haven’t touched ginger ale since. Not a drop. Even the idea of ginger ale brings back memories I’d rather forget.
But it also brings back some I like to remember.
----------------
Epilogue: August 12th will be 19 years, Mom. If you’re out there, drop by. You have an open invitation to visit my in my dreams anytime you want. I miss you.
Postscript: This story is dedicated to my friend Chris, who recently lost his mom. And to my friend Vivian, who lost her dad not long ago. What I’d like to tell them is not to worry. You’ll see them again.
But in another way, it’s about the stories we tell and how they shape who we are. The fact that these stories are not always rooted in historical "truth" may not matter all that much. At the end of the day, stories and memories are the cards we hold on to; cold facts are what we discard. And for a very good reason: Stories trump truth.
Because of my mom, I had the colonoscopy as soon as I turned 40, which is what you do when your parent dies of colon cancer. But here’s the thing: she didn’t have colon cancer…
----------------
If you are still reading, dear reader, I can only assume it’s because, like me, you like a mystery. You know you could just skip to the end. But you’re not that kind of person. You’re patient. If the story is good, you’ll wait. And you know it isn’t about the facts anyway. It’s about how the story unfolds.
In the interest of (somewhat) full disclosure, let me put some cards on the table. My mother passed away in 1989. That much is definitely true. I was there at the hospital the day she died. Still true. I knew she was dying of colon cancer. Not true at all.
But how could that be? How could I not know that? I was definitely there at the hospital that day. But where was I in the years that lead up to that moment?
My memory is sketchy.
What I do remember is what happened on the day after she died. I was at her house, sitting on a barstool in the backyard. There were lots of people around. The TV was on inside. And I was in the backyard, crying like a baby.
I wasn’t a baby, of course -- I was 26 at the time. But the tears pored out of me like water from a faucet. I think I went through a box of Kleenex every 15 minutes. It was pathetic, really.
And I think that somehow in the emotion of that whole period -- during my mom’s illness, during my denial of it -- the facts seemed to float away. Maybe trauma has that effect. Maybe during periods of intense pain you just forget things. Or you remember them differently. Your version of reality changes, re-forms. New realities take over. New identities are formed. You become what you remember.
Not the facts of your life but rather your memory of those facts is what defines your identity.
Let me give you an example. My mom’s dad grew up in the Depression. Few events in our nation’s history have been as traumatic for the people who lived through them. That experience left him with memories that are etched permanently on his mind.
According to a story he told me recently, his grandfather died in 1933, leaving $1,250 to his mother, my great-grandmother. She deposited the money on a Wednesday afternoon in April in a bank managed by John Dowling in Welston, Missouri. The next day, which was the second Thursday in April, the bank closed. In fact, all banks closed. Some didn’t open for two days. Some never reopened. This bank never did, and she never saw that money again. My grandfather was 18 at the time. He had 12 brothers and sisters. They were dirt poor, and he was the only one in the family with a job. They could have used that money. The bank closure may not have been Mr. Dowling’s fault, but my grandfather didn’t have many kind words to say about him.
This memory became for my grandfather a reference point, a map that has guided him through his long life. It’s because of moments like the bank run that he learned to work hard, fight through adversity, build a business with his own hands, and take care of people who depend on you. Who he is is tangled up in what he remembers.
Here’s where it gets interesting. The historical facts regarding bank closures and bank runs in the Great Depression don’t quite jive with my grandfather’s memory. Trust me. I looked it up.
But does it matter? One thing is certain: that experience left in his memory a deep scar, one whose contours he’s very familiar with. His memory has a certainty to it that, in the end, may bear only a passing resemblance to what we call "facts." Not unlike my memory of my mom.
When you lose someone close to you, like your mother, all you’re left with is your memory. But if you’re lucky, she’ll also appear to you in your dreams. I still see her there from time to time. Usually only for brief moments. We don’t usually talk. It’s more like we’re waving to each other as we pass -- as if our not-quite-parallel universes overlap for a moment, then separate again. But I’m okay with that, because I like seeing her.
The good news for her is she looks great. She hasn’t changed a bit in 20 years. You always say that to someone you haven’t seen in a long time, but in this case it’s absolutely true. She lives on in my memory exactly as she was back then. Or more to the point, exactly as I remember her.
She was young, only 48. Too young. And when she died, it was after a period of remission. She had first been identified with ovarian cancer a few years prior, had treatment, and was recovering.
When it reappeared it had spread to a lot more of her body. It took her colon, which strangely is what I remember. But she didn’t die of colon cancer. She never had colon cancer.
And that’s a fact that both of my brothers pointed out to me on the evening before I was scheduled to have my colonoscopy -- after I had spent a day drinking gallons of ginger ale mixed with what I think was paint thinner. I’ll spare you the gory details, but if you’re interested read Dave Barry’s experience.
Suffice it to say, it wasn’t pleasant. And I haven’t touched ginger ale since. Not a drop. Even the idea of ginger ale brings back memories I’d rather forget.
But it also brings back some I like to remember.
----------------
Epilogue: August 12th will be 19 years, Mom. If you’re out there, drop by. You have an open invitation to visit my in my dreams anytime you want. I miss you.
Postscript: This story is dedicated to my friend Chris, who recently lost his mom. And to my friend Vivian, who lost her dad not long ago. What I’d like to tell them is not to worry. You’ll see them again.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
What's luck got to do with it?
This is a true story about a chance encounter. It’s about a girl I met the other day, while I was at traffic court.
Now, you and I both know you’re not supposed to talk in the courtroom, but I was sitting at the very back of the room, the girl sitting next to me was cute, and I couldn’t help myself. Very quietly, I asked her what she was there for. She was there for a moving violation. She explained how it happened and why she got the ticket. And then she asked me the same question. I explained that I was there with my daughter, who was there to pay a speeding ticket. We chatted.
At that moment, my daughter was sitting up front, awaiting her opportunity to speak with the judge. She (Morgan, my daughter) was hoping to get a reduced sentence. She had been speeding, but not outrageously. She was going 70 but slowing down as she approached a toll gate. The speed limit for that section of the freeway had just dropped to 50 mph, but the cop was not sympathetic. Morgan pleaded guilty, threw herself upon the mercy of the court, and asked for a reduced sentence because she was a poor college student. But like the cop, the judge wasn’t particularly sympathetic either. The judgment? $250. And would she like to pay it today?
You might say that Morgan was unlucky. And you might say that she was also unlucky later that day when she was involved in an accident while driving to Willits, a small town in Mendocino county, about 3 hours north of San Francisco.
Not me; I say she was lucky. Lucky, because she wasn’t hurt. No other cars were involved. The accident was minor. We’ll have to get her car fixed of course, and that’s going to cost some money. So perhaps Morgan was “fortunate” rather than lucky. It could have been a lot worse.
And what if the lesson she learned from the speeding ticket and the accident ultimately made her a better driver? Years later she may look back on an otherwise spotless driving record and think, Maybe I truly was lucky that day I went to traffic court.
And maybe my dad was lucky that day too, the day he met that girl. Maybe my ticket and my appearance at traffic court ultimately lead to the luckiest moment of my dad’s life.
Life is like that, isn’t it? Isn’t it totally random at times?
Think about how we meet our partners, our spouses, our boyfriends and girlfriends. Unless you’re in an arranged marriage (and even then, I would argue), we meet our significant others purely by chance. What were the odds that he would be the one to reach down and pick up the book that you dropped accidentally while flipping through the pages in the bookstore. It just happened to be his favorite novelist. What were the odds that she would be the one sitting next to you on the plane, both of you traveling on business trips scheduled at the last minute. It just happened you were going to the same destination, a place neither one of you had ever been to.
So you strike up a conversation. It leads to exchanging e-mail addresses. You make arrangements to meet for dinner. One date leads to another. You discover that you have met your soul mate.
Could you have guessed that would happen? Could you have predicted that chance encounter?
Let me pause here a moment and make a confession. I check my horoscope everyday. I bet you didn’t know that about me. Despite the fact that I think astrology is completely bogus, I’m fascinated by it. No, I’m addicted. I love to read my horoscope and try to find some way to connect it to my life, something that happened to me to confirm the truth of that day’s prediction.
Here’s my horoscope for the day my daughter had her traffic accident after spending the morning in traffic court. The day I went there with her to lend her my moral support. The day I met that girl sitting next to me at the back of the courtroom:
All you need to fulfill your next life goal -- the missing link, if you will -- is a person, and this person could be coming into your life today. If you are at work, look for someone who isn't new on the scene but has recently taken on a different role. They have some helpful information you need to hear. If you are at school, keep an eye out for that kid who always seems to have the answers. They have the answers for you, too. Strike up a conversation with this person and see where it goes.
No lie. That’s my exact horoscope, verbatim, on the day I went to traffic court with my daughter. Which leads to this inevitable question: Did my horoscope accurately predict the future?
That’s the thing about astrology: in a sense it’s the exact opposite of the chaos theory of life. Astrology suggests that distant stars and planets guide and influence our lives, much the way the shape and contours of land determine the course of a river. And thus it is that astrology can actually predict the events of our lives. If you believe in it.
But I don’t. I don’t see life that way. To me, life is wonderfully chaotic. That it’s unpredictable is what makes it so amazing. I like to think that our lives are like novels. And what is a novel but a long story that unfolds over many thousands of words. If it’s a good story, it surprises us at every turn. It’s unpredictable.
It’s only when we get to the end of the novel and look back that we can see the pattern. Yes, there was a logic in the steady march of events. There was a design in the steady development of the story. The river stayed predictably in its banks.
But wait a minute. Let’s be clear about this: That order you perceive is apparent only in retrospect, only from a distance. That is not how it feels when you’re in the middle of the story. Or the middle of your life. Can you predict absolutely what will happen in your life tomorrow, much less next month or next year? We never know. Things often seem to happen when they happen for reasons beyond your ability to comprehend. And luck -- good or bad -- most definitely plays a role. Luck has its day in court.
As luck would have it, I left the courtroom that day the way I had arrived. I was there for my daughter. We came together, we left together. Just the two of us. I met a girl while I was there. I talked with her for a while. But I never gave her my phone number. We didn’t exchange e-mail addresses. I don’t even know her name.
And in a week or so, I won’t even remember what she looked like.
Now, you and I both know you’re not supposed to talk in the courtroom, but I was sitting at the very back of the room, the girl sitting next to me was cute, and I couldn’t help myself. Very quietly, I asked her what she was there for. She was there for a moving violation. She explained how it happened and why she got the ticket. And then she asked me the same question. I explained that I was there with my daughter, who was there to pay a speeding ticket. We chatted.
At that moment, my daughter was sitting up front, awaiting her opportunity to speak with the judge. She (Morgan, my daughter) was hoping to get a reduced sentence. She had been speeding, but not outrageously. She was going 70 but slowing down as she approached a toll gate. The speed limit for that section of the freeway had just dropped to 50 mph, but the cop was not sympathetic. Morgan pleaded guilty, threw herself upon the mercy of the court, and asked for a reduced sentence because she was a poor college student. But like the cop, the judge wasn’t particularly sympathetic either. The judgment? $250. And would she like to pay it today?
You might say that Morgan was unlucky. And you might say that she was also unlucky later that day when she was involved in an accident while driving to Willits, a small town in Mendocino county, about 3 hours north of San Francisco.
Not me; I say she was lucky. Lucky, because she wasn’t hurt. No other cars were involved. The accident was minor. We’ll have to get her car fixed of course, and that’s going to cost some money. So perhaps Morgan was “fortunate” rather than lucky. It could have been a lot worse.
And what if the lesson she learned from the speeding ticket and the accident ultimately made her a better driver? Years later she may look back on an otherwise spotless driving record and think, Maybe I truly was lucky that day I went to traffic court.
And maybe my dad was lucky that day too, the day he met that girl. Maybe my ticket and my appearance at traffic court ultimately lead to the luckiest moment of my dad’s life.
Life is like that, isn’t it? Isn’t it totally random at times?
Think about how we meet our partners, our spouses, our boyfriends and girlfriends. Unless you’re in an arranged marriage (and even then, I would argue), we meet our significant others purely by chance. What were the odds that he would be the one to reach down and pick up the book that you dropped accidentally while flipping through the pages in the bookstore. It just happened to be his favorite novelist. What were the odds that she would be the one sitting next to you on the plane, both of you traveling on business trips scheduled at the last minute. It just happened you were going to the same destination, a place neither one of you had ever been to.
So you strike up a conversation. It leads to exchanging e-mail addresses. You make arrangements to meet for dinner. One date leads to another. You discover that you have met your soul mate.
Could you have guessed that would happen? Could you have predicted that chance encounter?
Let me pause here a moment and make a confession. I check my horoscope everyday. I bet you didn’t know that about me. Despite the fact that I think astrology is completely bogus, I’m fascinated by it. No, I’m addicted. I love to read my horoscope and try to find some way to connect it to my life, something that happened to me to confirm the truth of that day’s prediction.
Here’s my horoscope for the day my daughter had her traffic accident after spending the morning in traffic court. The day I went there with her to lend her my moral support. The day I met that girl sitting next to me at the back of the courtroom:
All you need to fulfill your next life goal -- the missing link, if you will -- is a person, and this person could be coming into your life today. If you are at work, look for someone who isn't new on the scene but has recently taken on a different role. They have some helpful information you need to hear. If you are at school, keep an eye out for that kid who always seems to have the answers. They have the answers for you, too. Strike up a conversation with this person and see where it goes.
No lie. That’s my exact horoscope, verbatim, on the day I went to traffic court with my daughter. Which leads to this inevitable question: Did my horoscope accurately predict the future?
That’s the thing about astrology: in a sense it’s the exact opposite of the chaos theory of life. Astrology suggests that distant stars and planets guide and influence our lives, much the way the shape and contours of land determine the course of a river. And thus it is that astrology can actually predict the events of our lives. If you believe in it.
But I don’t. I don’t see life that way. To me, life is wonderfully chaotic. That it’s unpredictable is what makes it so amazing. I like to think that our lives are like novels. And what is a novel but a long story that unfolds over many thousands of words. If it’s a good story, it surprises us at every turn. It’s unpredictable.
It’s only when we get to the end of the novel and look back that we can see the pattern. Yes, there was a logic in the steady march of events. There was a design in the steady development of the story. The river stayed predictably in its banks.
But wait a minute. Let’s be clear about this: That order you perceive is apparent only in retrospect, only from a distance. That is not how it feels when you’re in the middle of the story. Or the middle of your life. Can you predict absolutely what will happen in your life tomorrow, much less next month or next year? We never know. Things often seem to happen when they happen for reasons beyond your ability to comprehend. And luck -- good or bad -- most definitely plays a role. Luck has its day in court.
As luck would have it, I left the courtroom that day the way I had arrived. I was there for my daughter. We came together, we left together. Just the two of us. I met a girl while I was there. I talked with her for a while. But I never gave her my phone number. We didn’t exchange e-mail addresses. I don’t even know her name.
And in a week or so, I won’t even remember what she looked like.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
One final thank you
It was exactly one month ago today. At 10pm on April 21, 12 hours after starting the 2008 Boston Marathon, I checked into a hotel in Milford, Mass., eight miles south of Hopkinton. Because I was wearing the blue race jersey, the receptionist at the front desk of the hotel asked me about the marathon, and we chatted briefly. She said she had followed the Boston Marathon on TV that day while watching her three kids at home. She was pleasant and seemed interested in the fact that I had run it.
But when I mentioned the program we raised money for, her face lit up. She was a complete stranger to me; we might never have known we were connected in some way. But her smile was proof of the impact we all have on each other, evidence of the way our generosity makes a difference in the lives of people we will never meet.
Of this lady’s three kids, one has Down syndrome and she and her son have spent a lot of time at the Michael Carter Lisnow Respite Center in Hopkinton. She and I talked about what a great organization it is, how wonderful the people are who run it. She was so happy to know that we had raised money for the Respite Center. It was as if with her smile she was thanking each of us personally for the support she and her son had received.
For me, meeting her was a gift. She made everything real. We weren’t simply raising money for a wonderful organization in Hopkinton, Massachusetts. We were raising money for this lady and her son. We had touched their lives.
That gift was one of many I received while in Boston.
I would like to thank Alex and Casey, friends of mine from California who now live in Boston and who gave me a place to stay when I arrived in Boston on Friday before the race. Thank you for the tacos!
I would also like to thank Bryan and Jennifer who let me stay at their house and gave me a ride to the start line. Thank you! It was great seeing you near the finish line too. And be honest: didn’t I look as refreshed and rested then as I did earlier that morning? I’d also like to thank Bryan’s and Jenn’s kids, Benny and Kellen, who entertained me the evening before the race. Thank you for making me laugh all night!
I’d also like to thank my friend Lori who ran part of the race with me and who met me and Kristina after the marathon for a beer in Natick. You are what people look for in a friend.
And more than anyone else, I’d like to thank Steve and Kristina and their daughter, Cora. Whatever I say by way of thanks will not be enough. Thank you for letting me stay with you on Saturday night before the race. Thank you for the beautiful sign that Cora made. Thank you for waiting for me at mile 23 (and waiting and waiting and waiting). And thank you, Kristina, for running with me the last 3 miles, encouraging me, and standing by me as I nearly puked at the very end. I’m not sure I would have finished the race without your help.
And lastly, thank you to everyone who donated money to a very worthy cause. More than 100 friends gave generously to support this effort, and I wish I could thank each one of you in person.
When I said that I would carry my list of sponsors and thank each of you at every half mile, I wasn’t kidding. (See photo to the right.) I thought about you all as I ran and I repeated your names to myself so that I would remember why I was running. And it is no exaggeration to say that you all carried me. In a very real sense, you helped me get across the finish line by not letting me quit – you didn’t let me quit when I was training and tired and not wanting to run; and you didn’t let me quit when I was actually there running the Boston Marathon. I thought about you and your generosity and your friendship, and it kept me going. So let me say it one last time: From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Over $10,000 raised!
According to my unoffficial tally, and including EMC's matching donations, we've raised over $10,000!
Unbelievable. To everyone who donated: You people are amazing. In baseball parlance, you stepped to the plate and hit a home run. (And you weren’t even juiced!)
I'll say more about this incredible response, but for now I just want to say two words: Thank you.
Unbelievable. To everyone who donated: You people are amazing. In baseball parlance, you stepped to the plate and hit a home run. (And you weren’t even juiced!)
I'll say more about this incredible response, but for now I just want to say two words: Thank you.
Monday, March 31, 2008
How much good can $10,000 do?
I was on the phone the other day with Brandon Rhoads, who helps manage fundraising for the Michael Carter Lisnow Respite Center, and he told me exactly what $10,000 will do for them. Let me break it down for you.
The Respite Center provides support for people with disabilities, adults as well as children. Like everything else, of course, there is a cost associated with that care. For example, for one adult to spend his or her days there for a month, full time, it costs the program about $1250. Most of the adults in the program are funded. That is, some portion of that cost is paid for by someone other than the family. 35 adults are fully funded. $10,000 pays for one of them to use the center for 8 months -- full time, fully funded, in a home environment where they can be safe, where they can take classes, where they can participate in activities that would otherwise be unavailable to them.
Stop and think about that for a moment. By contributing to this cause, you're giving someone a special gift: a home.
The Respite Center provides support for people with disabilities, adults as well as children. Like everything else, of course, there is a cost associated with that care. For example, for one adult to spend his or her days there for a month, full time, it costs the program about $1250. Most of the adults in the program are funded. That is, some portion of that cost is paid for by someone other than the family. 35 adults are fully funded. $10,000 pays for one of them to use the center for 8 months -- full time, fully funded, in a home environment where they can be safe, where they can take classes, where they can participate in activities that would otherwise be unavailable to them.
Stop and think about that for a moment. By contributing to this cause, you're giving someone a special gift: a home.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Half-mile sponsorships are sold out -- but you can still donate!
26.2 miles is a long, long way to go on foot. If you think about that when you set out to run a marathon, you’ll never make it.
Instead, you have to focus on the next step, the next tree, the end of this block. You have to break it down into small sections that are manageable. You do them one at a time. That’s how you get across the finish line.
And that’s what I’m asking you to help me do: get across the finish line. I’ll be running the Boston Marathon on April 21 to support the Michael Carter Lisnow Respite Center, an amazing program in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, near my company’s headquarters. (Check out the video.) You can help by sponsoring a half-mile of the marathon. Each half-mile sponsorship is $50 (tax deductible). You simply tell me which half-mile is yours and I’ll add your name to my blog (below) to stake your claim to that section of the marathon. And please consider sponsoring more than one half-mile.
Here's my promise to you. As I’m running, I’ll keep this list in my hand the entire way, and I will remember each and every person who helps me get there as I run each half-mile section.
Here’s how to sponsor your half-mile:
* Online. Go to the Respite Center's donation page and use your credit card or PayPal account. In the “Purpose” field, be sure to type "John Hyde, Boston Marathon." This is important as it’s the only way that the Respite Center can track who you're sponsoring (to meet the minimum sponsorship criteria of $2,500).
* By check. Send a check made out to "The Respite Center." Send it to:
John Hyde
946 Anderson Circle
Woodland, CA 95776
After you make your donation, please send me an e-mail to let me know which half-mile you’re claiming as yours, and I’ll add your name after that section of the marathon (below). Then check back periodically to see the progress we’re making together toward completing this marathon and helping the Respite Center.
Instead, you have to focus on the next step, the next tree, the end of this block. You have to break it down into small sections that are manageable. You do them one at a time. That’s how you get across the finish line.
And that’s what I’m asking you to help me do: get across the finish line. I’ll be running the Boston Marathon on April 21 to support the Michael Carter Lisnow Respite Center, an amazing program in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, near my company’s headquarters. (Check out the video.) You can help by sponsoring a half-mile of the marathon. Each half-mile sponsorship is $50 (tax deductible). You simply tell me which half-mile is yours and I’ll add your name to my blog (below) to stake your claim to that section of the marathon. And please consider sponsoring more than one half-mile.
Here's my promise to you. As I’m running, I’ll keep this list in my hand the entire way, and I will remember each and every person who helps me get there as I run each half-mile section.
Here’s how to sponsor your half-mile:
* Online. Go to the Respite Center's donation page and use your credit card or PayPal account. In the “Purpose” field, be sure to type "John Hyde, Boston Marathon." This is important as it’s the only way that the Respite Center can track who you're sponsoring (to meet the minimum sponsorship criteria of $2,500).
* By check. Send a check made out to "The Respite Center." Send it to:
John Hyde
946 Anderson Circle
Woodland, CA 95776
After you make your donation, please send me an e-mail to let me know which half-mile you’re claiming as yours, and I’ll add your name after that section of the marathon (below). Then check back periodically to see the progress we’re making together toward completing this marathon and helping the Respite Center.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
