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title: The Summer That Changed Everything
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| What if the most important turning point in your life looked ordinary at the time?  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­    ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏  ͏ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­ ­   |
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| View in browser Last time, I wrote about a summer spent in a tire shop and the surprising discovery that joy, love, and deep human connection can arise in the most unlikely places. Looking back now, I can see that the tire shop was only one part of a much larger story. In truth, it was an extraordinary year—a year that quietly changed the course of my life.   When I entered John Carroll University as a freshman, I had no idea what was beginning. I knew only that something had awakened in me during my senior retreat that Father Libens had encouraged me to follow. At John Carroll, I met Father William Johnston, who introduced me to Zen Buddhism, Eastern and Western forms of meditation, and opened a doorway into the contemplative traditions of the world. My spiritual universe expanded in ways I could not have planned.   At the same time, another story was unfolding at home. The summer before I left for college, my younger brother Rick had spent a week in Appalachia with a remarkable organization run by the Glenmary priests and brothers. The stated mission of this program was to help build homes for the poor in the mountains of eastern Kentucky, but something much deeper was happening there.   Rick was an athlete—a very good one. He played football and wrestled. Sports were his passion, his identity. When he came home from Appalachia, I knew something had changed. He said very little about his experience, but he did something I had never seen him do before. He sat at his desk and wrote in a journal. He wrote all day. Day after day for the first week he was home, he wrote. I remember watching him and wondering, What happened down there? A few months later, during my freshman year at John Carroll, I called home one evening. Rick answered the phone. By then, he was having the wrestling season of his life. He had a legitimate chance of winning the state championship. Early in our conversation he quietly said, "I blew out my knee today in practice. My season's over."   I was heartbroken for him. "Oh, Rick," I said, "I'm so sorry." There was a pause. He then, very simply, said, "Oh Bob, it's really OK. It really is. In the scheme of things, it's just not that big a deal."    I was stunned. I knew how much wrestling meant to him. I knew this wasn't denial or positive thinking. Something inside him had become larger than the loss.   For the second time, I found myself asking the same question: What happened down there? When we hung up, I sat quietly for a long time. Then I wrote a letter to Brother Jerry Dorn, who directed the program.   "Brother Jerry," I wrote, "I don't know you and I don’t know what you do down there, but you change people's lives. I think that's what I want to do for the rest of my life. Can I come and learn from you?"   His response was wonderfully simple. "Come on down."   Looking back, I realize I wasn't simply asking to visit Appalachia. I was saying yes to life’s call—to a life I could not yet imagine. I spent a very beautiful week over the Easter break down in Appalachia, and then, midway through the summer in the tire shop, I returned. A friend of mine was going for the first time, and I volunteered to drive him to Glenmary headquarters in Cincinnati, Ohio, where the participants gathered before heading into the mountains.   I was excited simply to be back. I wandered into the kitchen looking for people I knew. Brother Al just happened to be there, searching for something in the refrigerator. I hadn't even said hello when he turned around, saw me standing there, and smiled.   I have never forgotten that smile. It wasn't simply a friendly welcome. It was love, unguarded, true and straight from the heart. I was stunned. I had never seen such love in any human eyes. I walked away forever changed with a single thought: I want to become those eyes for others. Later that same day we drove into the mountains to welcome the incoming group as they arrived at the farmhouse. Soon, the house was alive with conversation. Someone asked me if I was on staff. I laughed and said, "No. They don't want to see my face around here anymore."   Brother Al was standing right behind me talking to someone, but he happened to hear me. He wheeled around, looked me directly in the eye, pointed his finger at me, and said with remarkable intensity, "Don't you ever say that. Don't you ever say that. You have a home here. You can come here whenever you want."   Then he paused. "You want to be on staff?"   "Yes,” I said.   "When can you start?"   The last week of that summer, before returning to college, I became part of the staff.  That brief exchange changed my life. I spent many summers at Glenmary. One, I served as the cook. That was also the summer of my 21st birthday. I remember waking early that morning and walking alone through the woods, the leaves still wet with dew and the morning light filtering softly through the trees. No one there even knew it was my birthday. Then, another realization quietly arose.   I am 21 years old. I am of service. I have never been happier. I know what I want to do with the rest of my life.   I knew that I wanted to spend my life serving the development of others. I had no idea what form that would take. But I knew, with a certainty beyond explanation, that my life belonged to that work.   Over the years, I have lost touch with Brother Al. I don't know where life took him. I don't know if he is still alive. I don't think he has any idea of the impact he had on my life.   There is a line in a poem by Rumi that has stayed with me for years:   If you have opened your love to the Great Love, you are helping people you have never known and may never see.   Brother Al opened his love to the Great Love. In one look and one fierce sentence, he opened my love to the Great Love. And now, I am helping people I have never known and will never see.   I think that’s how it works. The more we develop, the more capable we become of developing others, the more we awaken, and the more naturally we awaken that in one another. Looking back across that extraordinary year, I can now see something I could not have seen then. The retreat. Father Libens. William Johnston. Rick. Brother Jerry. The tire shop. Brother Al. It was all happening so fast, and I was so caught in the swirl of it that I could not know what was happening to me. Today, I know it was an initiation—one continuous initiation—into the life that was waiting for me.   Life was quietly beckoning to me, pulling me, preparing me. Everything I have devoted my life to since—family, Leadership Circle, Full Circle Group, Mastering Leadership and Scaling Leadership, Unity Academy—has been an attempt to create the conditions so that others might receive what I was given that year.   That year, and that summer, set the course and trajectory for the whole of my life. I awakened to the larger possibility of who I could become—and who we all can become. Ever since, I have been trying to find ways to pass it on, to create the conditions where that awakening can happen for others. Experiences where people are welcomed, deeply seen, and profoundly loved. Where we challenge each other to grow, love, and serve. Where accelerated development happens. Where we might awaken to our inherent unity.  Over the years, I have learned about the power of yes. I have learned that life’s quiet calling is trustworthy. I have learned that personal development is never merely personal—it is always generative and it belongs to all of us, for all of us. I have learned that as we awaken, we become environments in which others can awaken. I have learned that life is about the multiplication of love—the One Love that we all are.     Bob Anderson Co-Founder & Chief Knowledge Officer (CKO) TRY THIS Here are a few simple experiments to help bring these ideas into your life and leadership. Choose what resonates. Go gently. Work with them in real time, in real conditions. Notice what shifts when you do.   Today Be a Home for Someone Look for a one opportunity today to help another person feel welcomed, included, or deeply seen. This Week Write the Letter Think of someone whose example or presence has stirred something in you. Write them a letter of gratitude, whether you send it or not. This Month Offer the Brother Al Moment Choose someone you know who may be doubting themselves. Let them know, clearly and sincerely, what you see in them.  CONSIDER THIS Take time to journal or reflect. Use these prompts to observe more closely—your patterns, your presence, the subtle movements within and around you. Stay curious. Sit with what stirs you. See what emerges. Who are the people whose love, belief, or encouragement have helped shape the course of my life? What loss or disappointment ultimately revealed a deeper truth or redirected my path? How might my own growth be impacting people I have never met and may never know? Leadership Circle, 132 E. 14075 S., Draper, UT 84020, United States of America, +1 (800) 895-0399 Unsubscribe Manage preferences |
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