Entering another’s story

At the height of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, I had the opportunity to escort a number of celebrities, “suits” (politicians) and “stars” (generals/admirals) when they visited the wounded, ill and injured soldiers in the Army hospital where I was the chief medical officer. On one such occasion I had the privilege of accompanying the late Senator John McCain on a visit to present a purple heart medal.

He came out of the car with a gruff, all-business demeanor that continued as we walked to the conference room and I briefed him on the soldier and his family. His face transformed into a warm smile as he walked into the room.

The family was from a small town in the south.
“Isn’t there a famous BBQ place there?” the senator asked, and mentioned the restaurant by name.
The family was dumbfounded.
“How did you know that?” they asked him.
“Remember the campaign for president,” he replied with a grin. “I ate a lot of BBQ.”
He instantly connected with the soldier and his family as he entered into their story.

The American poet Muriel Rukeyser wrote, “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” The older I get the more I find myself enamored with my own story and its associated yarns, (my wife knows them all by heart), and the more my autobiography seems to become my most oft referenced book. I am as facile with the first person singular as anyone. It is something I am very aware of and so am sensitive to it when I notice it in others.

It is also something I have watched successful, respected leaders intentionally avoid. I have come to the conclusion that they are able to do it by actively engaging and entering into others’ stories. In practical terms it means being present, paying attention and being intentional. It is often driven by the art of the second question:

“How are things going?” you ask a subordinate on executive rounds.
“Fine.”
“What do you mean by ‘fine?’”

Rather than using another’s comment as an excuse to open the pages of my autobiography and drag another unwilling victim into its pages and personal lessons, through careful, thoughtful, open-ended questions, eye contact and engaged body language (leaning forward, mirroring their facial expressions with my own) I am invited into their narrative and become a part of their story.

It doesn’t take much. More than thirty years ago, I remember running into a senior nurse who was visiting the hospital where I worked. I had met her only once previously a few years earlier when I was still in training . She remembered our meeting and in fact greeted me by name. With just a brief encounter in a hospital hallway she became part of my life’s story; a model of the kind of leader I hoped to become.

At home with my wife and children, this should mean the practice of “Your day goes first” when we gather after work and school. My mother was so good at this when I was a boy that I grew up thinking that my story, my day was more important than anyone’s. It has been a hard habit to break. When I was a college freshman, I distinctly remember a mentor requesting of me after several of our one-on-one meetings, “Why don’t you ask me how I’m doing; how my week has been?”

I am aware that I have been woefully inadequate at this practice. A decade ago, at yet another dinner where I was talking about the particulars of my 40-mile, 60-minute commute, one of my teenage daughters said without looking up from her meal, “You know Dad, no one really cares about this.”

The story goes that Winston Churchill’s mother Lady Jennie Jerome Churchill dined in the same week with two of the greatest leaders in England at the time, Benjamin Disraeli and William Gladstone. A journalist asked her impression of the two men and she replied, “When I left the dining room after sitting next to Gladstone, I thought he was the cleverest man in England. But when I sat next to Disraeli I left feeling that I was the cleverest woman.”

Apparently, Disraeli wanted to learn all he could about Lady Churchill; he asked her a series of questions and avoided my own tendency to relate everything back to my own story. It is a practice that can be learned – with attention and intention.

I walked Senator McCain back to his car after he made his purple heart presentation. As we reached the curb, I told him that I had recently read his book, “Character is Destiny.”
“Really?” He looked up and made eye contact.
I told him that my favorite chapter was his story from a Christmas morning when he was a prisoner of war at the Hua Lo prison in Hanoi.
“Christmas at Hua Lo…” his voice trailed off and he looked past me; briefly focused elsewhere. I continued to look into his eyes. He glanced at me again, smiled, turned a moment later and climbed into his car.

I remember standing for a few seconds after he drove away savoring the privilege of having shared the story of one of America’s greatest heroes with him, even briefly.

Then as now I was reminded that the privilege of entering another’s story requires the willingness to leave my own. It is an honor even for a moment, and over time I have become convinced that,“Life is measured in moments like these” (Maggie Stiefvater).

Chuck Callahan Henry V 4.3 – Lead from the Front   https://henryv43.com/