No Strollers Allowed, Part 2

To get the full story, you probably want to start with Part 1.

So there I was, standing out in the cold, mad at the sign barring my entrance to what now felt like the Promised Land, slowly polishing off a cup of hot cocoa.

After what felt like an eternity (OK, maybe not quite that long—but long enough that I finished my cocoa), my wife re-emerged from the toy shop and excitedly beckoned me inside.  There was a play area in the back of the store that was perfect for Natalie, and we could sit in the warmth while she played.

I looked at her quizzically as if to say, “And what about our stroller?” She waved my fears aside (I swear she rolled her eyes) and just told me to come in.

Not more than four or five steps into the toy store, I saw the first employee making his way towards us. I panicked. I was caught breaking the no-stroller-law! This is it, I thought, we’re totally getting thrown out of this place. Don’t make eye-contact—maybe he won’t notice. (Won’t notice the huge three-wheeled monstrosity I’m pushing???)

To my chagrin, the employee never batted an eye. With a genuine and affable smile, he asked if there was anything he could help me find.

I mumbled my thanks and said that I was just looking. Still avoiding eye-contact, I sheepishly pushed my way deeper into the store—only to have another employee pop up around a corner. I had the same initial reaction to cower and hide. The second employee was just as pleasant and eager to help as the first. Virtually the same interaction repeated itself with a third employee—all without a single mention or even disapproving glance towards the stroller.

I found the reality inside the toy shop was far different from the reality portrayed by the sign on the outside. Nobody who worked there told me I had to leave. There were even two other families with strollers in the store! It seemed that everyone knew how unworkable the “no stroller policy” was—they just skipped the whole standing-out-the-cold step.

I imagined what the person who posted the sign in the first place must have thought. I could envision their frustration over the customer’s lack of compliance. I could foresee how this frustration could quickly turn into disgust and reproach over the customers’ blatant flaunting of the “rules.” I understood all this because I’ve been there. I’ve been the person who posted the sign, who developed or enforced a policy that no one paid any attention to.

When I’ve been in that position, I’ve always jumped straight to judging motives. In my mind, they either didn’t care, or they were arrogant enough to think that rules didn’t apply to them. They were the ones with the attitude problem, and that assumption colored every interaction I had with them. Instead of customers, they became problems.

I’m now realizing they weren’t evil or ill-intentioned, they just had a better grasp on reality than I did. They understood what worked and what didn’t, regardless of the policy in place.

I’m learning to stop wondering what’s wrong with the customers (or church attendees) and their lack of compliance with the rules, and instead I’m reevaluating my own policies. Instead of assuming the worst of others, I’m striving to believe the best about them, thinking that they may actually have a better view of reality than I do. And if I will just pay attention (which is “listening” in another form), than I can more accurately match my organizational rules and policies to the reality in which they live.

No Strollers Allowed, Part 1

Over the holidays my wife, daughter, and I went on a day-trip to one of Colorado’s quaint mountains towns—just to bum around and spend time together. Natalie (our 19-month-old) did great. We alternated between letting her walk down the sidewalk holding one of our hands, or riding in the stroller.

As we were walking, I spied the sign for a toy shop off in the distance. At this point in our day, Natalie was in the stroller, but was getting antsy and wanting to get out. I figured the toy shop would the perfect place to let her stretch her legs while also keeping her entertained with things that she could actually touch.

Getting to the door of the toy shop, we were greeted by a sign posted on the door. It was kind of crude—just a sheet of computer paper with the words printed on it; and it was taped to the inside of the glass door.  It read:

“No strollers allowed in the store!”

That’s not entirely true. The sign did try to be a bit more polite than that. Something like “for the convenience of our customers” or “due to our limited space” blah blah blah. But the message I felt as we pulled up to the door was “Don’t be bringing your stroller in here, buddy!”

Our stroller isn’t just the “vehicle” that our toddler rides in; it’s a virtual carry-all for our accumulation of our baby stuff: diaper bag, toys, books, jackets, wallets, cameras. The idea of leaving all of that stuff outside while the 3 of us went in to browse was stupid. Just as foolish was the idea of emptying the stroller and lugging all of that stuff inside with us. So I stayed outside with the stroller, while Natalie & Sarah went in to play.

Almost immediately, a small amount of resentment began growing inside me, directed entirely at the toy shop and whomever had posted that horrible sign. Why did I have to be the one to miss out on all the fun? I imagined all the people walking past me wondering why some dude was just hanging out with an empty stroller—I mean, how ridiculous must that look? And who came up with this dumb policy anyway?

Standing there in the cold, I realized I was learning first-hand a very important leadership lesson: always be aware of what you’re saying “no” to. I understand why a sign like that seemed to make good sense. Anyone who’s visited a Colorado mountain town knows how cramped they are, with merchandise stacked closely together. In what I’m sure was an effort to keep the aisle-ways clear for customers, someone at the toy shop thought it best to ban all strollers from the premises.

And yet the clientele that are most likely to buy toys are also most likely to have strollers with them. In trying to keep their business running as efficiently and effectively as possible, they ended up alienating and driving away potential customers.

In light of the toy shop sign, I’m trying to identify and understand who I’m saying “no” to. What are their lives like? In trying to make things more streamlined, am I actually making life more difficult for them? Am I trying to outlaw strollers for stroller-people?

Do You Have a Consigliere?

I love The Godfather movies. They are gems of American cinema. I like them because they do not glorify a life of crime. They tell the story of how Michael Corleone, who has higher hopes and dreams for his life, is gradually tempted and enticed by the mafioso world of his father. Tragically, Michael succumbs to the temptation and ends up taking his father’s place as head of the crime family.

One of the most interesting characters in the film is played by Robert Duval (in the background, slightly out of focus in the picture above). He was nominated for an Oscar for his role as Tom Hagen, consigliere to the Corleone family. In the movie, a consigliere is part of the crime boss’s inner circle. Though not related by blood, he is a trusted advisor and counselor whose wisdom is depended upon at several key moments. In fact, the word consigliere literally means “counselor” in Italian.

So what does this have to do with leadership? Recently, my wife and I were at church together. As we interacted with our friends and acquaintances, I thoughtlessly did and said some things that could have been interpreted in ways other than what I intended. The exact details aren’t important—all that matters is that my wife didn’t feel comfortable with my behavior.

My wife knows me very well. And in this particular instance, she knew what I was attempting to communicate. She wasn’t suspicious of my motives. She wasn’t even particularly offended by what I did.

But she did bring it up later that evening once we were home. Without accusing, she pointed out to me how my behavior could have been interpreted; and how that was not the message I intended to communicate.

I’m so grateful for my wife. I’m grateful that she has the courage to enter into a conversation filled with potential emotional land mines, and navigate them well. I recently wrote a post about how my own blind spots scare me. One of the comments I got back asked for suggestions on how to eliminate those blind spots. For me, my wife is one of the best antidotes to my lack of self-awareness. She cares enough about me to shine a light on my blind-spots, to make me aware of them, to make me a better leader.

I think faithful confidantes like that—whether a spouse, friend, or mentor—are indispensable for anyone aspiring to lead. Who is your consigliere?

What Is Solely Mine?

All my life, it seems I’ve been compared to other people: “You sound just like [your Dad]” or “You remind me so much of [your mentor]” and “That’s exactly something [your boss] would do!”

It’s further complicated by the fact that I’m a mimicker—and most of the time I don’t even realize it. If there’s someone I admire, I begin to take on their mannerisms and characteristics. Sometimes it’s on purpose, but most of the time it’s completely subconscious.

It drives my wife crazy. She’s always saying, “Stop it! You’re acting just like [fill in the blank]; I want my Peter!”

Which brings me to a really interesting leadership dilemma: if I’m so busy mimicking other leaders I know, respect, and admire then how am I, Peter, really leading? What’s solely mine that no one else is bringing to the table?

To put it another way, what is unique to me that others might perhaps want to mimic someday?

Your Staff is New Hampshire

I think there’s a lot that church leaders can learn from the arena of politics. This is mostly based on my severe addiction to the TV show The West Wing (best writing on TV ever!) (and take my friend Rob’s advice—stop watching after season 4).

Take for example a major change initiative. Our temptation as leaders is to roll this out to the entire church as quickly as possible. The desire for momentum and progress is strong, but it can obscure a very real group of stakeholders that, if left behind, will prove almost fatal to the change initiative—the staff.

So what if I started thinking a bit more like someone running for office? The change initiative would be my platform, the message on which I’m running my “campaign.” The staff is New Hampshire. They are not the sum total of success, but leave them behind and I’ll be fighting an uphill battle. Just like that small New England state, my staff can serve as a crucial bellwether for me and my initiative.

Plus, rolling out the initiative to my staff first and inviting their feedback will clarify the initiative and make it better for when I’m ready to roll it out to the entire church.

Do you think this analogy works not only in the church, but in other sectors of industry?

Note: the picture accompanying this post was going to be the logo of a New Hampshire-based minor league baseball team. It’s a shame it didn’t become their permanent logo. The story is pretty interesting! You can read more about it here, here, and here. And props to the designer of the logo, Simon Studio.