Articles by Joey Cope at Heartlight

Grace

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 00:00:00 -0500

But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us ... made us alive together with Christ ... so that in the ages to come he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus (Ephesians 2:4-7 NRSV)

A special bond exists between my wife, Nancy, and our granddaughter, Landrye.

That's how it should be. After all, Nancy has invested hours and hours in Landrye. Trips to school and Bible class, board games, zoo and museum trips, pretend games, books read, songs sung, and those indescribable moments that come only when one person is just there for someone else.

And so these two very important people in my life share a relationship that gladdens me and delights me. I am a spectator to a wondrous glimpse of God -- seen in the way they brighten in each other's presence.

I'm not in that special grandmother-granddaughter club. Yet, Landrye's love overflows to me through small things. Like this morning, when she took my hand on the way into church and chose a seat by me.

And in her insistence that I ride in the back seat with her as Nancy chauffeured us to the pizza parlor. And when she looked to me as a mythical champion of arcade games -- a reputation earned by the lucky punch of a button that landed a jackpot of 250 tickets. And the way she says "Grampa" and giggles at my silliness.

That overflow washes over me constantly. And it matters little whether I have earned Landrye's attention. She gladly lavishes it on me.

I've spent a lifetime trying to grasp the concept of God's grace. Could it be that I am finally gaining my best understanding through the smile and the hugs of a five-year old angel?

Joey Cope (Dr. Joe L. Cope) is the executive director of the Center for Conflict Resolution at Abilene Christian University. He teaches graduate courses in advanced conflict management, negotiation and mediation. The work of the Center includes mediation/intervention services and educational offerings through seminars, conferences and special courses designed for businesses, non-profit organizations, and churches. Cope is an attorney and received his certificate in dispute resolution from Pepperdine University School of Law. Cope is an elder of the Highland Church of Christ in Abilene, Texas.

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

A Visit Over Coffee

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 00:00:00 -0500

She stood behind me in line at the counter of our local coffee merchant -- the one tucked into the corner of the neighborhood grocery.

I had noticed her a few minutes before as she stood in line to buy a few groceries a couple dozen feet away. It could have been the smile on her face that caused me to notice. But more likely it was the scarf over her head.

Picking a small booth at the window, I carefully placed my coffee to the right. I opened the spiral notebook and thumbed through the book. It's the same book I've been reading in about this same spot for the last two weeks. At a rate of only 4 to 5 pages a day, progress is only gradual.

The book is about running a small business. I've read it before and I have to tell you, it contains some of the best advice I've ever seen. And that was my opinion when I read it the first time. Yet, I never acted on it. Sure, I talked about it and I recommended the book to others. But nothing was ever done.

As I sat and read and made notes this morning, I heard a voice from the next booth. A woman's voice, I didn't turn to see who it was. The conversation became quite lively at times. It was then that I noticed that there was only one voice.

As I headed for a refill on my house-blend, I glanced in the neighboring booth. There was the woman with the scarf, her small bag of groceries on the seat across from her and a small cup of coffee resting on the table between her outstretched hands. Her eyes were focused on her groceries and she was vividly describing her plans for her day.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed other coffee patrons beginning to pick up their cups and move to tables further away. As I passed by her table again, I looked for evidence of a cell phone. I saw nothing. Her conversation was continuing.

As I slid back into my booth, I ignored my book for a while, sipped my coffee and concentrated on her voice. Eavesdropping? I suppose. Yet, she talked loudly and showed no intent for confidentiality.

Within a minute, I discovered that the woman in the scarf was talking with her mother. And it seems that after she had gone over her calendar for the day that her mother had said something disagreeable. Thus, the argument.

Of course, her mother wasn't there. It wasn't a one-sided argument, though. It was obvious when her mother began talking. The tone was different. Finally the woman in the scarf told her mother to mind her own business. And the conversation came to an end.

I glanced at my watch, gathered my book and notebook, and stood to leave. I felt the need to speak to the woman in the scarf -- to make sure that she had at least one more conversation today. But, when I turned, she was gone.

Opportunity lost. Good intentions never acted on. A visit over coffee wasted.

I encourage people to engage others. That's what a community is all about. Sometime today, I truly plan to follow my own advice.

Honor Christ and let him be the Lord of your life. Always be ready to give an answer when someone asks you about your hope (1 Peter 3:15 CEV).

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Cookie Sheet Welcome Mat?

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Sat, 30 Sep 2006 00:00:00 -0500

The request appeared reasonable enough. Our involvement seemed pretty passive -- small investment in our resources with follow-through to originate from a person recommended to us.

When Justin, our son, and one of his co-workers, Josh, came to town on business we were pleased to have them stay with us. Our house took on the look of a organizational think-tank as they gathered information, sorted it, and arranged themselves in various locations to discuss and re-organize everything they did. Nancy and I loved it, although we didn't have a dream about what they were doing.

Our pleasure was enhanced by the fact that Alex, Justin's wife, was along. So through the long weekend, we weaved in and out of conversations, stepped over piles of materials, and coordinated schedules with their frequent trips to CopyStop and other sundry places. But as long weekends do, their visit came to an end.

As they were strategically loading the car with luggage, business materials, and our grand-dog, Simone (and her assortment of essential puppy supplies and toys), Josh brought out an aluminum baking sheet.

"I was supposed to take this to my brother while I was here and I forgot to when I went to visit him the other night. Would it be okay if I just left it here? I'll call him and have him come by."

We readily agreed. We even offered to take it by to his brother. But Josh insisted that was too much trouble.

"I'll just leave it on the front porch if that's alright. That way he can just come by and pick it up without bothering you."

Once again, we agreed. Our house had often been a drop-off point for this and that. Nancy and I kind of like the idea of being a modern-day version of parcel post.

That was about three weeks ago. Each morning as I retrieve the newspaper I look at that baking sheet. It has moved slightly from time to time.

Initially the sheet was laying flat. Within a few days it was filled with water from the sprinklers. I thought it made a nice addition to our front entrance -- sort of a mini-pond. However, what with the West Nile Virus and all, I supposed Nancy had concerns about the mosquitoes that were hatching there and turned the sheet upright.

Now it strikes a prominent profile. In the late afternoon, the sun bounces from its surface. Some times, early in the morning, a gecko perches atop its edge. Snails slither up and then away, paying homage to this metallic monolith that appeared suddenly in their world.

The baking sheet poses no problem for us -- although, I often contemplate if visitors have questions about our placement of cooking utensils. (I could probably alleviate their wonder by following the lead of a neighbor and leaving my Christmas lights up. Something about year-round holiday decorations and pots and pans in the front yard would lend itself to a common West Texas decorating theme.)

But its presence has me thinking about some of the things I may have left lying around for others to deal with. How many times have I promised to spend time with someone? To have that cup of coffee? To sit down and talk through some common concerns? To take care of something simple? To offer that apology?

I don't suppose that my lack of action is doing terrible harm. In fact, most days people wouldn't even notice. But do they wonder if I'll ever come through? And what about the others around them? Do they perch expectantly on the edge of my promises? Or, like the snails, do they approach and accept the fact that these monuments to expectation may stand forever without fulfillment -- and then slide away disillusioned? Or do they come to my door puzzled by the presence of things that are easily attended to, but ignored?

The baking sheet may be gone when I go home this afternoon. I'll miss it in a way. For some reason, having a bit of aluminum siding has made my list of good intentions shrink as my list of good fulfillment lengthens.

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

To the Swift!

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 00:00:00 -0500

Each time he said, "My gracious favor is all you need. My power works best in your weakness." So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may work through me. (2 Corinthians 12:9 NLT 1st Ed.)

As my plane touched down at the DFW International Airport, I felt a sense of failure.

I had been out of state working with an organization that was mired deeply in conflict. For the better part of a week I had met individually with the leadership. Slowly -- almost painfully -- each individual had told his or her story of disappointment and frustration. Toward the end of each interview, I had encouraged them all to generate positive options and to rehearse them to share in a combined meeting of the leadership late in the week.

This particular conflict wasn't really unique. The leaders of this organization were good people who wanted to accomplish good things. Yet, they had different ideas on how to accomplish that good. Unfortunately, they lacked the commitment to communication, conversation and community that would allow them to explore their diversity in a way that would benefit them all.

I thought that those individual meetings through the week had motivated them to find a way to work together.

When they all filed into the room on the last night of my stay, I knew I was wrong. These weary leaders were not motivated. They were tired and scared. For over an hour, I tried everything I could think of to move them into a positive conversation about their problems.

Suddenly, I was tired. Seeing no other options, I encouraged these men and women to look deep inside themselves and decide whether they wanted to continue in their roles as leaders. Instead of leaving that room with a coalition of virtue and direction, I left with the belief that the organization would largely unravel over the next few weeks.

Glancing at my watch, I was pleased to see that one thing was going my way. It appeared that we would arrive at our gate about 12 minutes early. That would allow me to move easily to my connecting flight to Abilene. The flight attendant announced that we would arrive at Gate C-29 and that my flight would depart from A-10. With the new shuttle, I would make the transfer easily. And, my luggage should be there, too.

As we pulled into position behind Gate C-29, I noticed that a plane was still docked. Minutes stretched into a half hour. The pilot announced that the plane still at the gate had a problem and couldn't leave the terminal for a while. Fifteen minutes later, our plane began to move slowly as the first officer delivered the news -- we were being rerouted to Gate C-39 -- ten gates further away from my flight.

I would later learn that the door on my arriving flight opened at 6:36 p.m. Thankfully, most of my fellow passengers stayed seated to allow a few of us with close connections to run to the front of the plane. Turning right out of the gate area, I ran for the shuttle and slid between the doors as they were closing. Four stops later, I moved quickly out and down the escalator. The last five gates flew past as I ran for my departing flight.

When I arrived at Gate A-10, the door was still open. I approached the ticket agent and asked if I had missed the flight to Abilene.

"Oh, you're early, you must be on the next flight at 7:48 p.m."

"No, this is my flight. I'm supposed to leave at 6:46."

The agent looked at my boarding pass. "Mr. Cope, head down that ramp and take any open seat on that airplane."

As I began moving quickly again, I wished that I worked out more. My legs were a little weak and I was breathing heavily. The surprised flight attendant showed me to a seat close to the front and helped me store my carry-on bag. I huffed and puffed.

I expected the door to close quickly behind me. But instead, the ticket agent came aboard and walked over to where I was sitting.

"Mr. Cope, I wanted to meet you officially. My name is Ann. When your arriving flight's door didn't open until 6:36 p.m., our customer service control supervisor called me and told me you would never make it in time. I was told to move you to the next flight. According to our computers, no one could make it from C-39 to A-10 in less than 10 minutes. You made it in 8. You're famous – at least at this very moment."

"I guess I was lucky that the plane was delayed a little bit. By my watch it's 6:50 now."

"Oh, the plane was ready to go on time. But customer service had us delay the flight just five minutes more. It just wouldn't be right to have someone swift like you get home without your luggage. Have a nice flight."

I spent most of the half-hour flight trying to get my breathing and heart rate under control. I thought about how I had almost given up several times in my mad dash through the airport. And I was flattered by the idea that a big corporation would show me special consideration just because I tried so hard.

The next Monday morning I received a call from the organization I had worked with the previous week. I was amazed when told that most of the leaders had decided to go forward. More importantly, they had pledged to work together. Just a few weeks later, I was flying back to work with them again as they put the negativity of their conflict behind them. I had a front-row seat to see God mend their differences and bind them together in a common front for good.

I thought about the ticket agent's words. She had described me as "swift." Odd choice of words to depict a slow, out-of-shape, middle-aged guy. I recognize that most of what I do is merely average – dulled by my slowness of mind, my lack of discipline and the fatigue of life. Yet some of those average things, whether in traversing an airport terminal or bringing others to a table of peace, can be viewed as extraordinary and given higher significance. Come to think of it, God blesses me daily in that way. And once -- just once -- an airline did, too.

Shine On!

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Free Breakfast

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 00:00:00 -0600

The man's voice was loud and commanding. His words dominated not only his table, but they also rolled unchallenged throughout the room.

I looked up from my breakfast of oatmeal and coffee to find the boisterous source. Because of a column supporting the inside balcony around the lobby area of the hotel, I couldn't see him directly. His tablemates were all men -- obviously all employees of the same company. Natty white polo shirts with some sort of logo emblazoned on the sleeve.

The man was in mid-story -- something about the "tough" cars he had owned or worked on with 4-on-the-floor, glass packs, stabilizer bars, and overhead cams. His words pounded endlessly on all of us -- except when he paused to laugh at his own wit. A few laughed with him, but a young man sat stone-faced across the table from him. He stared blankly through the barrage of language. He never smiled. He rarely blinked. The man's stories never connected.

That was the second morning I ate breakfast in the hotel lobby. The breakfast was an excellent variety of cereals, waffles, pastries, fruit, eggs, sausage and the southern staple of biscuits and gravy. And with each morning, I noticed a different gathering of travelers.

The first morning the room was almost empty. The only other diners at the hour I chose to breakfast was a family with young children. From what I overheard, Dad had been transferred to this new and different city. This hotel was home for the family until the moving van arrived. Mom was obviously tired of the living arrangements already. She complained loudly to her husband about the drudgery of living in a rented room with little space and nothing to occupy the time of the little ones. The entire family felt the weight of her words, except for a little boy, the oldest son. He had someplace to go. His backpack was jammed full of whatever a first-grader takes to school. And the backpack was strapped on tight. I watched him negotiate around empty tables and chairs with his cereal bowl, bending oddly to balance the burden on his back. Mom frowned and picked at him. He only smiled and ignored her politely. She connected, but not with her words.

Morning four was a festive breakfast. Late the afternoon before, a bus pulled in front of the hotel and unloaded forty high-schoolers. Well-mannered and full of energy, these young travelers were here for a conference. As they crowded in to eat their morning meal, they split into groups of three and four. A few had their heads cocked to their shoulders. There would have been a time that an observer would have assumed some sort of spinal defect. But in today's world, the key to the deformity is the cell phone nestled between shoulder and ear. I watched with wonder as one young woman entered the room talking incessantly and with great animation to whomever she was connected by the wonders of modern telecommunications. As she made her way to her seat, chaperones stood and announced the bus was leaving for the day. All the students stirred -- except for the phone talker. She kept talking and eating until a female chaperone approached. Taking the phone from the girl's shoulder, she sweetly said good-bye to the unseen conversant on the line, folded the phone and handed it to the open-mouthed diner. "Get on the bus, hon!" she said. In one short instant, a connection was interrupted and another established.

Morning three was mostly uneventful. The breakfast tables were orderly, the diners mostly silent. CNN Headline News played on the big screen TV that dominated one wall. We were all business travelers. Except for occasional comments or short cell phone calls, we were quiet. Our connection seemed to be our disconnection.

The last morning of my stay, I saw her again. She was an elderly woman who had been at breakfast almost every morning. Well-dressed with a large bag next to her, she ate alone. I had seen her in the lobby other times. In fact, most nights she spent her time in a large chair in a sitting area close to the front door. A smaller television set the mood of that corner. She apparently controlled the channel. As I checked out this morning, she had already made her way to the TV.

The front desk was slow when I laid my keycards before the clerk.

"I'm just curious. What's the story on that lady over there?"

"Oh, she's Maurine's grandmother. Maurine takes care of her. When Maurine's working, Granny is here."

About that time, another clerk emerged. Maurine asked quietly, glancing nervously at me, "Is there a problem?"

The other clerk shrugged in my direction. "Oh, no," I started, "there's no problem. I had just seen a lot of her this week and wondered."

"She just hates to be alone and I don't have anyplace to take her. So whenever I come to work, she dresses up and comes with me. She loves to see all the people."

I finished my paperwork. As I headed out, I detoured slightly. "Ma'am," I called. Granny looked up, startled. "Ma'am, I just wanted to wish you a good day."

Granny's face softened and she smiled. A little nod and another smile.

Five free breakfasts and I finally connected.

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

What Really Matters

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Sat, 24 Dec 2005 00:00:00 -0600

Just a month or so ago, I made what I thought was a profound statement.

"I hate the holidays!"

The comment slipped from my lips toward the general vicinity of Nancy, my beloved wife, during a discussion of all the things that needed to be done to make this a joyous season.

I could have said that even earlier than a month ago. I can remember the frustration I felt when Nancy asked me to carve our jack-o-lantern at Halloween this year. What a sticky, messy, smelly job! A job I thought was behind me when the boys grew up. I recall my reluctance in moving toward the kitchen table and strapping on the green, ballistic-vest-type apron that has served me well through pumpkins, briskets, and turkeys.

Oddly, what I can't recall right now is the stickiness, mess or smell that I so dreaded. Perhaps because all of that blurs next to the image of our four-year-old granddaughter standing next to me -- encouraging me to make ol' Jack scarier -- and the shadow of Nancy a few steps away, smiling and soaking in the moment of tradition.

My stomach tightened just before Thanksgiving. That's the day that Nancy's family gathers. For years, it was at the farm in Rising Star. The past several, it's been at our house. Not everyone can be there. But most are.

An occasion of such immense importance takes a lot of preparation. Nancy has polled the guests to make certain that favorite foods are on the table -- even if it means having three kinds of potatoes instead of just two. And a dish of black olives and that cherry-cranberry salad that Nancy's mom made. But to spread such a table, many things must be done. Rooms must be cleaned, turkeys must be carved, silverware must be polished ... Three days of preparation are necessary for a couple of hours of eating.

My stomach relaxed pretty quickly into the process. I know my role in all of this. I love having family in our home -- to see our kids and their families with aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, is a warming experience. And my joy is magnified because, unlike a lot of my days throughout the year, my place is next to Nancy as she stirs and pours and mixes. And then again, as she sits and visits and loves on people like there's nothing else to do.

The Christmas season is another stressor. Not because I am so involved, but because Nancy is. She's the prime mover in getting things done. She's the one who arranges the schedule for our Christmas time -- a sometimes complex task now that the boys are married and must be shared with other families. She worries about the Christmas card list and forces me to write an occasional Christmas letter. She's our decorator. Nancy keeps track of what people want for Christmas. And, more often than not, she's the one who finds those gifts and wraps them.

I remember grimacing when our local radio station began playing non-stop Christmas music on December 1. "How will we stand this?" I asked Nancy. She smiled and agreed that it was a little early. She tuned the radio to a different station -- one she really doesn't like all that much. I'm sure she's still smiling about that.

On the way to work a little while ago, I had the radio on. "Angels We Have Heard on High" was playing lightly as I reached the corner of our block. Without thinking, my thumb went to the volume control on my steering wheel and I boosted that wondrous song to sonic blast proportions. At the top of my voice, I sang "Gloria! In Excelsis Deo!" When I reached the traffic light, the melody was fading, yet memories were welling up.

Christmases

Thanksgivings

Halloweens (Nancy's birthday)

Fourths of July

New Years Days

Times with family

Warm moments when the only thing that really mattered was being with family and friends.

Wherever you find yourself, I pray that you're having warm moments -- and storing them away for those times when you might forget what it is that really matters.

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Driving Lessons

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Thu, 13 Oct 2005 00:00:00 -0500

You may have read that all you need to know about life is learned in kindergarten.

If that's true, I hope that much of the learning was subliminal. Being on the far side of middle age, my list of kindergarten-learned items is pretty short. Stand in line and be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair and be quiet. Walk, don't run, when you're indoors and be quiet. Winning at the "quiet game" earns you the privilege of going to the restroom first so be quiet.

Establishing a sense of order and quiet seems to be a common theme -- at least in my recollection. And I readily admit that what I learned in kindergarten about being a law-abiding citizen was an important lesson. It makes me think that there are other places where we learn "all we need to know" about some specialized area.

For example, talking with my father about theology one day, he said, "It's real simple to me. I try to interpret scripture and life through my view of 1 Corinthians 13 and its instruction on what love should look like." As an engineer who built highways his entire working life, Dad is all about finding the shortest route between two points. And viewing the world through the lens of love is his way of identifying what is important and leaving the rest.

I think about that conversation often these days when I'm challenged by tough questions. While I often want to drill more deeply in some areas, it's reassuring to think back on Dad's advice to find a sure and firm foundation to stand on. All I need to know about approaching theology, I learned in a fifteen-minute conversation with my father.

My career is in conflict resolution. My job, in part, is to intervene in disputes and misunderstandings in the lives of individuals and organizations. On a higher plane, my responsibility is to help others learn how to personally deal with conflicts wherever they find them.

I was contemplating the educational aspect of my job as I drove back to my office from a meeting where conflict had surfaced. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get through to one of the combatants the basic concept of living in harmony with others. "Surely," I thought, "there is a common place we can go where we could learn everything we need to know about conflict resolution."

About that time, an old and battered car lurched into my lane from a side street. I slammed on my brakes and entertained some unlovely thoughts about the driver of that vehicle. And then repented. As Preacher Mike has repeatedly said in his lessons on civility, the given name of sixty percent of the drivers in our fair city simply could not be "Idiot."

As I internally retracted my statements, it struck me that I had just encountered conflict and had responded in much the same way as the misbehaving party did in my earlier meeting. As anxiety and anger began to fade, I realized that there was a place where we learn all we need to know about conflict resolution -- Driver's Ed.

I'll return to this idea in later articles. Time and space won't allow me to unleash an entire driving manual here. But let's start with the first important lesson from my beloved driving instructor, Coach Bowe:

YOU CAN'T CONTROL THE DRIVING OF OTHERS. YOU ARE ONLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SAFE OPERATION OF YOUR OWN VEHICLE.

I recall my early days behind the wheel of my mom's car. Every rule of the road was centered on my actions and reactions to those around me. And every detail pointed to my responsibility in any given driving situation.

I didn't think in terms of what my rights were as a driver. My every effort was centered on making sure that I didn't do something that caused a problem for others. And that when others drove recklessly, I remain calm and drive in a way that would improve the situation for everyone -- even the offending motorist.

I have a personal responsibility to bring peace to any conflict situation. In Matthew 18:15-35, Jesus tells us that when someone has done something offensive to us, it's our job to go to them and try to reconcile. In the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5:21-26, he tells us that it is also our responsibility to go and be reconciled if we offended others or even if the other person simply perceives that we've offended them.

This is called personal responsibility. We demand it when we grant a license to drive. We even insist that our drivers carry liability insurance to cover their own mistakes.

Too bad all of life isn't approached in the same way.

Are you ready to accept your personal responsibility in the conflicts that invade your life? If you are, God has already paid the premium on the liability insurance. He just asks that you deal with others as he has dealt with you!

Don't use foul or abusive language. Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them. And do not bring sorrow to God's Holy Spirit by the way you live. Remember, he is the one who has identified you as his own, guaranteeing that you will be saved on the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of malicious behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you. (Ephesians 4:29-32 NLT)

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Just Got That Look!

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Thu, 28 Jul 2005 00:00:00 -0500

I've just got that look.

I threaded my way through the hotel lobby last night. Tall, muscular young men were everywhere. They were dressed in shorts and shirts emblazoned with the logos of athletic sportswear companies. A few equally-tall older men stood around the fringes of the group. I saw one turn when he was addressed as "Coach."

Pulling my suitcase and holding my garment bag, I struggled to punch the elevator button with my elbow. I was rescued by a woman carrying a pizza box who was headed upstairs to her room.

"What floor you headed to?" she asked.

"Six," I answered.

As the door closed and the hydraulic pumps began moving the car upward, she delivered a question I hadn't heard in a long time. "Are you part of the team?"

"The team?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess you're not," she started. "I just thought you looked like you were here with the national basketball team from France."

I pulled myself up to my full five-foot-five-inches. I've always prided myself on having that athletic look.

As she got off on the fourth floor, I was still smiling and working hard to maintain good stature. That athletic look. Then I happened to think -- maybe she thought I looked like a Frenchman. When I got to the room, I spent a little while in front of the mirror. In the absence of a beret, I just didn't see the French connection.

Had to be the athletic look. Or just the assumption that everyone in the hotel was with the team.

But then it happened again today. I dropped into a local phone store to pick up a travel charger for my business-owned phone. The young lady behind the counter asked me for the phone number. Noticing the account name was a university, she asked, "Division I?"

"No, Division II."

"What are you doing in Dallas -- recruiting?"

I fielded the question with what I thought was a clever response. "I'm always recruiting for the university."

"What's your sport?" she asked. She moved slightly from behind her cash register to look me over again.

"What's your guess?"

"I'm thinking either tennis or track -- although I guess you could be a basketball coach."

I was hoping for power-lifting or defensive line coach, but I felt pretty good about her conjectures.

"What makes you think I'm an athletic recruiter?"

"I don't know. There's just something about you."

Her interest waned a bit when I told her what I really do for a living. She took my money and I wandered out of the store wondering just what it was that she saw.

I have to say that I was feeling pretty good about myself. Two different people on two different days saw me as something I wasn't, but would like to be. Makes me wonder if I need to change my look. After all, wouldn't it be more of a thrill for people to see me for what I really am and for that to be so remarkable that they want to ask me about it?

If I truly lived as God's man, I think they would know whose team I'm on and who I recruit for. That's the look.

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Somewhere Else

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Tue, 17 May 2005 00:00:00 -0500

Monday night, I glared across the service counter in disbelief.

"What do you mean you don't have the car I reserved?"

The young man who glared back didn't blink. "I'm sorry, but we ran out cars. Wouldn't you like an SUV instead?" he asked.

"No, the gas prices are brutal and the people who are paying my expenses expect me to conserve their money. Don't you have anything else?"

"Well," he started, "I doubt you'd be interested, but I've got a Sebring convertible that I can put you in. It's just a few dollars more a day -- or you can have the SUV at the same price."

Moments later, I was speeding away, wishing it was still daylight so I could figure out how to work the motor-driven convertible top. Phoenix is beautiful this time of year. Fifteen minutes later, I was glad that the top was up. I was lost. I was so excited about the convertible that I didn't honor my ritual of carefully examining the maps in my folder.

It was only a missed turn. I zigged left when I should have zagged right. A glance at the computer instructions said the hotel was about 5 miles away with only two turns intervening.

Twelve miles later, I spotted a shopping center and a sandwich shop. As I munched on a turkey wrap, I examined the car rental map. I calculated my new arrival time to be about 8:30 p.m. local time. I wished I was already there.

Forty-five minutes later, I was in my room. I dropped my bags by the entrance and fell into the recliner as I dialed home. When Nancy answered, she sounded tired. I expected her to. Not just because it was an hour later in Texas.

When I left home that morning, our last conversation centered around our 15-year-old mostly beagle, Tipi. She hadn't been doing well for weeks. She had quit eating -- except for a couple of meals when we brought in the most expensive of canned foods or when Nancy scrambled an egg for her. For days, Tipi had entertained family members who had come by to share just a few last minutes with her. It wasn't always easy to do. Tipi was intent on spending times in her favorite backyard places and not all of them were easily accessible by the rest of us.

Visits to Dr. Jim, our small animal repairman, had revealed what we already knew. Tipi's body was wearing out. Dr. Jim heard a pronounced murmur as he checked her heart. It was only a matter of time. Options were discussed. For then, the best option was to try to find food she would eat and see if she would take medicine to help her breathe more easily and to ease the pain of her arthritis.

Neither food nor medicine had been of interest to Tipi for the last four days. The message on our home phone when I went to pack for this trip was from a sad-voiced Dr. Jim who told us that perhaps putting Tipi to sleep was one of our best options. Dr. Jim hates that. For that reason, he's exactly the kind of veterinarian you would want.

So, as I talked to Nancy Monday night, she told me that she had decided to take Tipi in the next morning. Last night when Nancy called, she shared the news of her trip to Dr. Jim's. She spoke of how hard it was to leave her and how she was glad that Tipi wasn't suffering anymore. I wished I had been there to walk Nancy through this. I wished I was there now.

Now, on this beautiful Wednesday morning in Phoenix, I'm sitting for a few minutes in the hotel before I head out to do my work. And as saddened as I am by the loss of our faithful and ever-loving pup, I am in deeper anguish as I think about my friends, Maryanne and Darell. I last saw them on Sunday on the hospice floor of our local hospital. Maryanne is in the closing time of her sweet life.

My call to Nancy last night had included an update on Maryanne. Her pain medication had been increased. Her remaining hours are growing fewer. I tried to call Darell just a few minutes ago and he didn't answer his cell phone.

I wish I were there.

There's something about life that just makes us think of elsewhere. Perhaps that's what keeps us going. Knowing that the final "somewhere else" is a place we'll want to stay.

All these faithful ones died without receiving what God had promised them, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed the promises of God. They agreed that they were no more than foreigners and nomads here on earth. And obviously people who talk like that are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had meant the country they came from, they would have found a way to go back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a heavenly city for them. (Hebrews 13:13-16 NLT)

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution

Pinch of the Willy-Goo

copej@acu.edu (Joey Cope) — Sat, 14 May 2005 00:00:00 -0500

Our physical bodies don't give us form. Information that we retain shapes us.

I have been reading a book on management entitled "Leadership and the New Science", by Margaret Wheatley. It's not a new work, but was only recently introduced to me. In this fascinating tome, Dr. Wheatley provides a layman's description of the field of quantum physics and then makes application of that weirdness to the way that things are.

Under this theory, we are forced to grapple with the concept that everything changes -- all the time. Yet most of it retains an impression of a previous force. For example, we shed skin cells constantly. So many, in fact, that our outer surface is brand-new every month. Even our brain cells are replenished of their carbon, nitrogen and oxygen content every twelve months. But because of our "information memory," our physical bodies reform themselves around previous experience -- at least to some extent.

Remember, it's a theory, but it explains some things. Like why I do certain things a certain way. Or remember people or events in a certain light.

My mother was a first grade teacher for more than twenty years. She did traverse to third grade one year during that span -- the year that I was in first grade.

I'm sort of glad that she wasn't my first grade teacher. For one thing, she had been teaching me for years before I was introduced to "Tip" -- the name of both the dog and my favorite first grade reader. We had already worked on writing and alphabets and numbers. She had already given me a lot of the essentials.

She was also my primary disciplinarian through my early years. Dad built highways. Thus, he was usually away during those hours of the day that I was most creative in my undertakings. And, in those early years, Mom believed that swift retribution was the most productive. My brother and I didn't wait around for Dad to get home for our punishments. Mom handled them right then and there.

Oddly, I don't remember any of those punishments particularly -- other than the time I interrupted her several times on the phone and she sent me to solitary confinement in the bathroom until she finished her conversation. I know it probably just felt like hours, but my imagination of my possible sentence grew and grew during that time. Actually, she never did anything. Seems she had forgotten that she had banished me to "el bano." Perhaps she felt so guilty that the door was simply opened and I was set free. I think that was my earliest remembrance of grace.

But that time aside, I think I don't remember the punishments because I have also chosen not to remember the infractions that precipitated them. In fact, unlike some of the people whose stories appear on the "Lifetime" channel, I am confident that I was never punished for something I didn't do. Looking back, I can say that I am a better person because Mom took time to notice what I was doing and to encourage or correct me.

Others have said similar things about her. Hundreds of kids were in her classroom through the years. Most of them have told me about their love for their first grade teacher and how they enjoyed being in her class. And they all remembered one phrase.

"I'm going to pinch the 'Willy-Goo' out of you!"

Back in those days, when teachers were encouraged to have a more "hands-on" approach to dealing with students, this was no idle threat. Many of Mrs. Cope's kids went home to a conversation like this.

"How was school today?"

"Well, it happened. I had the 'Willy-Goo' pinched out of me."

To my knowledge, not one parent called our house to inquire in regard to the extraction of "Willy-goo." There was an understanding. My mother was not an idle purveyor of pinches, but those pinches were gentle course corrections. And even though they were memorable, the recollections are not those of horror or injustice.

None of us ever actually saw "Willy-Goo." Just Mom -- the picture of a kind woman who cared enough to notice, to encourage, and to correct.

If important information does form us, the pinch of the "Willy-Goo" could be the answer to many of the world's problems.

No discipline is enjoyable while it is happening – it is painful! But afterward there will be a quiet harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way. (Hebrews 12:11)

Website: Center for Conflict Resolution