Author: HB3

2016 was a good year – lots of progress and some light at the end of the tunnel with respect to getting construction underway on constructing the National Museum of African American Music.  Maybe, it seems, our team’s hard work is beginning to pay off.

Last year also had its challenges.  For example, I expect that the growth in our team’s workload will continue to outpace the growth in our staff, and since we all work harder than we should, sustainability and self-preservation requires that we find ways to be more efficient and effective with the same hours and energy.

One way to do that is to communicate better with one another.  This became crystal clear to me towards the end of last year as we worked through some local political and community concerns.  I recall coming out of a meeting with our board chair saying, “we need communications help right now!”  Boy was I right. The next six weeks turned into what I disaffectionatly termed a “cluster of poor communication.”

People wanted things from one another that they hadn’t communicated.  Others insisted that their point of view
be heard, while not bothering to understand someone else’s.  Some jumped in to help without asking where help was needed – and made things worse.
Still others assumed that some meant us harm without so much as a conversation to clarify interest or intent.  These are all classic communications “shortcuts” that can cause mistakes, waste time and cost money.  In this case, I know that it caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in expense and multiples of that in poorly used man-hours.
So, I am focusing at least the early part of this year on being a better communicator, and I encourage you to join me.  The NMAAM team is getting some professional help with this, but I will also use DBTE to send out a note from time to time to encourage you to think about how well you are communicating and maybe a suggestion or two about getting better.

Following are the first two.  Let me know what you think.

1. Multi-tasking is a lie!  We all do it to some degree, but we must admit that it is rarely as effective as we hope it will be.  The truth is, if you hope to get things done correctly the first time, and if you want to be certain that you listened well or spoke clearly then multi-tasking won’t work.At work, as busy as we all are, we often believe that multi-tasking is the only way to get it all done.  There’s too much to do, and not enough hours in the day!  However, if something is important enough to schedule a meeting to discuss, isn’t it worth
   giving the topic your full attention? Multi-tasking is a lie.
2. Slow down to go faster.This oxymoron often proves to be true, particularly as it relates to
   communicating.  There’s a lot going on, the schedule is full, there are several people involved and you’ve got multiple deadlines coming at you quickly.  Slow down.Continuing to move quickly risks poor communication.  Your colleagues don’t know what you need or what you expect… you aren’t clear on the assignment… you zig and your teammate zags… Slow down.
   Make a few minutes to have a clear conversation.  Check for understanding and agreement.  Take a few notes, date them and add a topic or category so they are easy to find later. Being clear on delivery, timing and the role that you are expected to play may seem to come at a cost, but that price is much less than the cost of getting it wrong, missing the mark, having to do the work again or delaying completion.  Sometimes slowing down is  the most effective way to go faster.

series to be continued…

 

Sometimes as I start the week, I take a look at my calendar and am amazed. The number of meetings and phone calls that are scheduled just makes me shake my head, and takes no account for the work that has to get done in between.

So, off to the races I go… Trying to make it happen and look good doing it.

On occasion, I remind my assistant to block time for me to have nothing to do, or even to go home a little early. (That’s right, I schedule time to be unscheduled.)  It is during these times that I am reminded that better can be more impactful than more.

In other words, when I have time to think, speak informally with colleagues or to focus on making progress or completing just a single project it seems to
advance my work further than when I am multi-tasking furiously.

That’s often counter to the demands that are placed on us at work. Emails are flying, the phone is ringing, someone’s at your door, and your next meeting is waiting. It may seem that after 5:30 and weekends are the only time you can get any work done.

If you find that to be the case, then you can help make my point. Better, not more.

In fact, I think that better is more, and that better can be faster too.

Consider the project that you are working on, the letter that you need to write, or the strategy that you need to craft. Taking the time to block out distractions and focus on getting to the next milestone can take a weight off your shoulders, free up space on your mental “C drive” and move you forward. It may even be that the ball advances further with less resistance; the product you’ve developed is cleaner, better thought-out, and more complete – better – because you gave it the focused effort it deserved.

Remember that conversation you had with a teammate (or a spouse) yesterday? You were multi-tasking and only half-listening – because you were trying to get more done. How did that work out for you?

Maybe
 it worked out just fine, but I’ve often found that when it matters most, it doesn’t go so hot.

I didn’t hear all of the relevant information. My instructions weren’t clear. My colleagues proceed without full understanding or agreement. Something goes wrong… And then I want to blame someone else, when I should be pointing the finger at myself.

At work this can cost money and it almost always costs time. Even more at home.

Your dad used to tell you to do one thing at a time. So why don’t we remember that better is often more – and faster too.

New to town, not too long ago, I was introduced to a man who I was told could help me get acclimated to Nashville.  Older and more casually dressed than I’d anticipated, Francis Guess cursed me for being a few minutes later than our agreed upon meeting time at the bar, then recited my family lineage before I sat down.  He proceeded to give me a history of Nashville’s business community over rounds that quickly changed from white wine to Jack Daniels, introduced me to a steady stream of lady friends and gentlemen bankers and lawyers the whole time, and refused to let me buy my own drinks hours later when I was dismissed because he was late for “the ballet!”

Such was the beginning of perhaps an unlikely friendship.

Over the ensuing years Francis and I talked, strategized, partied, drank and joked.  During his time I was tutored – on political strategy and the history of Tennessee and its government.  I was chastised – for faux pas and mistakes that I’d made.  I was laughed at and called names, encouraged and coached.

I was celebrated – with a surprise birthday party, no less!  I was trusted – with insights (“I know where the bodies are buried, Hicks”), strategies and maybe even a few of his frustrations and dreams.  I was reminded – of the inferiority of an education obtained any place other than Tennessee State and “Van-der-bilt University.”  I was defended and told “you’re on your own!”

I was introduced – to the people who make the region move in diverse establishments from The City Club, Jimmy Kelly’s and Morton’s to Out of Bounds, J. Alexander’s and The Cave.  And I was nominated – sometimes without my knowledge – to civic boards that drew me closer to this city and helped me to understand why he so loved his hometown.

Many will also point out that Francis would say things to people that only he could get away with.  He made women blush and men cringe, but most of these same people respected him, and many of them also sought his counsel (“I don’t seek out information, Hicks.  People just tell me things.”)  Not to be attempted by amateurs, Francis was at once confounding and straight forward.  A rare combination of characteristics that would make him, for many of us, an unlikely friend.

But that was Francis: a man with the intellect to walk with kings, the persona to kick it with the common man, and the desire to be a connector and to be of service for the benefit of us all.

Connecting dots and connecting people may be what he’s remembered most for.  Francis solved problems for executives, politicians, preachers, musicians, kids and others who crossed his path.  Often, he did so by helping you see yourself, your problem or your world through a different lens – and then making a connection with another person or experience that could help you bring focus to your new, broader perspective.

Helping me to appreciate a different point of view and a renewed sense of urgency, I recall an impromptu set of remarks that Francis made about the National Museum of African American Music (NMAAM).  He was in a surly mood that evening, and reluctantly rose to share a few words with the informal gathering the projects early organizers.  With a scowl, he began to talk about a recent trip to south Nashville at dawn…

“Sometimes, as the sun rises, I go to the top of a hill near Father Ryan High School, south of the city… 

At this, the site of the Battle of Nashville in 1865, the 13th U.S. Colored Troops fought in the Civil War led by a little boy who was beating a drum.  This child, no more than 11 or 12 years old, kept cadence for the troops heading into conflict and probably represented one of the earliest introductions of our music to this city. 

He marked time while marching towards the Confederate army, commanded by Gen. John Bell Hood, and knowing that death was a likely outcome. I can almost hear that drummer boy, leading men into battle with tired feet but an invigorated longing to be free.

I can almost hear that drummer boy, recalling a pulse from a distant land and a tempo inbred from generations of toil and tribulation. I think I can hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the drummer boy’s snare drum which would portend victory for Gen. George Thomas’ troops. I’m almost sure that I can hear that drummer boy! That beat was for you – and for me. That rhythm was the passion, the hope and the yearning for my freedom.”

The room fell silent as he spoke, and a few wiped tears.  Francis had connected the dots – from the Civil War to the present day, conservatives and liberals, black and white, now all had a reason to be passionate about a project that he’d long thought was a cultural and economic imperative for the region.  He’d placed the explanation point at the end of the slogan My Music Matters!

 

As Francis took his seat that evening, he smiled and was clearly in a better mood.  His burden was lifted, but those in attendance were made uncomfortable by his truth – we all now had a decision to make.

Yet, he didn’t realize the impact that he’d had and began to joke with those nearest him.  But the party broke up shortly after that.  There wasn’t much else left to say.

Like NMAAM, many of the dots that Francis connected were a work in process.  He actually worried some about whether or not he’d successfully passed the torch of service on to others.  And so, let’s be clear, his passing leaves many of us with a load to carry and maybe an incomplete assignment.

I’m clear what mine is.  I too hear the rat-a-tat-tat of that drummer boy.

But what is yours?  You too now have a decision to make.  And once you’ve made it, get focused.  Get it done.  XEQTE! (Henry, what the hell does your license plate say?)  Get yourself a Jack and Ginger and steel your resolve to make Nashville a better place and Tennessee a better state.  It‘s the best way I can think of to honor our unlikely friend.

My name is H. Beecher Hicks, III – but most people just call me Henry.

I’m frequently asked, then, why I insist on writing it as H. Beecher Hicks, III.  I generally offer, simply, that this is the way my grandfather told me to write it.  A true story, but, of course, there’s more to it than that.

I like my name.  I’m proud of it.  And, there’s even power in the name.

You see, I’m the third to carry this name.  The two that came before me did themselves and their families proud.  Both broke new ground with their levels of educational attainment; both led in civil rights, social justice and gender equality; both are known as writers and orators of unparalleled skill; both took seriously their call to shepherd the flock and to preach the gospel; and both raised families whose work to succeed is surpassed only by their efforts to serve.

Even as I write this I understand that’s a heavy burden for present and future generations to carry.  But there’s also power in the name.

Because of their work, and because my name is H. Beecher, I’ve been in places as divergent as the White House and the Waffle House and had someone say “aren’t you Beecher’s boy?”  My signature on emails and letters have resulted in compelling replies from the Smithsonian and from investment bankers.  My name has gotten me airline upgrades, dinner reservations, job interviews, scholarships, credibility with politicians and priests, and I’m even occasionally promoted to the rank of “Dr. Hicks.”  (Perhaps I’ll go back to school someday to make it true.)

There may be power in the name, but there are two sides to every coin.

Being H. Beecher cost me anonymity as a teenager in places that I shouldn’t have been and doing things that I shouldn’t have been doing.  Being H. Beecher caused professors to scrutinize my work more carefully, bosses to question my skill, acquaintances to take advantage of my naiveté in attempts to enhance association or feign affiliation, and caused me to place undue pressure on myself to live up to the brand.  I even get the occasional piece of mail from an eerie person who has watched from afar to determine where I live or work and who is compelled to share some dissonant information with me – because of what my name is.

But on balance, I really like my name.  So much so that I’d really forgotten about the burden of being H. Beecher until recently.

My first born son is H. Beecher Hicks, IV.  Henry is a great kid – bright and talented with unique blossoming gifts.  However, a few weeks ago Henry made a decision that his mom and I weren’t pleased about.  Crystal handled the discipline… but I had a few more things to say.

I waited a couple of days before bringing up the subject.  I asked if he was proud of what he’d done.  He said that he was “fine with it.”  I asked him if he thought he’d made his mom proud.  He said “no.”  I asked him if he thought his grandparents would be proud.  He said “no.”

From there, I reminded him that because his name was the same as mine, everything he did was a reflection on me…  And went further to remind him that his work and actions were also a reflection on his grandfather and great-grandfather.  I’m not sure he’d quite thought about it that way.

I tried to soften it up by pointing out that this was a two way street.  My actions and body of work provide a foundation for his.  I can also bring credit or shame to his name.

As I recall, our conversation came to a quiet close.  We’d heard each other out and agreed to disagree.

A few hours later, in the stillness of the early morning, Crystal and I were awakened by a frightening cacophony of sounds coming from Henry’s room.  Henry was not feeling well and after an hour or so of home remedies, it was clear that the emergency room was our next stop.

Fortunately a hospital is nearby; and so within a few minutes he was being seen by a doctor.  Following a description of symptoms and a check of vital signs, the solution to this problem, we were told, was simple – “Henry, try to slow your breathing.”

Henry was hyperventilating.  This caused him to have severe stomach pains and to present stroke-like symptoms due to a lack of oxygen in his blood.  It took the rest of the night and the aid of some heavy drugs to restore his breathing to normal.

Later that week Henry told his mom that he felt a lot of pressure following our conversation earlier that night.  The stress he was feeling as he went to bed, he believes, caused him to become ill.  Of course, Crystal shared this with me, and I felt terrible about it.

There may be power in a name.  But our names can be a burden too.

As Easter approaches this spring, there is no better illustration of the power and burden of a name than the story of Christ’s death, burial and resurrection.  Many are familiar with the common refrain from Philippians 2 that “at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow… and every tongue confess…”  That’s a lot of power!

We see example after example in the New Testament of the power of Jesus’ name.  Faith in the name of Jesus enabled blind men to see, resurrected the dead, cured leprosy, calmed the seas and turned water into wine.  One woman had so much faith in the power of His name that she believed that if she could just touch the hem of his robe she’d be made whole.  There’s power in the name.

But even His name has its burdens.  After leading and teaching a rag-tag group of followers for years, they still wouldn’t watch his back when he stepped away to pray, they still weren’t altogether convinced that he was the incarnation of God, and one of his most trusted boys is the one who sold him out and led him to his death.

And then there is the crucifixion itself.  Despite the power in His name and having committed no sin, He had to bear the burden of being beaten, tortured, hung high, stretched wide, and dying on a cross.

To a much lesser degree, we all have a similar experience.  Hence the phrase, perhaps, that we “all have our crosses to bear.”

Our names have power… and burden.  Consider names such as Kennedy and King, Ford and Rockefeller.  Those names represent something.  They conjure up an image for us all.  Triumph and tragedy, destiny and disaster follow each of these names.

Even more modern family names such as Reagan or Obama, or even Kardashian, bring images to mind.  Each are powerful in their own way, but each person who carries that name bears a burden as well.

Your name represents something too.  Your parents thought about your name – a lot.  Some may consider your name to be the most valuable asset they can give you.  For example, our younger son is not only a Hicks, but his first and middle names, Harrison Patton, represent the family names of his fraternal and maternal grandmothers respectively.  This young man carries the expectations of three families around with him every day!  But no matter how simple or elaborate, your name is significant for some reason.

And therein lies its power.

You’ve got something to live up to.  A history, a future, an expectation, a hope, a wish, a prayer… Power.

Yet, as compelling and alluring as it is, and as much as it makes you stand up a little taller… Its inverse is its burden.  It’s that nagging doubt that we all carry.  Will you make your family proud?  Will you achieve your goal?  Will you bring credit to your name?

This is my experience, and Henry’s, and yours.

When I was a teenager going out with my friends, my dad would tell me on occasion to “remember what your name is.”  While I always took note when he said that, it wasn’t until I was sitting at the foot of Henry’s hospital bed that night that I really considered the gravity of that statement.

I certainly hope that he, nor Harrison, has that medical experience again, but I’ve decided that I’m also okay with their names being a burden.  That burden may keep them out of trouble.  It will give them the drive to achieve, and to overcome, and to serve, and to make their names more powerful.

Of course, my job is to live up to my name as well.  That’s the only way that I can contribute to the power of His name and to the power in theirs.

I periodically tell my boys that they make me proud, and that they live up to their names, just by being themselves.  I also tell them to “remember what your name is!”

There’s power in the name.

This week, I spent time packing and coordinating a move from my home.  Our family belongings were boxed, crated and carted.  Not to be taken to the excitement and possibilities represented by a new home where our family can thrive; but to the nondescript hollowness of a storage facility.  One along an over-grown and forgotten road just off the highway near where it intersects with the airport’s runway.

Just stuff perhaps.  But our stuff.  The stuff that holds memories that the extended Hicks family and friends created – now held secure with a padlock behind an orange garage door.

And I think I shed a tear.

The next morning I awoke, following a short and fitful night’s sleep, with a headache that surely follows only a long night of loud music and Jack Daniels.  Except, I could find no explanation in this case.  My evening only included a cup of yogurt and a single Heineken and a midnight run to Wal-Mart for boxer shorts.

Nevertheless, the throbbing and banging that I was experiencing would only be soothed by a handful of Tylenol, a long shower and some of Aunt Charisse’s cheese grits from Kroger.

The reason for this torture?  We’ve decided to lease our home to some lovely family during our sojourn to Nashville.

I bought this house ‘cause Crystal said she wanted it.  I worked closely with the contractors to make the basement a place where we’d all like to hang out.  Crystal picked furniture to make the place simple, elegant, grand and comfortable – designing her castle to match her style.  And I presided this week over its disassembly, padding and shrink-wrapping – before having it all deposited in a lifeless gated community with no access after 9pm.

And I promised her that after this move to the SWATs she wouldn’t have to move again- unless opportunity and circumstances absolutely required it.  Maybe they had.

After four years of the Hicks family living in separate cities, the boys becoming teenagers and professional opportunities persisting in unexpected places, it was a good time to find a way to have dinner together most nights.

The idea of maintaining dual residences is good in theory, but tough to pull off for most anyone I’m sure.  Choices had to be made.

So after an elixir of grits and grape juice I head to my last appointment on this trip.

As I pull into the driveway – noticing the numbers on the mailbox, the knockout roses in bloom, the red clay on the basketball goal, and how much that maple tree has grown…  behind me follows two matching BMW X5’s – cars I’d never seen before.

I gathered myself and stepped out my own car with a plastic smile and an outstretched hand.

The place looked different now.  Vast, sparkling, almost new.  Well, except for the holes I made in the garage walls to hang bicycles, and the impressions in the floor where Harrison’s piano sat, and the marks on the door frame where H4 practiced chin-ups, and the nicks in the kitchen cabinets from the pots, feet and balls that have banged against them as Crystal baked cakes, canned jelly or made Thanksgiving dinner.

Ok, not so new.  But ours, and pert near perfect.

After a brief tour, I traded keys and a garage opener for a check; and then I stood for a few seconds.  Not sure what to do next…  I guess this is my cue to leave.

The lease was signed, inspection passed, funds exchanged… And I think I shed a tear.

The deed is done.  The commitment made.  The chapter closed?  A step out on faith – towards a new land and new possibilities.

Overhead lower.  Family together.  The title still mine.  Zillow is my friend.  And I can go home again, right?

But I still think I may have actually shed a tear.

Not Finishing and Not Following Up

I get goose bumps at the very idea.

The filing that has been undone for the past several months; the papers that have been piling up, the thank you notes that haven’t been written, the oil change that you’ve been putting off…  Each of these are little things, but they sometimes have big consequences.

The auditor struggles to complete his work, the donor feels underappreciated, you can’t find what you’re looking for later, or your cylinder head cracks due to poor lubrication.  (I’ve experienced all of those things, by the way.)  Some consequences are bigger than others, but they all have one thing in common: they slow down your progress.  They will also likely cost you time and money.

Inevitably, not finishing and not following up will cause you to go backwards when you most want to go forward.  It may have taken you two minutes to file that paper, but now it takes you 20 minutes to find it.  The oil change would have taken 30 minutes and cost you $29.95, but the cylinder costs you $2,300 and puts you on the bus for a week.  And that prescription that you didn’t get filled… Well that may cost you a trip to the hospital.  So there is real practical value in finishing and following up.

In fact, I suspect that not finishing and not following up can be a metaphor for the rest of our lives.  I imagine that in the military shining ones shoes is a precursor to maintaining your weapon, and teaching a squad to march in unison is required before a battalion can be deployed.  Even the bible teaches that “if you be faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many.”  So I think that it is safe to say that managing the small things in our personal and professional lives prevents us from being inefficient and in a better position to manage the big things when they come along.
Don’t get me wrong, we all have our weaknesses – and are imperfect when it comes to finishing and following up.  For example, I’m too frequently late for my next meeting.  While I’m always seeking to improve when it comes to this sometimes embarrassing habit, I recognize that at times I choose to risk tardiness so as not to shortcut whatever conversation or task I’m in the middle of.  Sometimes I judge that going back to whatever I’m doing may be more costly than cutting it close on arrival time to the next spot.  (Sometimes I’m wrong.)

And additionally, this blog represents my failure to follow through.  I resisted beginning to write these columns because I wasn’t sure that I could sustain it.  So I committed that I would post at least once per month (despite being counseled that I should post at least weekly to build loyal readership), but I have often missed even that mark.  As a result, I’ve let myself down and not made the most of the platform we call #dbte.

So as we examine our own lives and spaces to see what we have left unfinished and what we have not followed through on, I encourage you to start with the little things.  Make a promise and habit to shine your shoes every Sunday afternoon or to return all phone calls by 5pm on Friday.  Things like that will make your week more efficient and prevent you from having to step backwards when you’re ready to press forward with something more substantial.

And if you’re overcommitted or your priorities have changed, acknowledge that.  Consider carefully if a commitment needs to be renegotiated, a task needs to be elevated or a meeting rescheduled.  Deciding not to follow up is different than just putting it off.  (But that may be a whole separate subject…)

To my museum team – first we’ll get the filing done, then we’ll get the museum built.

In June of this year, the National Museum of African American Music partnered with Nashville’s Jefferson United Merchant Partnership (“JUMP”) to produce the 14th Annual Jefferson Street Jazz and Blues Festival! It’s an exciting weekend, but more than that, it’s a significant weekend.

Each year for more than a decade, Sharon Hurt, JUMP’s CEO, her family and a brigade of volunteers spend months planning logistics, soliciting sponsors, recruiting vendors, selling tickets and identifying local and national artists to be a part of a celebration of North Nashville’s heritage and future.

Traditionally, the weekend kicks off with a Friday night Bridging the Gap Mixer on the John Seigenthaler (formerly Shelby Street) Bridge. This is followed by a day long festival at the Bicentennial Mall State Park featuring activities for children, vendors of all types and an afternoon filled with sounds that remind you that you are in Music City.

At first glance, you may consider that this is “just another example of black folks throwing a party” or wonder “Why do we need another street fair?” However, a closer examination will reveal just how shallow those observations are.

First, it is important to consider the makeup of the team. There are no professional concert planners here. Sharon and her team designed this weekend, built it and managed it. These people are dedicated, motivated and committed! This is important to them, but not for selfish reasons. There is a passion, even a ministry here. I think this is more significant than a party.

Second, note that the Jefferson Street Jazz and Blues Festival has staying power. Fourteen consecutive years of anything happening is no accident. Maybe it is leadership, or community demand, that keeps that festival coming back.

Then there’s the name. Why have a jazz and blues festival on Jefferson Street anyway? Well, the festival reminds us that the soul of Nashville resides in this section of town and specifically resided on Jefferson Street prior to the time when the federal government determined that the risk of civil unrest in America’s cities warranted the intersecting and damaging the economies of urban communities. Before rapid military access was more important than thriving neighborhoods, the sound of jazz, blues and R&B wafted up and down Jefferson Street like the scent of barbeque on a breezy day.

The New Era, Baron Del Morocco and a dozen other clubs were not only frequented by the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Duke Ellington, Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, Ella Fitzgerald and Cab Calloway, but they also coexisted with commercial businesses, restaurants, residents, universities and churches to make Jefferson Street the most vibrant part of town.

Celebrating and being reminded of that once a year seems like a reasonable thing to do.

But while taking a nostalgic look down Jefferson Street, we might remind ourselves that the rear view mirror does little to help us move forward. So let’s not forget that we kick the weekend off by Bridging the Gap.

The appropriately named Seigenthaler Bridge literally traverses the Cumberland River to connect East Nashville to west. But the location and name of the event serves as an important symbolic reminder that for Nashville to grow, thrive and progress there is a gap that must be bridged.

JUMP goes out of its way, not to maximize its profit on the weekend, but to provide affordable entertainment to portions of the community who may never have been to see a concert at Bridgestone Arena or the Ryman Auditorium. The Bridging the Gap mixer literally connects diverse communities in a way that creates fellowship, laughter and dialogue. JUMP makes certain to provide VIP seating for elderly patrons who may not have danced since the previous year’s festival, provides stimulating outdoor activity for children whose best friend may be a worn remote control, and offers a safe place for families to be together and to be reminded that they too are a part of what makes Nashville the “IT” city.

JUMP serves a hopeful, vibrant, astute and too often overlooked section of Nashville. The neighborhoods near Jefferson Street are seldom congested by Gray Line’s tours, and the din of Broadway and the Gulch at times makes it hard to hear the pulse of North Nashville. Nonetheless, it’s there – steady and strong.

I hope that you’ll join me and Sharon and the brigade of volunteers at next year’s festival so you can see and hear it for yourself. Come help us rock the bridge on Friday night, and then come back on Saturday to support the vendors, enjoy some time with friends and family, and let the music take you back to a time when Jefferson was jumpin’.

But more than that, let the Jefferson Street Jazz and Blues Festival remind you and inspire you to invest some energy into bridging a gap here and there in Nashville and her communities – so that Music City can stay in tune.

… so far from where I’m supposed to be?

There are moments in our lives when events occur and we are certain that God is real! This is the story of one of those moments.

A couple of Sunday’s ago I was visiting my home church in Washington, DC, Metropolitan Baptist Church, where my father has pastored for 37 years. A man came to visit the church from New Jersey that Sunday. I noticed him when he walked up – seeming a little out of place, but oddly right at home. A white man at a black church, with jeans on and an untucked denim shirt, and a worn bible in his hand.

This visitor chose to sit right down front and asked to give a testimony towards the beginning of service. As a PK (preacher’s kid), I’ve seen this move many times before – and it always makes me nervous. Experience tells me that the unexpected speaker is more likely to say something off base, off color or unintelligible than they are to bring a word that is inspirational, motivational or profound.

In this case, it’s a good thing that I’m not a betting man. Our guest, Mr. Appel, rose and shared one of the most moving stories that I think I’ve ever heard.

Mr. Appel’s tale began in 2008, when he was sentenced to prison for a federal crime. As he did his time, he passed the day reading the Bible – from Genesis to Revelations and back to the beginning again. One cold winter evening he found himself walking in circles around a nearly deserted yard. As he trudged in solitude, he repeated a phrase that became his most persistent question:

“How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?”

“How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?”

“How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?”

“How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?”

Hundreds of times he repeated the phrase – perplexed and desperate for an answer.

At 9:30 pm the siren blared, signaling the time to return to the cell block. As our guest returned, he picked up his bible and turned to the marked page where he’d left off. Then, in the Men’s Devotional Bible, he found an essay called from “Wilderness to Mountain,” that was written by H. Beecher Hicks, Jr., my dad.

In that treatise, Dad reminds us that men will ask and demand answers of himself to a couple of basic questions: Who am I? and What am I living for? But once a certain amount of life has been lived, joy and pains have been experienced, and ups and downs have been endured; man will also ask: “How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?”

In the book of 1st Kings we learn of Elijah’s wilderness experience, and of how God has a plan to take us from the wilderness to the mountain. Mr. Appel found hope in his most hopeless hour from that story and from that devotional. And since his release in 2010 he’s sought to follow a more divine plan for his life.

You can see him tell the story here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYKgSpgogrk  Amazing!

But that’s not where the story ends. Mr. Appel had no way of appreciating the full measure of the poignancy of his story.

Mr. Appel had no way of knowing that as he entered prison in 2008, Metropolitan and my father were also unknowingly entering their own wilderness experience. It was at that time that Metropolitan sold their historic property in the District of Columbia and moved to a temporary location for worship while their new suburban Maryland sanctuary was under construction.

No one had a clue at that time that our country was on the brink of financial disaster that would destroy jobs, decimate bank accounts and bring construction projects, including Metropolitan’s, to a screeching halt.

Mr. Appel also had no way of knowing that on this Sunday in the winter of 2014 – four years following his release from prison – when he made his way to a church 200 or more miles away from his home – that this was the Sunday that my father would announce his intention to retire and his belief that a new permanent location had been identified for the church. Metropolitan too is on its way out of the wilderness and up the mountain.

This kind of circumstance is more than just coincidence. This intersection of strangers can only represent a pre-ordained appointment scheduled by the almighty. This represents the manifestation of supernatural power and divine communication.

My dad is fond of saying that all of us are either coming out of the wilderness, going through the wilderness or heading into the wilderness. In those times when you are wondering “How did I get here, so far from where I’m supposed to be?” it is important to remember that whether your situation resembles Elijah’s, Mr. Appel’s, Metropolitan’s, or H. Beecher Hicks’, Gods has a plan to take you “From Wilderness to Mountain!”

I hope that I don’t emphasize this topic too much.  This post is similar to one that I wrote in August of last year called Finish and Follow Up.  Same general idea, but this is a phrase that stays in my head as a reminder – Always Be Closing!

A couple of my friends, Fred and Corey, keep this as their mantra, and I guess that now I do too.  It’s a simple idea really, but I think it’s an important one.

You know, starting to do something is often a lot easier than finishing it.  Don’t’ let that be your trap.

Close the deal.  Finish the task.  Get it done.  Complete the work.  No delay, no excuses.  Make it happen, Now!  Execute, and Always be Closing!

There are several things that I do to try and emphasize this habit.  For example, my goal is to empty my email inbox at least once per day.  On most days I get more than 100 emails, so to do this I use the Delete key often, unsubscribe to junk mail quickly, file emails that I may need later, respond to those that I can answer easily and flag the remaining for follow up at a later time.  Outlook is my friend.

I also keep a task list that is sorted by due date.  I frequently miss those dates, but a few times per week I go through that list and check  off those things that I’ve gotten done and reprioritize those things that I haven’t.  I really like this ability because it helps me not forget to do things, acknowledges that every task is not equally important at a given time, and frees my mind to focus on the meeting or conversation that I am having presently.

I take notes.  During the day, I prefer to do this on the back of business cards.  This allows me to capture reminders of ideas and follow up items, and to track them to a particular conversation.  I also later translate those scribbles into more fully developed thoughts on dated note tablets that I keep nearby.  These tablets keep a record of key conversations that I’ve had and also give me a list of next steps to be taken by me and colleagues.

I have color coded folders.  I know it sounds corny, but I travel a lot and it helps me to keep all documents related to a particular project in one place where I can put my hands on it quickly.  I also have reading, travel and personal folders which allow me to be more productive on the road.  That makes a difference when you juggle multiple priorities during the course of a week.

I get rid of clutter.  I keep my car clean.  I get rid of clothes that I don’t wear and I keep my desktops at work and home clean.  To do this, I make liberal use of the garbage can, Goodwill and filing cabinets.  They too are my friends.

Beyond that, I have a desktop organizing system that helps me to Always Be Closing.  I have desktop trays that are labeled In, Out, Hold and Home.  While somewhat self-explanatory, these trays can be helpful for organizing your work and keeping your head clear.  Everybody has an inbox, but if it always stays full then how do you make progress?

This is where the hold box comes in.  There are some things that I’m just not going to get to this week.  They require more thought, or I’m waiting on input from others.  So, into the hold tray they go, allowing me to pursue my goal of an empty inbox.

To make sure that I’m closing at all times, I also try very hard to make proactive decisions.  I decide to do or say something and when I will do it, or I decide that I won’t.  This is harder than it sounds.  Many times it can be easier to put off a decision until circumstances require one.  Sometimes that works and sometimes it’s inevitable, but many times it leads to a decision being made for you that may or may not be the optimal one at that time.  Rather than letting circumstances dictate your actions, say yes, when and under what circumstances, or say no – and move on.

Finally, to be sure that I’m always closing, I ask myself every morning what the one or two most important things are for me to do that day.  And, as the sun goes down, I ask myself if I completed them.  If so, I rest for a short while.  If not, I press further.

Always Be Closing!  It’s the only way that I know to XEQTE.

Frankly, this post has taken a turn towards the tactical that I hadn’t anticipated.  (This may be my absolute most nerdy post to date!) The point really is that you have bosses, boards, customers, clients, colleagues, and family members who are expecting performance from you each day.  The results are required!  So let’s be clear, if you’re not closing, you’re quitting – or failing.

Always Be Closing!

#DBTE  #XEQTE

I’m often asked if I pledged a fraternity in college.  My flip answer is usually, “No, but Morehouse was enough!”

Recently I was reminded just how accurate that statement actually is.

Last month Morehouse’s Candle in the Dark gala was held in Atlanta, and my brother Jim Shelton was honored with a Bennie Award for Excellence in Achievement for his many continuing accomplishments in education reform and innovation.  Not only did my six other best friends join me to celebrate with Jim, but, as the evening came to a close, 500 of my Morehouse brothers formed a circle and joined hands, right over left, to sing in baritone harmony the college hymn, “Dear Old Morehouse!”

“Dear old Morehouse, dear old Morehouse, we have pledged our lives to thee…”This weekend experience was a heartwarming reminder of excellence and fraternity.  But it’s just a representation.

This fraternity formed in 1867, and since that time students have had to pledge for (at least) four years to become Morehouse men.  If we’re honest, we can admit that the facilities aren’t the finest and her sports programs aren’t the calling card.  The food isn’t’ the greatest and the technology is not cutting edge.  Yet, the product quality, generation after generation, cannot be denied.

Morehouse produces men of character who are capable of being leaders in their field – and who strive to do just that.

It’s the intention and effort to be conscious of the challenges of our communities, to be connected to the creator, and to grow tall enough to wear the crown that is placed above our heads which is a part of the pledge process.  And it is the conviction that not failure, but low aim, that is sin, which makes a man of the ‘House a Morehouse Man.

I was reminded of that on this recent Founders Day weekend.

My friends came by car and plane from all areas of the country to toast.  His success is our own.  His example is celebrated, but it was our celebration as much as it was his, and the weekend’s events provided all of us with the inspiration, reminder, support and motivation to continue in pursuit of our own callings.  The joy we take in Jim’s achievements is what makes us brothers – fraternity brothers.

Turns out that I did pledge a fraternity in college, and Morehouse is more than enough.

Et facta est lux.  And #DBTE.

Congratulations Jim!