When Glen’s train departed for Camp Wolters, just outside of Mineral Wells, Texas, nearly 1,200 miles away from Marietta, Helen was 8 months pregnant with their second child. It provides a bit of insight into her approach to life when on October 3, 1944, despite having friends and family in town, she walked herself to the hospital to give birth to her daughter, Marilyn Kay.
After a few weeks of recuperation from childbirth, Helen traveled southwest to Texas to see her husband before he sailed off to the Pacific theater of war. Private First Class Mellor was an infantryman who fought courageously and was honorably discharged on February 16, 1946. A little over a year later after his return, my dad was born.
When we pulled up to 119 Sharon Street, I had no recollection of having ever seen the home before. It was the quintessential post-war, Cape-Cod style home located in a working-class neighborhood where people kept their yards nice and enjoyed sitting outdoors. Built in 1950, the single-story home consisted of three bedrooms and two baths and was nearly 900 square feet. The exterior was painted light gray with the gable a darker gray. The door and window frames were white, and the shutters were black.
Although his parents would remain married for 54 years, life in the Mellor home, especially in the early years, was a bewildering blend of emotions. Family life during my father’s childhood was dysfunctional and volatile. It was a confusing time for the three Mellor children who were trying to find their way in the world. It did not dawn on me until later that there was likely a reason why I had never seen this house before as it was not likely a place he wanted to remember.
TEACHING DANIEL TO READ
Dad pulled away from his childhood home, drove to the end of the street, turned right on Vernon Street, and then right again on Victory Place. We had only gone about one third of a mile when he slowed and eventually stopped. He nodded toward a red brick school building across the street and said, “This is where my life was changed.” It was the home of Fairview Heights Elementary, where he had attended the sixth grade.
My dad is not a self-congratulatory type of person, but he smiled as he pointed to a grassy field on the side of the building and said, “Do you see that field? That’s where I scored six touchdowns in one game.” My brother and I looked at the field but did not say anything. He translated our silence as skepticism. Without missing a beat, he said, “It was in the paper and everything.”
Dad had been required to complete the sixth grade twice, although the specific reason for doing so was never shared with him. The first time was where we sat at Fairview Heights. The school, located on Harmar Hill, overlooks the Muskingum River with the city of Marietta to the east, and the Ohio River to the south. The second school, Washington Elementary, was located down the hill in the heart of Marietta, which was 1.5 miles away.
Among the influencers at this point in his life was the assistant principal and football coach, Mr. Casto. He had connected with my dad and saw potential in him. One afternoon, Mr. Casto pulled my dad aside to talk with him about a classmate who was struggling to learn how to read. After describing the situation, he said, “Daniel can’t read. I would like for you to teach him how to read.” Intimidated by the request, my dad’s response was immediate and honest. He stuttered, “I can’t do that.” Mr. Casto said, “Why not?” Dad responded, “Because I am dumb.” Unfazed by the answer, Mr. Casto replied, “Well, you may be dumb, but you are not as dumb as Daniel. So teach Daniel how to read.”
The story had ended abruptly and my brother and I were not sure how to respond to what he had just shared. When he said his life had been changed, we had assumed it was for the positive. Considering his principal and coach had seemingly agreed with him when he said he was dumb, we wondered if we had misread the situation. I said, “So when you said your life was changed, was that a positive thing?” He laughed, put the car in drive and began to pull away. He said, “Yes, it was positive. I realized at that moment that I did not have to be the smartest person in the world to make a difference. I just needed to be a little farther down the road than someone else, and I could help them.”
IDENTITY
In many ways, the most significant challenge of life is about identity. At the beginning of our lives, we depend on our senses and the insights of others to help us form a mental model of our world. Through trial and error, we learn not to touch hot things, to dress appropriately, and how to engage others. Interactions with friends and family give meaning to words and help create a framework for understanding. Through these experiences, we learn what is socially acceptable and what is not, and we gain insights into the more profound things of life. At first, the world is small, but in time, for most, the world begins to expand. An afternoon at a friend’s house provides helpful clues into how other families interact. We watch reality shows, follow people on social media, and read about people we will never meet because we are deeply curious about how others experience life. We want to know if our mental model is an accurate and valid assessment of the world.
When contemplating one’s identity, it is essential to recognize that mental models are not rigid or fixed. It is worth noting that a small change in the way one perceives themselves, good or bad, can have a disproportionately significant impact on their lives. Self-perception is being shaped and reshaped throughout a lifetime. Consequently, who you are is not set in stone at the age of 20, 40, 60, 80, or 100. At every stage, new things are learned that have the potential for enhancing our ability to anticipate needs and navigate life. For example, if you had a time machine, the 40-year-old version of yourself could give the 20-year-old version of yourself good counsel.
It is also worth noting that our brains prefer predictability and routine, and we tend to become increasingly resistant to ideas that require a significant change of course, especially when the end result is unclear. Consequently, even if our mental model is inaccurate or damaging, we are likely to stick with it versus enduring the discomfort required to consider a new perspective. Change is a choice, and you can choose a new path if you are willing to endure discomfort. If you do not like where life is headed, you can choose a new way of thinking.
A CHANGED MENTAL MODEL
In my dad’s situation, an influential educator provided my dad with a new perspective because he saw my dad differently than my father saw himself. Whether my dad recognized it or not, both of the stories he told intersected with Mr. Casto. As the football coach, I am assuming Coach Casto would have known my dad had ability on the football field. He witnessed my dad in an environment in which he felt competent, if not exceptional. Also, as the assistant principal, he would have noticed my dad was a friendly, street-smart, and helpful kid who was able to connect with others.
Clearly, Mr. Casto saw something in my father and believed he was capable of more. This ability, to see things both as they are and as they could be simultaneously, is the gift and burden of leaders. Thankfully, at a pivotal time in his life, my father intersected with a leader who cared deeply and sought to push him towards his capacity. The ability to visualize someone as a success before their success is a foregone conclusion is the hallmark of master educators and life-changing coaches.
Through their conversation, Mr. Casto let my father know there was a need to help a classmate and that he believed my dad could fill the need. The offer was rejected because my dad believed he lacked the intellectual ability to be effective. In short, he was focused on what he did not have. Mr. Casto responded by challenging this belief, and by having my father focus on what he did have versus what he lacked. With some guidance, my dad was forced to consider a new perspective, and the result was a modified or transformed mental model. Mr. Casto had awakened a future giant.
If I had access to your thoughts and memories and could read the story of your life, what beliefs would we have to address before you could fully pursue your potential? Do any of the following sound familiar?
I am not smart enough.
I
am too critical.
I don’t have the presence of a leader.
I don’t look the part.
I don’t have the right education.
I am too young.
I am too old.
I am not inspiring.
I am too afraid.
I don’t have access.
I can’t change.
People wouldn’t follow me.
NEUROPLASTICITY
Over the past couple of decades, there have been remarkable advances in understanding how the brain works. One of the most significant breakthroughs is the concept of neuroplasticity. Neuroplasticity is an umbrella term that describes the process by which the brain is organized, both functionally and physically. The key discovery is that the brain is “plastic” or malleable throughout life and is not fixed or rigid. The implications of neuroplasticity are far-reaching, as it suggests that, “you are not stuck with the brain you have.” Through focused effort, physical activity, and rest, you can change the way your brain functions.
There are many reasons why changing how we think and act is difficult. In 1949, Donald Hebb provided an explanation in his book, The Organization of Behavior. In what would become known as the Hebbian Theory, he explained how the brain works during the learning process.7 His postulate is summarized in the phrase, “Cells that fire together wire together.” The core idea is that during the learning process, when an activity is successfully repeated several times, a pattern emerges that becomes the preferred pathway.
One can disrupt and change their mental model, but it takes considerably more effort to do so at the age of 60 versus the age of 6. However, the way you think is not fixed and can be changed. If your rationale for not pursuing your goals is rooted in the belief that your brain is incapable of learning something new, this is not true. If you want to learn to be a better communicator, you can learn to do so through intentional and purposeful practice. As you practice and learn new ways of doing things, over the course of a few months, new neural pathways will emerge.
If you want to change, it is possible, but not without a fight. This fight is not a battle with a nameless competitor; this fight is between the “current you” and the “future you.” To see the “future you” winning over the “current you” will require the type of personal reflection and honesty that most brains prefer to avoid. To move forward will require the conscious decision to be uncomfortable and to choose a new path.
THE CHALLENGE
A few months prior to this book being completed, a friend of mine, Eric Baird, passed away from cancer. Eric was one of those people who could seemingly connect with anyone. We forged a friendship, and when I put together a small group of executives for a four-day leadership development experience, I invited him. The program was held in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. In addition to our class time, we also spent time each day hiking or sightseeing in Grand Teton National Park.
Although Eric attended the program, he was not feeling well. Accordingly, he was trying to adjust his diet and lose some weight. After returning from the trip, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and the prognosis was not favorable. Through prayer, surgery, chemotherapy, and sheer determination, he waged war against his illness.
The toll cancer took on his body was astonishing. As his body grew weaker, however, it seemed his resolve was growing stronger. It said a great deal about him that while he was fighting for his life, he would text friends and family to see if there was anything they needed. Following his final round of chemo, there was a glimmer of hope that the cancer might have gone into remission. This hope was short lived, however, when tests soon thereafter indicated the cancer had invaded his liver.
After being diagnosed with liver cancer, I received a text from Eric to give him a call. When I called him back, he told me he had bad news. He said that he had been having some seizures and that when he went to the hospital, he learned that the cancer was now in his brain. After speaking with the doctors, he had been told there was nothing else he could do to prolong his life. The physicians had indicated that he likely had as little as two weeks to possibly two months to live. He told me he was calling because he did not know how much longer he would have clarity of thought and the capacity to express himself. He wanted to share a few things with me before losing the ability to do so.
He then said something that I consider to be among the most courageous things I have ever heard in my entire life. A man of deep faith, he said in a determined tone, “I do not intend to waste this.” He continued, “When we lived in Portland, we had a neighbor who was a good person but did not believe in God.” He excitedly said, “He did not want to talk about his faith at that time, but I think he might listen to me now.” Tears instantly filled my eyes, I opened my mouth to respond, but I could not speak due to the lump that was forming in my throat. I did not want to break down in front of him. He said, “I want to use what is happening to me for good.” He then repeated himself, “I do not want to waste this.”
Whether you share Eric’s perspective about faith or not, some moments in life are unquestionably holy. I was sitting in my office with the door closed, talking to a friend on the phone, and we both knew it was likely our last conversation. He was aware that he no longer had months and years but was limited to days and weeks. I was thankful that he could not see my face, and I did my best to control my emotions. My forehead was resting on the desk as I listened to his voice on speakerphone. If you had been sitting with me, you would have sat in silence too. My friend was teaching me a valuable lesson about life. He had not called for his well-being. He had called for mine.
Although he had waged a tremendous and fierce battle against cancer the entire time he was sick, he was not blind to the seriousness of his illness. A strong and solid man, he lost half of his body weight through the ordeal. In the months leading to his passing, he did everything possible to make the transition easier for his wife, friends, and family. He considered what he was going through as an opportunity to build bridges, mend fences, and strengthen relationships with others.
When he passed, almost everyone who had gone on the trip to the Tetons a year earlier attended the funeral. The service was supposed to last about an hour, but it ended up lasting three. Friends and family spoke about different segments of his life, but there was a common thread that emerged through the words of each speaker. Eric was someone who found his purpose in serving others. He was the happiest when he was helping. He had chosen to reframe his illness as a teaching opportunity and a way to bring people together.
As I was writing this book, I was struck by the themes that emerged organically. Perhaps the most frequent theme was the link between serving others and living a life that matters. Over the years, I have had the privilege to provide leadership services to hundreds of companies and to spend thousands of hours engaged with individual leaders. The most successful people I know are those who find the highest sense of satisfaction in investing in the lives of others. If you are willing to serve, you will always have a purpose.
My hope in writing this book is to help awaken those who need to be awakened and to help those awakened to recognize their ability to activate others. If you feel you are already fully motivated and engaged, my plea is for you to use your perspective to awaken others. There are few things more tragic than watching people shuffle through life aimlessly. I believe people want to lead lives that matter, but for a host of reasons, they have concluded that what they want is beyond their reach. This is not true. At any point in life, in an instant, people can choose a new course.
Chapter 2
“Second Last Names”
Identity Ownership
I was born at the Good Samaritan hospital in the historic town of Vincennes, Indiana, on Tuesday, July 31, 1973. It was the same hospital where my brother was born on May 17, 1971. Founded in 1732, Vincennes was Indiana’s first city. Built by the French to protect its fur trade f
rom the British, the town was constructed along the banks of the Wabash River, which delineates it from the neighboring state of Illinois.1 In 1970, nearly 20,000 people called it home.2
My parents moved to Vincennes in 1970, a few months after getting married, so dad could become the Assistant Director at the YMCA. Before Vincennes, the two were living in Searcy, Arkansas, where they were attending Harding College, which would later be renamed Harding University. When they arrived in town, they joined a local church and when it was discovered that dad had attended a Christian University, he was asked to teach the teen class. Unexpectedly, after teaching a few times, dad felt drawn to ministry. Soon, he was offered a position with a church in the nearby town of Princeton, which was 25 miles south of Vincennes.
The young family moved into a picturesque one-story home at 404 West Spruce Street in Princeton, which was the first house I would call home. The house had been built in 1900, but due to the quality of materials used in construction, the house looked as if it were new. The exterior was made of natural autumn gold sandstone, which had been cut and expertly placed by stonemasons. Dad worked with the church, and mom worked with The Arc of Gibson County. The Arc provided training and development opportunities for people with intellectual and developmental disabilities.
Although my parents enjoyed the work in Princeton, dad felt he would benefit from additional training to be able to preach and teach with greater effectiveness. When a growing church in Williamstown, West Virginia, which was located just across the Ohio River from his hometown, opened a small Bible College in 1974, he decided to attend. We moved east to Marietta in 1975 and lived in a two-story wooden duplex, painted white, at 109 Wooster Street. Our house was located directly across a narrow alley from my grandparent’s home.
Sleeping Giants Page 4
