-I do better with boundaries if I develop my boundaries with the help of my sponsor.

-The first thing I need in order to set meaningful boundaries is a powerful determination to be myself.

-The most basic boundary is giving myself permission to say no.

-In setting my boundaries, my need to explain why I set the boundary undermines the believability of the boundary. I may want to give an explanation, but if I am afraid not to explain and justify, you may sense my fear and  want to see if I can be backed down.

-When I was growing up, i set many boundaries; all for other people. “If I do that, she will be mad at me.”  Or  “She likes it when I do that, therefore I have to always remember to do that”.

-The trouble of surviving by constantly searching for what the other person wants is that it leads to a life style in which I am defenseless. If I am searching for clues to what the other people want, I have to take in every nuance of their words, actions, and demeanors into myself. If I do that, I necessarily absorb every negative idea that comes my way.

-If I am trying to please people and not myself, I tend to overestimate the damage potential of other people because I add my negative imagination to what was actually done and said.

-I do better when I do not try to set rigid boundaries. All my boundaries should spring from the 11th step; that is from a search for God,s will. There may be occasions where I want to give up a boundary temporarily. However, It is better if I do not sacrifice a boundary to fear.

-Boundaries based on the gifts of the program tend to be informed by flexibility and love.

- I am better off if I select boundaries that depend solely upon me. “You have to stop screaming at me” is a boundary that depends upon your willingness to comply. “If you scream at me I will simply hang up”, is a boundary that gives me control of my own situation.

-Some boundaries don’t have to be spoken. In that case, my behavior and not my words let you know what behaviors are not acceptable to me.

-I do not think I can effectively set boundaries if I fight against or resent your boundaries.

-Boundaries have a tendency to set both people free.

From the age of seven  until the age of fifteen, I lived in Coronado, Ca. which means we lived there from1945-1953. Coronado is called an island but it is actually connected to the San Diego area  by a narrow strip of sand called The Silver Strand. Coronado, which is across the bay from San Diego’s downtown business district, is a wealthy city.

We lived in a government housing project that was built during the  World War ll to house workers in the aircraft industry. If you are familiar with the San Diego area, the project was right where the Coronado bridge now comes down in Coronado. The area is a country club these days.

The original intention of the government was for the project to be torn down immediately after the war. The buildings were plywood, nailed up with double headed nails so the project could be easily dismantled. Not only were they poorly constructed, they were also not kept up. Once we went months without hot water, which illustrates the low quality of the maintenance we lived with.

My dad was a sheet metal worker at North Island Naval Air Station which occupies more than half of the of Coronado Island. He never made enough money to care for whichever of his six kids were living at home at the time.

We were frequently hungry. I passed out from hunger on at least one occasion. Our diet was protein poor. Things were especially desperate the week we had to pay the rent. Rent week, we pretty well ran out of food about Tuesday and stayed out of food until Friday when my dad got his next check. On Fridays, we always had homemade hamburgers. I doubt if anything I will ever taste will surpass how good those hamburgers tasted.

On the occasions when we ran out of food, we lived on the kindness of a man named Mel who drove our neighborhood’s route for The Conklin Bakery Company. At that time, bakery companies delivered baked goods to neighborhoods much like dairy companies delivered milk. Mel was willing to give us credit. That meant we lived on bread, brownies and pies for days at a time. Once I got six brownies and ate them all within  ten minutes. Mel at least insured that we had enough calories in our diet to keep us going. I remain powerfully grateful to him.

The shame of our poverty did not come from our meager means. The shame came from the toxic, raging, anger my mom poured out on all of us. Her anger was in part over the shame she felt because we lived in the project and in part because she was angry at my Dad that  he only made enough money for us  to have a impoverished standard of living. She shamed him ruthlessly and relentlessly and simply destroyed his sense of masculinity. I identified with the destruction of my dad’s manhood, and thereby experienced the destruction of my own masculinity .

Finally, my dad shot himself with my gun. To get away from the scene of his death, we moved to a  project that was in another part of San Diego called Linda Vista.

My mother’s shame and rage was multiplied by my dad’s suicide. She needed a new target. Her rage was in large part, aimed at me. It was devastating. Sometimes when the rage seemed unbearable, my sister Judiand I would call one or both of our older married sisters to come over to calm her down. I was deeply wounded by Mom’s behavior and as a result I felt like I was very low class. Here is an example of what I mean.

La Jolla is a uber wealthy beach city just north of San Diego. When I got old enough to buy myself a car, I would not drive through La Jolla.  instead, I circumnavigated  clear around all the city. I didn’t feel worthy of being near such wealth.

That is all  background for the story I really want to tell you. I attend a 12 Step meeting in Orange County.  All the years I have attended the meeting I never quite felt like I belonged. The reason I  have felt that way, was that there is lots of money in area of Orange County. I felt separated form the group because I live in far more modest circumstances than most of the people that attend the meeting.

In all fairness, the people in  the group never gave me the slightest indication that the level of my income mattered to them in the least. However, in my emotions, my boyhood poverty shame was  a wedge between me and the other truly lovely people in the group. I tried many ways to rid myself of this feeling  but nothing seemed to help. The boyhood shame was still there after the passage of all those decades.

At a recent meeting, a woman I will call Jane shared that she sometimes felt like she did not really belong in the group. She also shared how she overcame her sense of not belonging.

As she shared, I heard that reliable voice within me that I have learned to trust over the years, telling me that I could defeat the sense of distance I had at the meeting if I would share the whole story with Jane. Jane is a fine, experienced and wise member of our group. All of that is positive. My problem was that she is also very pretty.

When I am feeling a deep anxiety, as I was that morning, I tie up like a painfully self conscious fifteen year old boy around a really pretty girl. I really wish I get outgrow my shyness. Maybe someday.

However,  I did promise my Higher Power that if she was available to talk after the meeting, I would get her phone number so I could talk to her about the sense of shame I sometimes experienced at that particular meeting.

Immediately after the meeting ended, she was standing  by her chair all alone. She was gathering up her things, preparing to mingle with other members of the group. It also happened that no one was right there wanting to talk to me as sometimes happens immediately after a meeting. This was my chance. I nervously walked over to her and told her I wanted to phone her to talk over what she had shared. She was of course very gracious. Still, I could hear my voice trembling.

Later that afternoon I phoned Jane and left her a message asking her to call me. For the next few hours I tried to figure out something I could say to her when she called, so I would not have to reveal my my painful feelings. However, by  the time she called, I knew I would tell her the truth and I did. It was a dear and sweet conversation.

Mostly Jane reinforced the idea that no one in the group cared at all about the level of my income. She also said, “I certainly don’t care how much money you have. I do care about and respect the honesty of your sharing.” The love and respect her  and her manner conveyed to me gave me a powerful sense of relief.

Since that talk with Jane, I have not felt the old sense of separation. What an example of my Higher Power helping me overcome a Character defect. The experience gives me a fine sense of satisfaction and a pride in myself, that I did my part. I also feel deeply grateful to Jane and to my recovery group.

George Caywood

I saw her, with her shiny dark hair.

A smile so sweet, she so sweetly will share.

A quick warm embrace, love from her soul.

I gave back her hug, returning love as my goal.

-

Her eyes are shiny, full of deep love.

Love that’s from God, down from above.

She is pretty, good, kind and bright.

Maybe we’ll talk, that would be pure delight.

-

When I am speaking, she listens intently.

I hear myself speaking a little more gently.

She looks at me steadily, straight in my eye.

I look right back, feeling very alive.

-

Note: Written in an effort to preserve a great moment.

When I was working as President of Union Rescue Mission of Los Angeles, I often went out on the streets of skid row to talk with the homeless. I found it enjoyable and relaxing.

However, occasionally a disgruntled client from among the street population served by the mission, would make a threat against me of some kind. I have been threatened with violence, hell, arson, getting me fired, lawsuits, going to the press, stealing donors, undercover FBI investigations and many other creative negative thoughts.

Generally, nothing came of them. Many people who had become angry with me, apologized with deep sincerity after they cooled down or got sober.

One day, when I was standing on the sidewalk in the front of the chapel, a middle aged homeless man came up to me wanting some service from the mission. I turned down his request. I cannot remember any more of the circumstances or details of our conversation. I do remember wondering if he were mentally ill.

He became ragingly angry and screamed the accusation I most often heard in those days, “And you call yourself a Christian.?

It was definitely a very unpleasant experience for me, but I did respond in a quiet voice. I was thinking about the Proverb that said, A soft answer turneth away wrath.?

He became more and more frustrated. In retrospect, I think he became much angrier because he could not get an emotional response from me. Finally, with his face beet red, he shouted, I am going to buy a gun and come back and shoot you.? Then he stormed off up the street.

I did not spend much time thinking about the threat. I wrote if off as meaningless.

The next morning several people were waiting in front of the mission for me to come to work. I saw them before they saw me. I felt somewhat frightened by the anxious way they were looking for me. I braced myself for a disaster.

As soon as they saw me they rushed up to tell me what had happened. One of them said,?Do you remember the guy who said he was going to buy a gun and shoot you? Well, he came back last night after you left. He couldn’t find you, so he went out into the parking lot and shot and killed a homeless guy he found there. The police arrested him a few hours later.?

I was stunned. I really did not feel the total emotional impact of the news until I got home that night. I don’t think I ever told my family or anyone else what had happened.

I also did not find a professional to help me process. In those days, I had a powerful drive to bury negative emotions and just keep going. From the time I was a toddler, I have always felt I needed to be the strong one.

I am very glad I am writing this. I am realizing at this moment, as I write these words, that I have never processed that horrible experience.

I can suddenly feel, but not quite contact, many other horribly negative experiences on skid row that remain buried deep in my gut. The next thing I am going to do, is e-mail my friend Beth. She is the closest remaining contact I have in the rescue mission world. I should also call a program friend or two. I may not make the calls tonight, but I will make them tomorrow. I have no idea why I am hesitating to call my friends. I will definitely share my memory at the powerful meeting I will be attending in the morning.

Tom Bradley was mayor of Los Angeles for many years. For my money, he did an admirable job. During the latter years of his tenure, he was a great help to Union Rescue Mission where I was President.

Mayor Bradley [Tom] served as Chairman of the Mission’s capital fund raising drive. He was very helpful, and faithfully fulfilled all his responsibilities to us.

At the end of the very successful fund raising effort, we had a large dinner party in order to celebrate with all of the people who had worked so hard to raise the money. Tom was at the dinner and on the platform.

After the festivities concluded, I went down off the platform, to the front of the room to thank all the people. We were exchanging hugs and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. I looked up on the platform and saw Tom watching us. I went back up to express my gratitude to him.

I thanked him fervently and then wanted to embrace him. I felt I should warn him, so I said, “I am going to give you a hug.” He smiled warmly at me and nodded his head. He was a little stiff but obviously pleased.

After the hug I said, “Tom, I want to guess what your dream is for the city of Los Angeles. There are 88 language groups in this city. I think you wish that everyone valued all the other cultures that surround them and was excited about learning from people who are different from themselves. You think if that happened, this would be the greatest city in the world.”

Tears immediately came to his eyes. In response to his emotion, tears also came to my eyes. We stood there a moment looking at each other. Then we hugged again. There was no stiffness in the hug this time.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my office at Union Rescue Mission in Los Angeles. I had worked there for many years and, at that point, had been President for about five years.

I began to think about the people that had worked at the Mission. I made a list of those individuals that were most powerful in terms of being effective with the homeless population during their time with us.

It was a highly diverse list in terms of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual preference, education and economic background. There were effective people born in countries scattered around the world. There were left wingers and right wingers, retired military and people that had never been in the service. There were former street people and people of means.

What did these wonderful people have in common? The question seemed important to me. I asked my assistant to clear my schedule. I began to study my list of names with an intensity that was close to meditation.

For a long time, it did not seem like there was any common denominator among them. The effort seemed like it was going to be fruitless.

Finally, it hit me. The most effective servants I had seen at the Mission, all had the desire and ability to learn from the clients of the Mission. They were the people that from time to time said to me something like, “Yesterday Joe told me his story. I could see how similar his character defects are to mine.”

Some employees had a different picture. They saw themselves as the ones with wisdom. They had the the answers. They saw themselves in a role similar to the Pastor of their church. In that role they were more or less in the position of having superior spirituality.

The most effective servants saw being an employee of the Mission, as an act of God’s grace. They were humbled by their call. They felt that their Heavenly Father’s first concern in sending them to our ministry was their own growth. They were at the Mission first of all as an expression of God’s desire to meet their personal needs. The service they provided followed from their own healing needs being met.

I saw my role that way too. I could easily see the healing that was coming to me from the love of the street people and the men and woman on the recovery programs.

Out of that experience, I developed a ministry strategy that I expressed as follows: “There is only one healing circle at Union Rescue Mission, and we are all in it.”

In fact, among the most supporting people at the Mission when I was going through my divorce, were the street people. God used them powerfully, many times.

In contrast, some of the Christians from the community were nothing short of mean in their judgmentalism. Some Board members were among the worst.

That lesson was extremely influential in the way I wanted to run the Mission and plan for it’s future.

I used to love to give my friends tours of Union Rescue Mission. It was a large facility and housed many fascinating and even surprising ministries. Seldom was anyone prepared for what he or she experienced the first time through the Mission.

On this occasion, the person I was showing through the mission was one of my professors from my university days. I pulled out all the stops because I wanted him to be impressed.

I am good at masking problems and emphasizing strengths. As a result, my friend was overwhelmed. He later told me that the tour left him feeling like the life he was leading was insignificant next to the work I was doing. That was a clue that maybe I had gone to far selling the Mission.

After the tour, we were standing on Main Street in front of the mission chatting. Two street men walked up to my friend and I, wanting to talk. I knew one of them whose name was Tom. They were both very drunk. They were staggering as they walked toward us and their speech was slurred when they began to talk.

Street men sometimes drink a synthetic, imitation wine that has never seen a grape. When they drink it, it gives the men’s breath a distinctive and very unpleasant odor. These men were giving off that smell as they began to speak.

Introductions were made all around. There was a few minutes of greeting and small talk.

Then Tom, the street man I knew, said, ” George, I am glad to see you.”

Tom then put his arm around my shoulders and turned to his friend. He got a very serious look on his face and with slurred speech said, ” Bob, George here is my good friend. Everything I am today I owe to this man.”

I was shocked. After a moment, I turned to see how my University friend was responding. I did not see him for an instant. Then I looked and saw him squatted down with his back turned a few steps behind me, tears rolling down his face laughing.

I don’t have any memory of what happened after that. I assume we all said our goodbyes and that I went back to work.

Henry was a retired Baptist minister that lived at the Union Rescue in his elder years. He had pastored churches in rural Alabama most of his life. The number of people he touched in his last few years is probably more than I could count in a year of trying.

He was stocky and of average height. My guess is that he was a fine athlete about six decades before I knew him. He always wore a black suit, white shirt and tie. One very hot summer day I asked him if he wouldn’t like to at least take off his tie.

He said, “No, I just would not feel dressed if I did.”

I loved to pray with Henry. He prayed with a soft but intense voice. He constantly rocked forward and back in his chair as he prayed. I always felt drawn into Henry’s love of God in those moments.

Sometimes, when we had finished praying he would begin to say, “O George…O George, George.” That would go on for a moment or two. Then he opened his eyes and would share with me what God had asked him to share. The intensity of his prayer effort often gave his strong, handsome black face a shine that seemed part perspiration and part inspiration.

One afternoon, Henry was sitting in the chapel facing the altar in a seat right next to the aisle. There was no service going on, he was just resting or meditating. There were lots of other people sitting all around him.

I was passing through the chapel from the back, so I was approaching him from behind. As I hurriedly walked past him, I clapped him on the shoulder and said, “God is good”, and kept on walking.

After a few steps I paused. I had expected him to make some reply, but he had said nothing. I stood there afraid that he had a sore shoulder and that I had caused him pain. I turned around to try to see what had happened. He was sitting there wearing his prayer expression, with his eyes closed and looking like serenity personified.

I was no longer in a hurry. I stood there looking at him and loving him. In about thirty seconds he opened his eyes, shook his head gently and said, “He’s better than that.”

I was standing on Holy Ground. I did not want to move. Then he smiled, waved a wave of dismissal, and I moved on; a better man for the experience.

April was an older woman who attended a Bible study at one of Union Rescue Mission’s off-site houses. This particular house was used for a program for young men ages 18 -25. The Bible study was held weekly and a few people from the community attended including April.

April was totally blind. She had been accidentally blinded many years before. Yet she was not bitter at all. She had worked hard to forgive all involved in her blinding and had made a very good life for herself. Everyone, including me, found in her the Grandma we wished we had had.

April’s Granddaughter was a pre-teen named Kelly who had developed a bad habit of using very foul language. Kelly’s mother had tried everything to help her daughter to talk more genteelly. Finally, in desperation, the mom sent Kelly to her live with April for a few weeks, hoping that would help.

April and Kelly were very close. Kelly would not use the unacceptable language in front of her Grandma.

One night, after dinner, April asked Kelly to sit with her. She took a pencil and a piece of paper out of her apron. She asked Kelly to write down all the bad words she liked to use. Nervously, Kelly wrote the words down.

Of course, April could not read the list since she was blind, so she asked Kelly to read it to her. Kelly was dumbstruck. She said, “Grandma, I just can’t say these words in front of you.”

April said, “Would you read the first letter of each word?” Kelly agreed to read the letters, but even that was hard for her to do.

As Kelly read the letters, she began to cry. When she finished, she sat there a moment waiting to see what April would do. A minute passed.

My guess is that April was taking a minute to pray and center herself. Then she took a twenty dollar bill out of her apron. She said, “Kelly, would you sell me those words?” and handed her the twenty dollars.

Kelly took the money. Then April said, “Darling, now those words are mine. I own them. I will not let you use my words.” Kelly fell into her Grandma’s arms crying.

I never heard the end of the story. I don’t know if Kelly cleaned up her language once she got home. I do know this: April behaved with God-like grace. In so doing, she taught me as poignant a lesson in grace as I have ever learned.

The man that hired me at the first rescue mission at which I worked 32 years ago, took me to lunch last weekend. His name is Ernie. I had not seen him for 15 years.

Ernie is 11 years older than me which means that both of us have earned the title of elderly. However, I am using the term old friend more in the sense of long term relationship.

Ernie was the best boss I ever had. He was not afraid of new ideas. In fact, virtually every time I heard Ernie pray, I heard him ask God for new ideas for the mission programs.

For example. after I had been at the mission for a few years, the Executive Director and Ernie asked me to start an alcohol recovery program for men. I had no idea how to begin. I decided that I would start by attending AA meetings as a means of learning from the people who seemed to know what they were doing.

I went to an AA meeting at an Alano Club in nearby Glendale, California. That was where I read the 12 Steps for the first time. I immediately recognized the recovery potential of the steps.

I began to build a alcohol recovery program around the steps. It took a while to get it functioning, but in time, it became a good program.

When I first started developing the program the other chaplains were outraged. They felt that I was abandoning the Gospel. The weekly Chaplain’s Meeting became hard for me to endure.

Ernie took it for awhile. After a few weeks he laid down the law to the other chaplains. He said with total firmness,” You men stop this negative talk. We are going to let George experiment with the 12 Steps. I won’t allow you to continue this criticism. Leave him alone.” I was never bothered by the other chaplains about the steps again.

Ernie also recognized that the white maleness of the then mission staff was a serious limitation to the effectiveness of the ministry. I would not describe Ernie as liberal. It was more that he was very practical. It seemed logical to him that the gender, race and ethnicity of the clientele should be reflected in the staff.

Ernie is a true servant leader. One time I was the speaker at an off site halfway house the mission operated for women and their families. Ernie and his wife lived in an apartment in back of the larger house used by the women.

My evening began with dinner in the big house with the families. Ernie and his wife Lois, were not in attendance. After dinner, I realized that I had left my Bible in my car. I needed it to lead my Bible Study.

When I got to my car, I found Ernie under the hood. He was very surprised and a little embarrassed. He was cleaning my battery posts.

I had an old car and four little kids. Ernie knew me well enough to know I would not think to do appropriate maintenance on my car. He wanted to take care of it for me.

If I had not caught him doing it, I would not have ever known he had worked on my car. I was deeply touched. Having people help me was not a part of my normal expectations.

There were many more examples of good experiences with Ernie. With all that wonderful history between us, I could not wait to see him again after we had scheduled our lunch. When the day finally came, our time together was an exercise in mutual concern and respect. The love was palpable. We exchanged small gifts and small talk. We also retold our mission stories.

The lunch with Ernie was healing for me. I feel I was unjustly treated by the mission board at the time I left. That bad feeling diluted my memories of the good times I enjoyed at the mission. The good memories are near me again. Having my good memories back is one more thing I owe Ernie.