Mission

2011 NTC

Well, I’m sitting in Reagan National waiting to return home from the 2011 NTEN Nonprofit Technology Conference and am just reflecting on what a long, energizing, and content-rich week it was. With all of the thought and momentum I’ve been putting to our client engagements and Event 360 blog, I’ve definitely let this one slip. In fact, I’ve let most of my social presence atrophy. NTC was a reminder of the power of not only institutional ideas, but of personal ones as well.

Over the next couple of weeks I’m taking some time off, and hoping to do some thinking about this blog and how I can use it to communicate some of the great things we’re learning about fundraising, analytics, mission, and how they work together. I’m excited to crank up the volume. 

Kellogg Commencement

Yesterday, I had the profound honor of addressing my graduating class at the commencement ceremony for the Kellogg Executive Masters Program. It was an incredible — and incredibly humbling — experience. Here, apart from a few side comments, is what I said.

——-

Dean Jain, Assistant Dean Cisek-Jones, distinguished faculty and staff, honored guests, graduates of EMP 74, and of course, classmates of EMP 73:

Thank you.

There are so many people in this room who have impressed and awed me over the past two years. I am honored and humbled to speak to you today on behalf of EMP 73.

I had a reputation – probably merited – as being one of the most talkative people in our class. Whatever the topic, I had a question about it, or a comment about it, or a question about my comment. So it is quite incredible to me that anyone in my class believes I have anything left to say. I’m sure that they figured that if they didn’t let me speak, I’d find some way to add a comment anyway.

In any case, I’ll do my best to exhibit a brevity that was absent during my two years as a student.

Please allow me to convey three messages.

First and most importantly, on behalf of my entire class, I want to thank everyone in the audience who is not wearing an academic robe. To all of the family and friends who are here today, thank you. As our wives, husbands, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, parents, and friends, you went through the experience with us. But your part was much more difficult than ours. In many ways, you bore all of the hardships – the long days and nights, the studying, the stress, the awkward weight gain! – and yet you received few if any of the benefits. You became accustomed to eating alone, or caring for children by yourselves – and a few of you even gave birth while you shared your marriage with the EMP program. You did not embark on the experience to learn new skills, or make new friends, or expand your business networks. You supported us only because you care about us. Thank you. We want to let you know that we are profoundly grateful for your love.

And specifically to the children in the audience: We hope that you do not mistake the times we were absent from dinners, and school concerts, and swim meets, and soccer matches, and games of catch, and stuffed animal tea parties, and Lego battles as anything other than our desire to make you proud through our effort. Do not think for one moment that you are not our most important priority, because you are. Among all the marks we received during our two years, by far the most important is the grade we receive from you. We hope we ended the program with a High Pass. Thank you for being here, because you are the reason we do what we do. (And to Matthew, Johnny, Ellie, and Danny – I love you, I’m proud of you, and yes, we can finally go to the aquarium now.)

Secondly, to everyone who teaches and works at Kellogg: Thank you. Your work is superb in intent and in implementation, and you shared it selflessly with us. Thank you for shouldering our inexperience, our overconfidence, and our impetuousness with professionalism and grace. Thank you for seeing something in us that we only hoped to see in ourselves; thank you for inviting us into your circle. We hope that we make you, and the school, proud.

And finally, to the graduates in the audience, and in particular to my fellow graduates from EMP 73: So here we are. It is amazing to think that something that took so long could go by so fast. Less than two years ago we gathered for the first time in a room just half a mile up the road as the frightening realization dawned on us: The program is not only going to involve numbers, but there’s actually going to be math. And, they’re really going to test us on it.

But we overcame our fear, and soon we got into a routine. It was a routine that was hard not to like. It involved new books every six weeks, books that were labeled with our names neatly on the top. It involved weekly group meetings, and lots of lecture notes – but it also involved omelets, and quite a few more meals than normal, healthy people should eat.

It’s true that there were exams and assignments and papers, but it also turned out that there was something else – there were good people, the kind of people you’d always wish and hope that you’d meet, people who were smart and funny and challenging and inspiring. And though we came into the program thinking that the people were a way to understand the coursework, it soon became clear that the reality was just the opposite – that the curriculum was just a door into the real value of Kellogg: All of you.

And after all your effort, after all our time learning about marketing mixes and weighted-average cost of capital and the theory of constraints and pricing strategies, our reward is to be turned loose into the worst economy the world has seen in seventy years.

It would be absurd not to mention current conditions, because the impact of those conditions has been keenly felt by our class. Our classmates have seen their salaries cut, opportunities eliminated, relationships strained, and for some, jobs lost. In a better time, discussions around the dinner table might involve decisions between new career opportunities – now, the discussions are just as likely to concern loans, and mortgage payments, and dwindling retirement accounts. The news from both Wall Street and Washington doesn’t inspire many warm feelings, and it is hard not to wish for a third year of school as a refuge. One has a sense that though the exams have ended, the biggest tests are still to come.

I think, however, that this is not the right way to view the situation. We are not the next round of cattle being led to the stockyards; perhaps we – though not completely aware that we are up to the task – perhaps we are the cavalry. Perhaps we ourselves are the solution that we are looking for.

In school we talk repeatedly about Ps – about price, promotion, place, product, and of course, the biggest of all, profit. As we leave Kellogg in these uncertain times, I have a sense that we will need to focus on two more important Ps: Passion and Perspective.

Right now, the world needs people who care – people who care enough to look beyond band-aids and sound-bites to create lasting, meaningful solutions.

And the world needs people who understand that success in business is simply a tool. It is not the end goal. The end goal is prosperity and peace for our great-grandchildren. The end goal is long-term relationships that are made of respect and integrity. The end goal is workable, sustainable methods for encouraging initiative while discouraging exploitation. The end goal is less hate and more light; decreased ignorance and increased understanding; less suffering and more healing. The end goal, quite simply, is a better world. We must have the passion and the perspective to focus our businesses, our careers, and our lives on those goals.

It is true that we are leaving Kellogg with newfound knowledge. But your biggest asset is not your head, it’s your heart. Over the last two years I have had the joy of experiencing that heart first-hand, and it fills me with optimism and hope.

There is a lot to do. The world needs you. And what’s fortunate for all of us is that you are ready.

Godspeed friends. Let’s get to work.

To Our New President

Mr. President, thank you for tackling the challenges facing us. These are difficult times, and difficult times require initiative and leadership. I appreciate you wading through all the muck and mire that is required to serve as an elected official in this country. We need you.

I have no doubt that you are every bit as passionate and intelligent as you appear. But I am not counting on you for single-handed transformation. This is not because I do not believe in you, but rather because I believe in us. As an American I understand that the power of this country is in the collective, not in the one — and so my hope for you is that you help catalyze the potential in all of us. 

You cannot change things yourself, but you can help get the rest of us moving again. My sincere wish is that we are all successful. 

With hope and resolve,

Jeff

On Charity

 

The following post is an article I wrote several years ago for “The Magazine of Sigma Chi.” The idea of trying to write an article about charity that wasn’t preachy or overly moralistic appealed to me, as did the chance to politely remind a group of society’s most fortunate members about their obligations.

I’ve always been proud of this article, and though I’ve gone through a company and career change since writing it, it still reflects my best thoughts on this subject.

Incidentally, about a year after writing it, I found out the article won a first-place editorial award from the College Fraternity Editor’s Association. I received a paper certificate with my last name spelled wrong. There you have it!



It’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m driving through the fog on Wilshire Boulevard. I’m dragging myself to the gym for some much-needed exercise. It’s a short drive, but ever since my son was born in September, these drives have been few and far between. In southern California, one never has to contend with cold mornings – but in Santa Monica, where I live, the ocean breeze blows off the bay during the night and carries in the clouds from the sea. Most days, the fog conspires with my alarm clock to deter me from the trip. At 5:30, it is a victory just to be moving in the right direction. I glide my car through the haze with a sleepy sense of purpose.

I park at the Third Street Promenade, an outdoor mall near the ocean. Even draped in fog, the Promenade is a testament to the abundance of Santa Monica. The clean brick walks are lit by storefront lights shining from the uniformly polished windows of Banana Republic, Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware, Abercrombie & Fitch. A Barnes & Noble, containing the requisite Starbucks, is just opening; a line of coffee drinkers, shrouded in mist, shuffles inside.

I read the windows as I go past: You Saw the Movie, Now Read the Book. The Look that Started a Sensation. New for Spring – Today’s Pastels. Blue Capri Pants are Inside! The signs are crisp and clear, framed in new glass and tile.

Sleeping in almost every doorway is a person in a dirty blanket.

One man has a collection of soda cups, many half-full with brown liquid. Turned on its side behind them is an instrument of the person’s work, provider of what little bounty exists around him: A hand-lettered sign reading, “Looking for work, or whatever you can offer.” His sign is neither crisp nor clear. It is black magic marker on cardboard. He’s tied a bundle of clothes in a paper bag to his ankle, precious possessions kept closely guarded. He barely moves as I walk past.

He is sleeping in front of a jeans store. A huge banner in the store window says, “Get Lucky Here.”

It is 5:30, and I am feeling triumphant that I roused myself to go to the athletic club. I walk past the man and head into the gym.

——

I work for a fundraising company. We produce large-scale events that raise millions of dollars for charity. Sometimes we net $6 million in one weekend. It is a small irony of modern life that someone like me can get paid money to convince someone like you to donate your own. In a country where anyone can grow up to be anything, I get paid to raise money.

My boss, Dan, is a dynamic, visionary man who carries his idealism like a club. He is prone to dramatic statements and unabashed advocacy for the disadvantaged. He likes to challenge people.

About Santa Monica, he loves to say, “Los Angeles is the wealth capital of America. It is also the poverty capital of America.” Statistically, he’s not correct: According to the 2000 U.S. Census, there are a dozens of cities with higher poverty rates than Los Angeles.

But it only takes one look at three people sharing a torn blanket under a J. Crew awning to see that his sentiment, at least, is right on target. In ten square miles in Los Angeles you can travel from Watts in South Central to Beverly Hills. Boyz in the Hood to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air in 15 minutes. The continuum of wealth to poverty is striking.

Just what constitutes “poverty” is up for debate. According to the U.S. Government, in 2002 if you are a family of four and make over $18,100 a year, you are not poor. $18,100 for four people. That’s $4,525 a person. A year. At almost every Sig chapter, $4,525 doesn’t pay for a semester of tuition. According to the National Education Association, the average undergraduate tuition plus room and board in the United States is almost $12,000. For the 31 million people in the United States living in poverty, this amount represents at least two-thirds of the money they see in an entire year.

Dan has always had a particular affinity for helping the poor. This past year, he created an event designed to raise money for impoverished Angelenos. Called “the Weekend to End Poverty,” it was going to be a two-day, 26-mile walk through the best and worst parts of the city. We had planned to raise several million dollars for local community empowerment programs.

In a week of advertising the event, we received over 3,000 phone calls from interested participants. But we had to cancel the walk. It turns out that most of the callers didn’t want to raise money for the poor. It turns out that they were poor themselves – and were calling to see if we could help them.

——

Long before I worked in Los Angeles, I worked at a familiar address: 1714 Hinman Avenue. I worked at the Sigma Chi Headquarters, my first job, my first love, my first testing ground for everything I believed in and believed I wanted to be. The environment, the people, and the building had the same sense of unabashed idealism I see in my current company, but it was more raw in some way. Less polished. I mean that as a compliment.

During my first year I was an Assistant Executive Secretary. (Nowadays we call them Leadership Consultants.) I traveled around for three weeks a stint, visiting Sig chapters and preaching the good word.

On those trips I learned my first lesson of business: As soon as you finish any business trip, fill out your expense report. Get your money back. Get what you have coming to you.

The Sig expense report was a bit different, though. Some ingenious Manager of Operations – I think it was Ron Lewis – had added an extra line under the total. It was a line where you could declare your expenses as a donation to the Foundation. In other words, you could fill out the report, attach your receipts, and then declare that you didn’t want to be reimbursed. Financially, the effect was the same as a donating money. The line’s presence on the expense form was a small, if not subtle, suggestion of generosity.

Most trips I ignored it.

However, one week I was submitting a small expense – $10 for taxi fare, or something of the sort – and I decided that the Foundation needed the $10 more than I did. I wrote the $10 off as a gift and submitted the report, as much to see what would happen as anything else. After a moment I didn’t think anything of it.

About a week or two later I came to my desk and sitting there was a crisp, clean envelope bearing the eagle and shield of the Sigma Chi Crest. Inside was an equally crisp letter from Boz Prichard, the then-President of the Sigma Chi Foundation. Boz was a curmudgeon through and through, cranky and grumpy and salty. The word among A.E.S.s was that you didn’t try to talk with him until you had both had at least one cup of coffee. He was quite a character. Naturally, we all loved him for it. Getting a note from Boz was a big deal.

His letter was simple. It said, “Thank you for your generous donation to the Sigma Chi Foundation. Your efforts to support your fellow brothers are a tribute to the White Cross of Sigma Chi.”

I figured it was a joke. Good old Boz! I leaned into his office to tease him in return.

“Boz, it was only $10,” I said. “You can’t be serious. Damn, the letterhead alone probably cost you $2! You probably spent more thanking me than I gave you.”

I was surprised to see a thoughtful look on his face.

“What is important, especially for a young man your age, is to make giving, to make kindness towards others, to make these things a habit – to make them part of your normal way of acting and doing,” he said.

“The $10 is meaningful because it is your first step out of your youth. $10 is your first deposit towards being a more selfless person.”

——

I am not thinking about Boz’s words at all, however, as I look over a stack of mail after work. I thumb through a small mass of bills. Everyone wants money. At the end of the pile is a package from our church, St. Monica’s.

My wife had been feeling spiritually wanting and much to her credit sought out and was confirmed in a church. In one six-month period she did more spiritual searching than I have done in over thirty years. My part in the process was to support her by attending Mass and trying to be less cynical about religion.

Our church has a yearly envelope program. You commit in advance to a weekly donation – and they send you a pre-printed envelope that you are supposed to either mail to the church or drop in the basket at Mass. Our envelopes have just arrived, and as I look at them next to phone, gas, cable, and medical bills, I am regretting that I committed us to giving so much money to the church. I look for ways to justify a lower donation. Just for this week.

I turn to my wife. “I wasn’t expecting that we’d still be getting medical bills this far after the baby was born.” I leave that trailing in the air, hoping she’ll pick up on what I’m saying.

She immediately does, and I immediately wish she hadn’t. “I already mailed in our donation to St. Monica’s for the month. We’re covered.” I mumble something about “That’s not what I meant” and flop onto the couch.

The next Sunday we’re at church. During Catholic Mass, as during many religious services, there is a point in time where an offering is made, and church members are asked to participate with their own donation. A religious passing of the hat.

There is a strange and intimate peer pressure in the process. The basket is passed from person to person. Each one tries to avoid looking at the donation made by the person next to them; each tries to avoid judging the other’s donation, or feeling magnanimous about their own. Each tries to politely look away if someone passes the basket without putting any money in.

A man in a suit next to me puts in a check. I can read the amount. It’s $100. He passes it to me with a smile, no hint of judgment on his face. I hand it off to the person next me without putting anything in. I can feel my face turning red, so I turn to the man in the suit and whisper, “We mailed in our offering.” He looks at me oddly.

As we leave, my wife is laughing. She says to me, “Why did you feel like you needed to explain our contribution to the couple next to us?”

I am annoyed with the question. I am annoyed because I don’t have an answer.

——

The word “charity” comes from the Latin word “caritas.” “Caritas” is translated literally as “love.” The King James Bible, translated from Greek versions, uses the word “charity” and “love” essentially interchangeably – for some reason, the original translators used two alternate translations of the same Greek word, “agape.”

In its original definition, charity is love made visible. Simply, the giving of oneself without expecting anything in return.

Over hundreds of years “charity” has picked up other connotations. It has a note of piousness to it: Doing something noble to help those less fortunate. And more subtly, the word has a tinge of superiority in it: Doing something noble to help those unable to help themselves. At its worst, the word is condescending and patronizing: “I don’t need your charity.”

In its superiority, in its piousness, charity for a long while became inaccessible to me. It became something that I relegated to the top shelf of Obligation. I should be help my wife with the dishes. I should call my dad when I say I will. I should give more money to charity. Charity was high on the list of things I thought I “should” do – and thus low on the list of things I thought I could do.

I remember feeling this intently in college. In my senior year I served as Pro Consul. I remember huddling with the other chapter officers at the beginning of the year. We had come back from Leadership Training Workshop and were full of ideas. We were committed to the idea of winning the Peterson Significant Chapter Award. We unstapled the six or seven page application and spread out the pages in front of us.

We began to tick of the things we needed to do to win. Submit Pledge Program. Evidence compliance with the Sigma Chi Alcohol Policy. Complete two service projects each semester.

Charity we added to the list of items we “had” to complete. We engaged in our service projects dutifully, if not enthusiastically; and though we always got something out of participation, the projects were a means to an end. We missed the chance to make each an end in itself.

After college, every graduate starts to make a living, and for me at least, ironically, with a steady paycheck charity became even more inaccessible. It became a series of responses to bulk mail solicitations. How much should I donate to the World Wildlife Fund? Is $30 enough? What if I renew my membership to the local NPR station? Is that charity?

If charity is love, rather than obligation; if charity is action, rather than response; if charity is a pursuit, than maybe there is more to it than a series of donations. Maybe one can be charitable without a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Maybe I had only half-understood what Boz meant. Perhaps he wasn’t telling me that every check, no matter how small, matters. Perhaps he was telling me that the check is the least important part.

——

One of the harshest realities of my job is that there is always demand. What I mean is: There are always people who need help.

You start by trying to learn the statistics. Usually, the numbers are daunting no matter what the issue. This year, 200,000 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer, and over 40,000 will die from this disease. Twenty-one percent of the adult population of the United States (approximately 44 million people) read only at a first grade level. 4.2 million adults and children in South Africa live with HIV/AIDS; it is estimated that half of all young people in South Africa will die of AIDS in the absence of a vaccine. There are approximately 11.6 million children living in poverty in the U.S.

Statistics quickly become incomprehensible, and thus meaningless. What does “44 million people” mean? At a practical level, nothing. The numbers are so big that they have no effect.

So when you raise money you try to personalize things for people. Take children living in poverty. It is useless to talk about the 11.6 million children living in poverty. That number does not move people to action. In fact, some people will think about it and say, “11.6 million – in the scheme of things, that’s not that many, is it?”

Instead, a fundraiser will frame the issue like this: Think of six children you know in your life. Now decide which one of them you would sentence to living in poverty, because in America, on average, one out of six children grows up in poverty. If you had to choose, which of the six children you know would it be?

You have to get people to place their own friends and families in the situation. You have to make it real for them.

It is not always an easy. Consider this: There are 3 million women in America living with breast cancer (1 million of those don’t know it). Half will die within 20 years; about 40,000 people a year. Statistically, 40,000 people a year doesn’t seem to be that many. What’s 40,000 people a year in a country of 250 million people? It is a little over one one hundredth of one percent. It’s nothing.

Except the problem is, that one one hundredth of one percent still represents 40,000 people. Dead.

——

One of the major events my company produces is a three-day, sixty mile walk to benefit breast cancer treatment. We’ll produce thirteen of them around the country in 2002. We create a mobile city that moves with the walkers, and we support them with extensive pit and route support. Walking sixty miles in three days is not easy. It is a huge athletic feat, but for most of our walkers, the physical challenge is not the attraction.

I am reminded of this on a spring Saturday in Dallas, Texas. It is the second day of one of our three-day events. About 2,500 walkers walked 22 miles on Friday, and they have woken facing another 19 miles today. On the second day, the physical price of the first day makes walking much more challenging.

I am standing at the lunch pit stop, about halfway through the route. A woman is in the medical tent, sobbing. She missed the first day of the event, and in her vigor to compensate she has overextended herself. She has mild dehydration and has just been told by my medical crew that she is unfit to continue. She will be transported by ambulance to the camp, where she will be either monitored in our field hospital or, if her condition worsens, transported to a local emergency room. She is heartbroken.

I sit down on the cot next to her. She is wearing a visor that says, “Walking 4-a-breast.” Her face is flushed; her hair is sweaty. Around her neck hangs a picture of a young woman.

“I have to keep walking,” she says. I tell her in the kindest way possible that the decisions of our medical staff are binding and final.

“You don’t understand,” she says. She holds up the picture. “This is my sister. She has breast cancer. She’s the reason I’m here, and the reason I missed yesterday.”

I’m sure I look puzzled. She breaks down in full tears.

“I missed yesterday because yesterday I buried her.”

If every person in America had talked with the woman in that medical tent, we would have a cure for breast cancer in about a week.

——

I am not sure how it all works. I do know that people give to causes that move their souls. I am not sure how to move them.

I am not sure why I write checks to organizations that send me a pre-printed bulk letter, yet I never volunteer at the local YMCA four blocks away from my house.

What I do know is that I have many more opportunities to be charitable than I think. They present themselves at every turn. I can choose to let the person cut in front of me on the freeway; I don’t have to move ahead of them so I can be one car closer to home. I can choose to be polite to my wife, because she probably has had a harder day than I have. I can choose to talk with a homeless person on the street, and give them the money in my wallet. I can choose to believe the person will spend it wisely.

I don’t know why sometimes I choose to do those things, and sometimes I don’t.

——

It is near the end of September. I am holding my two-week old son as I watch television. He was born on September 13, two days after the terrorist attacks. We watched CNN on the 11th while we were in labor. Two weeks later, the world has begun an attempt to return to normal, and with it my son has decided that he finally wants to start sleeping. I’m not going to disturb him for the life of me.

A telethon comes on. It is raising money for the families of the victims killed in the World Trade Center. Maybe you watched it as well.

The phone is next to me. After the first song, I pick it up. My wife is nervous. “How much are you thinking?” I tell her $100. She nods.

The operator answers the phone, thanks me for my call, and asks me how much I would like to donate. I look at the television and think about planes crashing into buildings.

“$250,” I say. My wife looks at me, surprised. The operator sounds grateful, and begins taking my address and credit card information.

I look down at my son. We still have to get a crib, and a car seat. We’ve got a trip to Chicago coming up.

“I need to change my donation,” I say into the phone. “Make it $500.”

I hang up. I turn to my wife. She looks more than a bit concerned. She is trying to figure in her head how much we’ll need to borrow to avoid bouncing our rent check.

I look at my son. He is sleeping unawares. He is perfect. “We’ll make it work,” I say.

——

I am pretty sure that $500 is only numerically five times more than $100. It isn’t five times better morally. It isn’t five times more profound ethically. I am not more likely to have a peaceful afterlife because of $400. I have not earned four extra points on the cosmic scorecard.

Here’s the thing: As far as I can figure out, there isn’t a cosmic scorecard. There’s only a personal one. Ultimately, if this is a game, I am the only one who will know if I cheat.

What I do know that there is a line at which things become slightly difficult. On this side is comfort, on that side is challenge. I know that I feel safer on this side of the line – but better about myself on the far side. The passages across the line are marked with odd signs bearing uncomfortable words: Sacrifice. Selflessness. Kindness. Commitment. Perseverance. Devotion.

To get to the other side, the only prerequisite is movement. You have to start moving.

There is work to be done. There is need. There is injustice. There is inequity. There is a call to action. I decide if I answer the call.

We say, the world expects more of us than of other men. I am learning that that starts with what I expect of myself.

There is work to be done. I have to start moving.

 

Matthew and Meaning

This is one of my first and favorite web posts. It was written at what was obviously an emotional time for the country —  but in addition to the shock of September 11th, we had the joy of the birth of our son Matthew on September 13th. Our emotions were all muddled, like preschoolers muddle paint; bright and bold and dark and murky.

I thought as I publish my first posts, I’d add this one.


Somehow, someway, Matthew turned a week old yesterday. Watching him grow fills me with a sense of disbelief. I am waiting for him take his things and leave one morning, with a wave goodbye and a thank you for the milk and the diapers. I am expecting someone with a clipboard and bad uniform to show up at the door and repossess him. We’ll hand him back with a sheepish apology.

But no one comes to claim him. The astounding nature of the miracle that is a baby starts to sink in, slowly, and over the days I’ve become more willing to admit that he is here to stay. This is our baby.

It’s hard to accept. A sense of self-preservation kicks in when I look at him - “Don’t get too attached. He is fragile, and fragile things have a tough time in this place.”

Or maybe, more accurately, I am the fragile one.

This is the first definition of parenthood I’ve come to learn: An overpowering desire to control your love and hopes coupled with an overpowering inability to do so. I give in to the emotion with the dim suspicion that the other path is the path of the recluse. Not that I have any choice in the matter. He has me by the heart.

The past week has been one of new distractions and tasks - changing diapers, taking baths, watching his mother during feedings. In a week we’ve developed a new routine.

We’ve added other tasks to our routine as well. Scouring the paper in the morning for good news. Conducting seemingly endless vigils with Tom Brokaw. Repeatedly reviewing new bits of information. Connecting with family and friends many times a day to confer about the latest turns of events, conversations that on the surface are about news but at their core are about anxiety. The need to ask “Did you see that?” as a way of saying, “Will you ask me if I saw it?”

Will you ask me if I’m okay?

On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, Jeanie and I were sleeping in the guest bedroom. Guest bedroom is a bit of a misnomer - it is our everything room, with my keyboards and our office and a spare bed that happens to be much harder than our bed and thus much more comfortable to a woman in early stages of labor. My father-in-law woke us up with a phone call. Even in the confusion of early morning that was normal enough - everyone wanting to know how the baby was coming along.

“Turn on the television. They’ve bombed the World Trade Center.”

That was our introduction to the new world.

Like most everyone else, we watched in shock throughout the day. We saw the same stories and the same footage over and over, but couldn’t turn away. We watched in the hope that somehow the footage would end differently. It didn’t.

Midway through the day, Jeanie and I turned to each other with a selfish prayer: “Please God, don’t let our baby be born today.”

 In a day when many prayers were squelched by fire and steel, ours was answered.

The next day, even as we went to the hospital and began labor, we watched the news for reassurance and hope that, sadly, weren’t forthcoming. I will never forget talking with the anesthesiologist about collapsing buildings as Jeanie received her epidural. I will never forget bringing an American flag to the hospital — a nurse came to the room not to inquire after Matthew’s health but to ask “Where did you get the flag? Are there any left?”

Matthew’s birth and the terrorist attacks will forever be linked in my mind, because they are linked in reality. I sit with Matthew on my lap watching MSNBC. I receive emails from friends who thank me for the meaningful news, as if I had some role in its delivery; several people call in tears to say that his birth was the one bright spot in a dark week. I run to the store to buy diapers and notice that all the news magazines have just been released. I buy all of them without thinking.

A week later I am still in shock, still transfixed by both turns of events. It is a feeling of experiencing two shades of the same emotion: Both defy description. How can you explain one life? How can you explain thousands of deaths? I watching him breathing and I watch the towers collapsing and I can’t describe either one. An overpowering desire to control hope coupled with an overpowering inability to do so.

Last night Matthew and I watched the President speak. I look at my baby, illuminated by the glow of late-night television. He opens his eyes and grabs my hand. He is here to stay. He is life; he is renewal; he is purpose.

What has the world become? Is there a way to find meaning in this?

In this moment I understand what our friends have said. In this moment I look into Matthew’s sleepy eyes and I find my answer.

But as I turn my attention back to the speech, I listen to the President’s words and I am struck by a second, more troubling thought:

If we have found our meaning in Matthew, where will Matthew find his meaning?

And I realize my own new purpose, and the new obligation of my generation.

Because this is a question that Matthew is counting on me to answer.