The bell curve

Math hates me.

I don’t necessarily hate math, but it comes about as naturally to me as hitting my toe with a sledgehammer.

The first B I ever got was in math in 3^rd grade. Long division. THAT’S where it started. And unfortunately, it was all downhill from there.

I wrestled through middle school and high school maths, my only success coming from trigonometry, which is basically math with WORDS (sin, cosin, tan).

I got to Samford, declared my major as journalism and was given some wonderful news: I was only required to take one math class in my entire undergrad career. So sophomore year, I walked into my statistics class.

It was a massacre for my grades. On one test I got a 27. As in 27%. (Honestly, I have no idea how I got THAT many right.) But I could NOT fail. The idea of retaking the class made the sledgehammer sound like a pretty good option.

I did all the extra credit I could. I went to her house for a showing of the old Jimmy Stewart/Jane Wyman movie, Magic Town. Everyone from both of her classes was invited. I showed up with two of my younger sorority sisters (who didn’t NEED the extra credit) and guess what: We were the only ones who showed up.

My professor’s little girls had made all these snacks in preparation for a houseful of guests. I ate everything they brought me, chatted with them about their school, let them show me their rooms, enjoyed the movie with my professor and sisters and went back to business as usual.

The final was a disaster. I remember calling my mom crying afterward, knowing for sure that I failed the final AND the class. I finished out the rest of my finals and went home for Christmas. A couple weeks later, my report card showed up in the mail.

I tore open the envelope and there it was: The most beautiful C- I have ever seen. I passed. It was a Christmas miracle.

Actually, I know for a FACT it was a Christmas GIFT, straight from my professor. The points I lost in my score were made up by the brownie points I made by going to her house and playing with her kids. (This was a life lesson that would prove more useful than any standard deviation.)

There is one thing I remember from the class and that’s the bell curve. The early adopters, the latecomers and the majority in the middle.

For the most part, I would say I’m one of the mob in the middle, maybe even a latecomer. I rarely find myself on the cutting edge. I’m never the first to discover a great new band, new movie, etc. I have an iPhone 5s that I like just fine, thank you.

I count on those early adopters to scope out the new stuff and pass on their recommendations.

Brad and I flew up to Minnesota several weekends ago. Brad had some business to do and I invited myself along, just so I could check Minnesota off my list of states that I’ve seen. When we left Orlando, it was 85. We landed in Minneapolis and it was 15. Good. Grief.

While Brad was taking care of business Friday afternoon, I was googling ice fishing excursions. I found a guide who had one icehouse open for the next day about two hours north of Minneapolis. We met up with him at a gas station and followed him to the frozen lake.

He stopped at the gate, got out to tell us the plan, “Okay, when we drive out on the lake, stay about 100 yards behind me. Go ahead and I’ll shut the gate then come out and get in front of you.” He turned and walked back to his SUV. Brad and I looked at each other in horror.

“We’re going to DRIVE on the LAKE?!” I squeaked at Brad. I assumed we’d park next to it and then walk to wherever we’d be fishing. He said, “You need to video this.”

So there we were, two freezing Floridians exercising every bit of faith we had, praying this wasn’t some kind of sick Minnesota prank that was played on those of us who didn’t know better.

We had a great time fishing. One of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences for a Florida girl. The guide came by our icehouse and checked on us later that afternoon.

Brad asked about the thickness of the ice and how he knew when it was okay to drive on. He gave us a wry grin, “Well,” he began in his thick Minnesota accent, “I’m never the first one out on the ice. And I’m never the last one.” We laughed.

And to be sure being in the middle is generally the safest place to be. Buffered by the firsts and the lasts, we are well protected in the middle. Watch any circle-of-life nature show and it’ll take you about 30 seconds to realize that you want to be in the middle of the herd, not around the outside and CERTAINLY not last.

But SOMEbody has to go first.

Last night was the REBUILD Globally’s annual fundraiser, Runway to Haiti. It’s a big deal out at the country club. Silent auction, deux mains boutique, fashion show. Incredible stories of Port au Prince residents whose lives have been changed by jobs and education provided by this organization.

I swung by the office earlier this week to drop off some items for the silent auction and Chick-fil-A milkshakes for morale. Julie gave me a sneak peak of the video they had just finished and I was freshly moved by the lives being changed.

I gave her a big hug and told her how proud I was of her. And like any true leader, she deflected, “It’s my team. It’s all of us.”

“Yes, but somebody had to go first.” I reminded her that everything happening now was because of her vision and I marveled at the fact that so much change can begin with just one person.

Julie showed up in Haiti to do disaster relief following the 2010 earthquake, which is mind boggling in and of itself. That trip set into motion a God-given vision for the long-term, dignified assistance to a struggling nation as opposed to the typical bandaids over bullet holes.

Eight years later, she has a bustling office for her staff in Orlando and supporters all over the world. There are now two workshops in Haiti, kids going to school with food in their tummies, parents with providing for them with real jobs, former refugees now living in houses instead of tents in a village complete with a school and a church.

Lives are changing. Many have already changed. One person set in motion a new direction for a people who only ever had one option for their lives: desperate poverty.

I was watching a Marie Forleo video earlier this week (how could you not love her?). She was interviewing Adam Braun, founder of Pencils of Promise. The title of the segment was ‘How to Change the World and Live Your Purpose.’

Um… yes, please.

Adam was a 20-something adventurer who barely survived a shipwreck in college. His selfish college years were hijacked by ‘signs’ and ‘the Universe,’ a.k.a. GOD. Yes, there was a plan and a purpose for his life, just like ours. Nothing like staring death in the face to change the trajectory of your life.

And because he listened, his changed life exponentially resulted in changed lives all over the world. When he started, it was just him and $25.

When Julie started, it was just her in a tent, in the blistering heat, sleeping with an Exacto knife to fight off any potential attackers in the midst of one of the greatest humanitarian crises in history.

Just one. One person. God showed her a vision and she said yes.

God showed Adam a vision (even though he may not have KNOWN it was God) and he said yes.

No excuses. No “It’s just me. What difference could I make?” No “I don’t have any money.” No “This doesn’t fit with my ten-year plan.”

Somebody has to be first out on the ice.
Somebody has to be the first person to say yes.
Somebody has to be out in front of the bell curve.

Last night was a gorgeous evening, surrounded by gorgeous people and gorgeous products. Champagne, Country Club, the best of the best.

When I was trying to fall asleep later that night, in my comfy bed, in my roomy house , on my safe street, with more than I could ever want all around me, I was haunted by the faces on the video.

They reminded me of the faces I saw a year ago, live and in person. And I wept.

Beautiful smiles. Eyes weary from fighting to stay alive. Fighting so long and so hard. Born into poverty in a country with corrupt government that is in no hurry to see its people thriving.

I wondered aloud to Brad how Julie lives out there on the edge, how she repeatedly exposes her tender heart, her busy hands and her fearless mind to these images, this life again and again and again.

She went first, in every sense of the word. And she’s still going first.

I envy her courage and wish I had what it took to live out in front like that. I’m workin’ on it. But until I get there, my job is to stand as close to her as possible, follow her lead, putting a foot in each track that she leaves, supporting, encouraging, cheering her on.

And every time she reaches back for me, I’ll reach forward, grasp her hand and let her drag me up to the front lines with her.

Somebody has to go first. Sometimes it will be us. Sometimes it won’t. And if we don’t live out on that edge, we must discipline ourselves to go fight on the front lines every chance we get.

Time to start looking at flights back to Haiti.