Praise and Encouragement

If you think that praise is due him

Now's the time to slip it to him,

For he cannot read his tombstone

When he's dead.

— Berton Braley

In our last chapter we noted that treating others as equals is a main ingredient in the fine art of friendship. Without that brick in building our house of friendship, the structure will easily fall on hard times. But that same house needs yet another building block — one we too easily forget.

   My friend and colleague and the best-selling author, Dr. James Dobson, tells a powerful story in the opening chapter of his book Hide or Seek that I want to share with you. I guarantee once you read the account of this young man's life, it will be a story you'll never forget!

He began his life with all the classic handicaps and disadvantages. His mother was a powerfully built, dominating woman who found it difficult to love anyone. She had been married three times, and her second husband divorced her because she beat him up regularly. The father of the child I'm describing was her third husband; he died of a heart attack a few months before the child's birth. As a consequence, the mother had to work long hours from his earliest childhood.

She gave him no affection, no love, no discipline, and no training during those early years. She even forbade him to

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call her at work. Other children had little to do with him, so he was alone most of the time. He was absolutely rejected from his earliest childhood. He was ugly and poor and untrained and unlovable. When he was thirteen years old a school psychologist commented that he probably didn't even know the meaning of the word "love." During adolescence, the girls would have nothing to do with him and he fought with the boys.

Despite a high IQ, he failed academically, and finally dropped out during his third year of high school. He thought he might find a new acceptance in the Marine Crops; they reportedly built men, and he wanted to be one. But his problems went with him. The other marines laughed at him and ridiculed him. He fought back, resisted authority, and was court-martialed and thrown out of the Marines with an undesirable discharge. So there he was — a young man in his early twenties — absolutely friendless and shipwrecked. He was small and scrawny in stature. He had an adolescent squeak in his voice. He was balding. He had no talent, no skill, no sense of worthiness. He didn't even have a driver's license. Once again he thought he could run from his problems so he went to live in a foreign country. But he was rejected there too. Nothing had changed. While there, he married a girl who herself had been an illegitimate child and brought her back to America with him. Soon, she began to develop the same contempt for him that everyone else displayed. She bore him two children, but he never enjoyed the status and respect that a father should have. His marriage continued to crumble. His wife demanded more and more things that he could not provide. Instead of being his ally against the bitter world, as he hoped, she became his most vicious opponent. She could outfight him, and she learned to bully him. On one occasion, she locked him in the bathroom as punishment. Finally, she forced him to leave.

He tried to make it on his own, but he was terribly lonely.

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After days of solitude, he went home and literally begged her to take him back. He surrendered all pride. He crawled. He accepted humiliation. He came on her terms. Despite his meager salary, he brought seventy-eight dollars as a gift, asking her to take it and spend it any way she wished. But she laughed at him. She belittled his feeble attempts to supply the family's needs. She ridiculed his failure. She made fun of his sexual impotency in front of a friend who was there. At one point, he fell on his knees and wept bitterly, as the greater darkness of his private nightmare enveloped him.

Finally, in silence, he pleaded no more. No one wanted him. No one had ever wanted him. He was perhaps the most rejected man of our time. His ego lay shattered in fragmented dust! The next day, he was a strangely different man. He arose, went to the garage, and took down a rifle he had hidden there. He carried it with him to his newly acquired job at a book-storage building. And from a window on the third floor of that building, shortly after noon, November 22, 1963, he sent two shells crashing into the head of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.¹

   Each time I read this brutal account of how Lee Harvey Oswald grew up friendless, without love, encouragement, praise, or discipline, a chill races down my spine. I'm reminded we often are guilty of treating people the same way, sometimes those we truly love most. Where we could have loved, we stubbornly withheld affection. When it would have been so easy to respond with a smile and a compliment, we criticized. When we were confronted with a mole hill, we turned it into an emotional Mount Everest. When a single word of encouragement would have won the day, for whatever dark reasons we chose to remain silent.

   In so doing, we probably did not begin the psychic programming of a killer, although there is no guarantee of that.

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We certainly did some killing of our own, because we aimed our rifle of rejection at that person's self-esteem and self-respect. We unloaded our shells; we called in the troops; we dropped the bomb; we won a little war.

   Or did we? During that moment of unkindness part of our friend, our spouse, our colleague, our child died a little inside. However, what we perhaps failed to notice was that we died a little too. This is what happens to us when we fail to remember the seventh powerful principle of the fine art of friendship.

7. Be generous with legitimate praise and encouragement.

The Adventure of Memo Man!

   Some members of my staff call me the "memo man." Others insist I'm hopelessly afflicted with memo madness and have fostered an organization-wide conspiracy that promotes memo mania. I'm told that words like memo machine and management by memo often hang over conversations where my name is mentioned. I cannot deny that the memo is for me what the seven-hundred-page novel is to James Michener.

   I use memos to say a friendly hello, to say thank you, to encourage, to reprimand, to announce, to praise, and to express sincere appreciation. Most of my time at the dictaphone involves asking my secretaries and assistants to "take a memo." When all is said and done, I take all the ribbing about being "Mr. Memo" in the playful spirit in which it is intended.

   On the day of her retirement, Dorothy Haskins, an employee

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of more than ten years, asked me to come down to her office. I did, not knowing what to expect. She reached over and picked up a gigantic book that was so heavy I had to help her lift it. It obviously held considerable value for Dorothy, because the book was beautifully bound. She asked mysteriously, "Well, what do you think this is?"

   I said I didn't have the foggiest idea.

   "Well, then," she went on, "let me show you." To my amazement, she leafed through page after page of every single one of the memos I had written her during her entire ten years at World Vision. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They went on endlessly! At that moment I had to say to myself: So that's what I've been doing with all my time!

   In Dorothy Haskins's case it was encouraging to note that most of the memos were of thanks, a compliment, or a word of encouragement. I don't say that in an attempt to ingratiate myself with you the reader. But I must say this. As I quickly scanned my ten years of dictation to Dorothy, I was truly grateful that God had given me the desire and, hopefully the ability to be an encouragement to others. As I looked over that huge volume I felt good inside.

   In fact, I was so moved by Dorothy's gesture that I could hardly wait to thank her in the manner to which she had become accustomed. Of course, I promptly thanked her with a memo!

The Old Swede Who Knew How to Love

   It was Valentine's Day, 1984. Robert Larson, my friend and colleague who has been of such immeasurable help in researching and writing this book, was shaken awake by the telephone at 4:00 A.M. It was his mother in South San Francisco.

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Choking through her tears, she told Bob a team of paramedics had just arrived in the family living room, and at that very moment they were trying to save his dad's life. The seventy-four-year-old pastor and friend to so many lay pale and motionless on the floor, stricken by a massive heart attack. At 5:00 A.M. another call came. Bob's dad was dead.

   For the next six days, Bob and his family were at Anna Larson's side, comforting, holding, and reminding her that Harry Larson had literally given his heart for the people he loved.

   It had been my privilege to meet Dr. Larson on several occasions. I remember him as that "dear old Swede." He always had a kind word for everyone. He was an encourager and always a strong supporter of the work of World Vision and of missions throughout the world. For forty years he had touched the lives of the people of South San Francisco. For forty years he had loved and cared for them — and for some, in ways they had never known.

   When Bob returned to Los Angeles after the funeral, he told me some of the stories he heard after his dad's death. One man, weeping over the open casket, told Bob last Christmas he and his family had not received their social security checks. There was no money for food, the rent was due, and unpaid medical bills were stacking up. When Harry Larson heard about it, he bought several bags of groceries and took them to the home of his friends. He also gave them a generous check to help them along. He continued this week after week, until they were able to get back on their feet.

   A former bank executive in town, a devout Roman Catholic, took Bob's hand after the service and said, "Your dad and I were so close. We'd meet downtown almost every day.

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He'd asked me what I learned at Mass that morning, and he listened as I told him. Then he'd give me his sermon outlines for the next few Sundays, and I would listen. He was my dear friend. I'll miss him. He always had a good word for me. He was such an encouragement."

   The stories went on and on about this man's friendships. His friendships truly lasted a lifetime, and he enjoyed relationships build on praise and seeing the good in others.

   Why is it often so difficult for us to say an encouraging word to those we love the most? Why do we tend to overlook the obvious good and dwell instead on the negative? What are the reasons for the roadblocks we set up that keep us from truly being a friend to those we love the most? What can we do to change our attitudes and behavior?

   Denis Waitley, in his magnificent book Seeds of Greatness, helps us address our dilemma on two specific fronts. I've found his insights especially helpful in handling conflicts both within my family and among my colleagues. Waitley suggests that "in communicating with others, always treat behavior and performance as being distinctly separate from the personhood or character of the individual you are trying to influence."

   Here are some all-too-truthful communication examples from my own experience. Perhaps you will be able to identify with them!

Bad: "Why do you never meet your deadlines?"

Better: "When the work you're assigned isn't completed on time, it makes it difficult for many others involved in the project. Let's spend some time talking about it, OK?"

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Bad: "How many times have I told you I expect regular field reports from your department?"

Better: "I need more help in knowing what's going on in your department, and I particularly need your input. By the way, I'm getting good feedback on your performance, and I value your contribution."

Bad: "You're not telling me the truth!"

Better: "What you're telling me doesn't match up with what I've heard. Let's check it out together."

   The message? Criticize the performance, praise the performer — a top priority item in learning the art of friendship. Every time I think or speak on the subject of encouragement and praise, a special poem comes to mind. Some people may consider it to be a bit corny. But I like it because its verses capture the essence of what it means to be a friend. Its message asks us to remember a great truth: by denying love and happiness to others we love we are deprived of our own wished-for happiness. Conversely, the more we share, the more we possess. The more we praise and encourage, the greater the blessings that flood our own souls. See if these lines speak to your heart.

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the peace of their self-content;

There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran —

But let me live by the side of the road

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And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears —

Both parts of an infinite plan —

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead

And mountains of wearisome height;

And the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by —

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish — so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat

Or hurl the cynic's ban? —

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.²

   — "The House by the Side of the Road"

   by Sam Walter Foss

   What better time than now and what better person than you to begin to become this kind of man or woman? Let your friendship be genuine, your praise sincere, and your encouragement generous to all you meet. Those whom you touch with a word of kindness or deed of mercy — especially your children — will long remember you, and they will thank you for being a friend.

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   All of us who are parents have learned, more often than not the hard way, how much more is accomplished when we praise our children rather than constantly criticize them. Our three children, now each happily married to wonderful mates and each with their own families, were adopted as infants by Dorothy and me. We told them from their earliest childhood that we had selected them to join our family; they were our choice. Often, as little ones, we would hear them tell their playmates, "My Mom and Dad chose us: yours had to take you." We would always tell them how grateful we were for the delight and joy they were bringing to our lives and how proud we were of them. This closeness, praise, and appreciation have knit our family in a special way.

   The three of them as adults have remained the closest of friends as well as brothers and sisters in Christ. It is also a source of great joy to Dorothy and me that they are our friends as adults as well as our sons and daughter.

   Praising your child or grandchild costs you nothing, but what rich dividends it pays you in cementing relationships that endure the stress and difficulties of the years. Whether this encouragement is given to your children, your spouse, your neighbors, or the clerk at the local store, praise and encouragement will ultimately win the day. That is why spoken appreciation is so important in learning the art of friendship. Think about it! Do it!

Chapter 8  ||  Table of Contents