This Will Change the Way You View Your Relationships with Family, Friends, and Work.

In our lives, and my life too, there are certain events, conversations, or literature that change the way we think forever.  I want to share one of those moments I experienced with you. 

I have always thought of myself—in the past—as being very empathetic; however, that might have been like most prisoners  who think they are innocent, or people who do bad things think they are good people; I often hear a person say, “I’m a good person.” Even when his/her behavior makes it clear s/he is not.

Empathy is a quality I felt made me a good salesperson and sales manager.  I thought I could always put myself into the shoes of the customer or the salesperson and view things from his/her viewpoints.  This is an excellent characteristic to have when dealing with people.  However, I found out, I wasn’t as empathetic as I thought.

Then, I was reading a book by Dale Carnegie.  It had the funny title, How to Win Friends & Influence People.  Clearly the title is not in the language of today.  However, it is a very relevant book for how to deal with people—even today.  In it was a moving letter by W. Livingston Larned.

 It changed the way I viewed myself and the way I viewed other people.  Even though I thought I was empathetic, I still measured or judged people as if they were like me, and they knew the things I knew, or didn’t know the things I didn’t know. 

Here is the letter as printed in Carnegie’s book.

Father Forgets

W. Livingston Larned 

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone.  Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me.  Guiltily I came to your bedside. 

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you.  I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel.  I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor. 

At breakfast, I found fault, too.  You spilled the things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!”  And I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!” 

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon.  As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees playing marbles.  There were holes in your stockings, I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive—and if you had to buy them you would be more careful!  Imagine that, son, from a father! 

Do you remember, later, I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in you eyes?  When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruptions, you hesitated at the door.  “What is it you want?” I snapped. 

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither.  And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs. 

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me.  What has habit been doing to me?  The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding—this was my reward to you for being a boy.  It was not that I did not love you: it was that I expected too much of youth.  I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years. 

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character.  The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills.  This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night.  Nothing else matters tonight, son.  I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement: I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours.  But tomorrow I will be a real daddy!  I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh.  I will bite my tongue when impatient words come.  I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy—a little boy!

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man.  Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot.  I see that you are still a baby.  Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder.  I have asked too much, too much.

I found this letter so profound that it changed me instantly.  I feel I am now a better teacher, friend, son, and brother.  If I was still in sales, I am sure I would be a much better salesperson or sales manager too. 

Many of you already have this insight or have already read this letter; however, I thought it would be good reading and might change several lives of people who were just like me—thinking we were somebody we were not.  Also, maybe this letter will reach others just like me who never read this famous letter before. I am sure this read was worth your time.

Rod Mattson

www.MattsonCommunication.com