Have you been as confused as I have about what “loving God” means? If God were a puppy, I’d get it. Who doesn’t love puppies?! Or if God were an ice cream cone. Seriously! Who doesn’t LOVE ice cream cones?! But God, for the longest time, seemed more like a puff of smoke to me. (quick aside — I hear him laughing — not kidding!). I mean, how do you love a puff of smoke? Unless, of course, it’s got that familiar sweet scent! haha But even then, it doesn’t last. Here one moment, gone the next. And that’s exactly how I felt about my invisible, ethereal God. I just couldn’t catch him and hang on to him, let alone love him. Or her.

Fortunately, Swedenborg learned something about this and shared it in his book, “Heaven and Hell,” referring to “God” as “the Lord,” as was his custom.

“There are two quite distinguishable loves in heaven — love for the Lord and love for our neighbor. Love for the Lord is characteristic of the third or central heaven, while love for our neighbor is characteristic of the second or intermediate heaven. Both come from the Lord, and each one makes a heaven.

In heaven’s light, it is easy to see how these two loves differ and how they unite, but this can be seen only dimly in our world. In heaven, “loving the Lord” does not mean loving him for the image he projects but loving the good that comes from him. Loving the good is intending and doing it from love. Further, “loving one’s neighbor” does not mean loving companions for the images they project but loving the truth that comes from the Word. Loving the truth is intending and doing it.”

Heaven and Hell §15

There’s plenty we could unpack here, but let’s focus on this one thought.

“…”loving the Lord” does not mean loving him for the image he projects but loving the good that comes from him. Loving the good is intending and doing it from love.”

Let’s take these assertions in order.

“…“loving the Lord” does not mean loving him for the image he projects…”

It appears that Swedenborg was shown something I could relate to in my quest to grasp the God “thing” — what I had strived to 1) imagine, 2) relate to, and then 3) love. His word choice, “image,” is key. What image of God was I trying to see in my mind? What image had I been conditioned to see that was supposed to move me emotionally? My image conditioning was mostly positive, but there are many who are conditioned to see the vengeful, angry, punishing God of the Old Testament.

Staying with a human form for simplicity, what appeals to you aesthetically? A handsome, viral, “man” God? Perhaps Charlton Heston! It worked for Hollywood Moses. Or perhaps a strong, gorgeous, and feminine, “woman” God? Maybe Beyonce? Take your pick. Any image that evokes warm, fuzzy love feelings. Going down this path is like walking versions of God down a runway at a fashion show until one appeals to our senses enough to fall in love and buy the outfit.

This seems to be Swedenborg’s point. Sensory appeal has nothing to do with “loving the Lord.” So he goes on to say what it does mean.

“…“loving the Lord” [means] …loving the good that comes from him.”

There it is. The image, meaning “God the object,” is not the point. Even the “person” of God, or perhaps more clearly, the “personification of God,” is not the point. What is the point is what flows from God (the Lord) which is good, and only good, and only can be good.

So loving God, loving the Lord, is loving the good that comes from him, which is ALL that comes from him, and which must be good. If it isn’t good, and doesn’t come from love, it’s not from God. Swedenborg drives this home with this punctuating statement.

“…Loving the good is intending and doing it from love.”

Since Swedenborg equates this with loving God, he’s clearly saying that loving God requires active engagement in two areas.

“…Loving the good is intending it from love,

intending to do good from love (intention from the heart)

AND THEN

actually doing that good from love (action from the heart)

We aren’t instructed to love God the way we love a puppy. We’re instructed to love God by loving others the way God loves. Fully. With our true intentions flowing from our heart from love. With actions that come forth, flowing from the heart from love. To be willing to allow that good to flow into and through us. When that happens, we are loving God.

That, according to Swedenborg, is what it means to “Love God.”

If you’d like to take a deeper dive, here’s the OffTheLeftEye episode that inspired this post.

You can also download the referenced text from Heaven and Hell here without cost.

What Does it Mean to “Love God”? was originally published in Exploring Swedenborg on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When I fired up Google on the morning of February 1st, 2020, I was greeted by this Google Doodle. Karen Collins’ diorama, from her African American Miniature Museum, kicked off Black History Month. It depicts the “Greensboro Four,” four black college freshmen who decided to stage a sit-in at a then-segregated Woolworth’s lunch counter 60 years ago on this date.

These four young men knew a truth known to millions. Segregation, and the attitudes and beliefs that fuel it, simply aren’t right, and it had to change. What was different for these four young men is that they spoke their truth through the action they took. They were willing to “speak up,” despite their fear of repercussions. This CNN article explains that more than 300 students joined this protest within three days, causing a wave of similar protests across the South while catalyzing anti-segregation demonstrations throughout the United States.

The notion that buried truth fuels discontent and leads to really bad decisions and outcomes is as old as recorded history. It has catalyzed revolts and overturned kingdoms for millenia. But this isn’t just a cultural phenomenon. It has also taken down modern businesses and organizations just as dramatically. Some are due to nefarious activity. But more often, it’s because it’s simply not safe for those who see the truth to speak it. History is filled with stories of companies that failed altogether, or suffered mightily at the hands of competitors, because the warnings employees could have sounded were muted. By what? By fear. Fear of retribution. Fear of financial consequences. Fear of tarnished reputations. When an individual’s position, power, or income is tied to the status quo, the last thing they want to do is deliver or hear news that could jeopardize it, no matter how dire a possible future may be. The present rules. Until the present comes down like a ton of bricks and your world crumbles overnight.

Pull out your phone. Take a picture. Any picture. Do you know who invented the first digital camera that made that possible? His name is Steve Sasson. His company? Kodak Corporation. It was 1975. Sasson, in this New York Times article, characterized the initial corporate response to his invention this way:

“But it was filmless photography, so management’s reaction was, ‘that’s cute — but don’t tell anyone about it.’”

This same article chronicles the next 32 years:

In 1981, six years after its invention and with the support of his CEO, Vince Barabba, Kodak’s head of market intelligence, conducted an extensive research project comparing technologies and adoption curves for silver halide film versus digital photography. TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER, in 2007, a Kodak marketing video trumpeted that,

“Kodak is back”

and that Kodak

“wasn’t going to play grab ass anymore with digital.”

Five years later, Kodak declared bankruptcy after a 124-year run, dominating its markets for a century.

So why is that? What really happened here? Business school gurus will point to mismanagement and poor decision making. And this may be true. But I’m going to play with the possibility of a root cause that goes much deeper and is much more insidious.

How many lost opportunities do you think Kodak had to hear the truth and act on it? This isn’t ancient history, and it didn’t transpire over the course of a few months or even years. This failure was 32 years in the making. So what do you think was going on year-after- year? Quarter-to-quarter? Week-in and week-out? Day-to-day? Hour-to-hour?

We can’t know for sure, although there may be those who lived it and could shed some more light. Maybe they’ll find this article and comment. That’d be great! Absent that, I’m going to take a leap and ponder some questions to illuminate my suspicions.

• How many Kodak employees, do you think, purchased digital cameras over the two decades from 1989, when Fujifilm introduced the first commercially available, fully digital camera, to 2007, when Kodak declared it “wasn’t going to play grab ass anymore…with digital.”?
• The first phone camera was introduced in Japan in 1999. By 2002, Nokia and Sanyo made the first versions publically available. How many Kodak executives and employees do you think purchased smartphones with cameras during the ten years they marched toward bankruptcy?
• In 1975, the year Kodak invented the digital camera, Kodak’s reported U.S. market share for film sales was 90% and camera sales was 85%. By 1988 they employed 145,000 workers worldwide. They were a money machine. Current sales paid everyone and, I’d imagine, generated bonuses large enough to buy small islands. How aligned do you think Kodak’s compensation, promotion, and retention practices were with the long-term viability of the company?
• Given what ultimately happened, how likely is it that Kodak’s employees felt empowered and safe to truly voice their concerns along the way if it flew in the face of quarterly earnings and short term stock performance? They, like everyone else in the modern world, were swimming in digital camera technology and markets. They literally held it in their hands every day.

There is no comparison in magnitude or meaning to what the “Greensboro Four” did versus any corporate truth telling, no matter its impact. But the underlying dynamic is the same. The truth will come out. It always does. But we have a choice about how it shows up. We can suppress it until it comes out in a crisis. Or we can invite it, and the inconvenient discomfort it creates, to inform us of changes that need to be made to avoid the crisis in the first place.

If you’re in an organization where it’s safe to speak your respectful truth, that’s a great start. There’s a chance that actions will align with truth to make your organization strong over the long term. If truth telling is risky where you are, and you’re in a leadership position, I implore you to take steps in that direction and don’t stop until safe truth-telling is at the core of your culture. Organizations that don’t welcome the truth are destined to suffer at its hand.

It’s not a matter of if.

It’s a matter of when.

Creator of the Agile Strategic Framework™ Model for Higher Purpose-Driven Organizations

February 24, 2019
Sunday evening…

I fell asleep on my couch in my Long Beach condo, listening to this randomly suggested YouTube video. I love Anthony Chene’s productions, each with one topic and a featured guest. Anthony stays in the background, unseen and unheard, posing questions as text on the screen.

There was something hauntingly familiar about the guest’s voice, but I couldn’t place him. I was out in a few minutes and woke hours later, long after it ended. It was one of those nights. I felt restless and alone, feeling stalled in the face of so much change and uncertainty. I dragged myself to bed and tossed and turned. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I returned to the couch for the second time.

Earlier that day…

I had attended the second of six weekly classes. Two, actually, back-to-back — Swedenborg 101 and Dream Interpretation. The group sat in a circle to learn and share while absorbing a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. Our leader was a very interesting minister, David Brown, at the Wayfarers Chapel, here in Rancho Palos Verdes, California. Designed as a memorial to Emanuel Swedenborg by Lloyd Wright, son of the famous Frank Lloyd Wright, this intimate, welcoming structure is centered on a small campus that overlooks Catalina Island from a stunning perch. Seriously, this is how to go to church!

I make friends easily, especially around shared interests like these classes. Four of us connected more deeply this second week and engaged in conversation after the class. The topic turned to life issues that touch on forgiveness. One friend in particular had a need to extend forgiveness for the sake of her own health and well being. I totally get it. So I suggested a resource and promised her, and the other members of our small impromptu group, that I would email them later with a link to a forgiveness meditation I found helpful.

I meditate regularly, but rarely use guided meditations. This one, from The Monroe Institute, is a notable exception. It’s called, simply enough, 26 Minutes of Forgiveness.

There was a time, a few years ago, when I listened and engaged with this meditation to keep my sanity. It was a very rough time, filled with betrayal and pain. It was immensely helpful then, but I hadn’t returned to it for at least a year.

Back to my couch later that evening…

Before I settled into this randomly selected Chene video, I emailed these meditation links to my new friends. Promise kept, I hit “play” and promptly fell asleep, but not before noticing that there was something hauntingly familiar about the guest’s voice, although I couldn’t place him. I was out in a few minutes and woke hours after it ended.

It was one of those nights. I felt restless and alone, feeling stalled in the face of so much change and uncertainty. I dragged myself to bed and tossed and turned. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I returned to the couch for a second round.

This time, the Forgiveness Meditation I emailed earlier popped in my head. I thought it might settle my mind. I went to the link on my laptop, settled back comfortably in the dark, clicked the play button, and closed my eyes. The familiar, soothing music washed over me and filled me with a familiar calm warmth that sparked a deep, involuntary breath. Its slow release invited me to sink into the cushion like a baby laid gently on a pillow. Finally, the meditation guide’s voice quietly peeked through this music veil to lead me on my forgiveness journey. But this time his tone, so familiar, didn’t pull me in. It woke me up! My eyes popped open and I startled to full consciousness, sitting straight up, wide-eyed awake!

That’s the voice! The same voice in the Chene video!

I checked the name on the meditation — Peter Russell.

Then the video — Peter Russell!

Coincidence? I suck at believing in mere coincidence.

My guides in spirit brought Peter Russell back to me when I needed him most. And they lovingly orchestrated this comforting confirmation of their presence in my life and concern for my well being. I will honor this truth by adding this story to my “Collecting Evidence” series and taking their suggestion. See you in 26 minutes!

Prelude

“A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”

— George Bernard Shaw

Truth be told, I had to muster my courage to publish this. I spent months wondering if anyone would “get” this in a business context, if it would be helpful. When I stumbled on this quote, I got my answer. Mistake or not, and I’ve made plenty, there’s still the possibility it could be useful to someone. So I danced with my fear, got out of my own way, and sent this into the wild with my intent to leave someone, anyone, a little better than I found them.

The beauty of life is that it boils down to one simple truth. Whether we know it or not, acknowledge it or not, feel it or not, we are bound to one another by love. It’s where we come from and ultimately go to. It’s our very essence. It grounds us. It gives us life.

Love binds us at birth with unimaginable joy.
I’ve held all four of our grandchildren shortly after their birth. There are no words for this experience. It is pure love, pure bliss. It’s the same overwhelming bond I experienced with our three children — witnessing their first breath, watching in awe as they filled their lungs and poured their love into my heart with their first cry.

Love binds us at death through inconsolable grief.
My wife and I have buried all four of our parents. The last was my dear mother. We watched her peacefully take her last breath in my childhood home, in the same living room where I’d play for hours, lost in time and imagination with my Lionel trains around a Christmas Tree dripping with silver tinsel. We waited for the inevitable last beat of her heart as it slowed and weakened until we could no longer hear or feel it. Like the births we’ve experienced, her death was breathtaking. Greeting a new soul, and parting with another, is the same love experience. Bliss and grief are connected to the same truth, bound by the same love.

But in-between. Ahhhh in-between. In-between, we get very, very busy, caught up in life’s work and challenges, all of its busy-ness. Linda Ellis poetically refers to this time as “The Dash” — the dash on our tombstone between the dates of our birth and death. Caught up in our “Dash,” we often forget this love that binds us. A love so evident at life’s endpoints. A love that literally gives us life and sustains us.

Too strong? Imagine a world entirely devoid of love. Remove it. All of it. Mothers don’t love their babies. Fathers don’t love their wives or children. Children don’t love their parents. What drives us now? What does this world look like? How long would we last without the sustaining power of love?

We spend the bulk of our waking hours working, yet we dismiss love from our work lives. Even mentioning the word in a work setting makes people uncomfortable. But imagine the extreme — a workplace where everyone is focused purely on self, with no love, no true caring for co-workers, clients or customers, no genuine compassion for anyone. What does this look like? Apathetic? Disengaged? Cut-throat? All out war? How does this make you feel? How do you imagine clients and customers feel? While large scale environments this extreme are reserved for wars, they do, unfortunately, also exist in microcosm workplace skirmishes. I’ve witnessed them. I’ve been in them. The influence of even one person lacking love, particularly in a leadership position, can cast a long shadow over an entire organization. Or a country. History is replete with examples.

I led a retreat a few years ago for the “rising stars” of a large company whose senior executives I was coaching. I was engaged to help these geographically and functionally diverse executives and leaders come together in the spirit of their common cause. The problem was that the organization was stretched to the limit, and factions were competing for resources. A startup just a few years earlier, they had gone public and grown rapidly. The founder’s entrepreneurial spirit was now competing with the energy required to fuel their earnings per share. It was a divisive pressure cooker. My role was to create a safe space where everyone could speak their truth. There can be no lasting change without first knowing the truth. And you can’t know the truth without a safe space to speak it.

“I’m treated like a machine…
It feels horrible.”

I opened up that space on the first day. The leader of a key technical support group spoke up. She exposed her distress, sharing her heart with the group.

“I’m treated like a machine. People make demands in email like they’re putting money in a vending machine. We’re overwhelmed. We’ve been working seven days a week for months to meet our deadlines. Everyone here is doing the same. But no one seems to care about the people who are on the receiving end of their demands. It feels horrible.”

As her voice trailed off, a young executive on the other side of the room slowly stood up and turned to her. His office, several hundred miles from hers, made use of her group’s services.

“I am so sorry, Maddie (not her real name). I’m guilty. I had no idea how I was making you feel. I will never do that to you again.”

He saw her, perhaps for the first time, as the person she was, not a machine into which he places work orders and awaits results. You can call his response many things. Empathy. Caring. Concern. Even guilt. But at its core, it is one thing — love. His was a love response. In that moment, he felt her pain and regretted causing it. In that moment, he loved her more than he loved getting his results from her.

If that sounds awkward, if you want to run from my use of the word “love” here, you have felt my point. Love is at the core of our being human, our essence, at home and at work. We aren’t “sometimes” human. If allowed, love will connect us powerfully to our co-workers, clients and customers. Changing our understanding and relationship to the word is a necessary step to changing the dynamics of the environment where we spend the majority of waking hours — our workplace. And in these days of working more and more from home, it is even more crucial as our workplace melds with our homespace.

So there you have it. My hope for love in the workplace. A love that rules how we treat each other. How we speak to one another. A love that guides our decisions and directs our actions. A love that spans our “Dash,” beginning to end, at home and at work.

Delusional? Perhaps. But all hope is delusional until it comes to pass. Then, it’s visionary. The only thing standing between delusion and vision is choice. Your choice and mine. I choose love. I invite you to join me and invite others.

“…whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.”

― Vincent Van Gogh

My Delusional Hope for Love in the Workplace was originally published in Be Yourself Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I fired up Google this morning, the 1st of February 2020, and was greeted by this image. It depicts the “Greensboro Four,” four black college freshmen who decided to stage a sit-in at a then-segregated Woolworth’s lunch counter 60 years ago on this date.

These four young men knew a truth known to millions. Segregation, and the attitudes and beliefs that fueled it, simply weren’t right and it had to change. What was different for these four young men is that they spoke their truth through the action they took. They were willing to “speak up,” despite their fear of repercussions. This CNN article explains that more than 300 students joined this protest within three days, causing a wave of similar protests across the South while catalyzing anti-segregation demonstrations throughout the United States.

The notion that buried truth fuels discontent and leads to really bad decisions and outcomes is as old as recorded history. It has catalyzed revolts and overturned kingdoms for millenia. But this isn’t just a cultural phenomenon. It has also taken down modern businesses and organizations just as dramatically. Some are due to nefarious activity. But more often, it’s because it’s simply not safe for those who see the truth to speak it. History is filled with stories of companies that failed altogether, or suffered mightily at the hands of competitors, because the warnings employees could have sounded were muted. By what? By fear. Fear of retribution. Fear of financial consequences. Fear of tarnished reputations. When an individual’s position, power, or income is tied to the status quo, the last thing they want to do is deliver or hear news that could jeopardize it, no matter how dire a possible future may be. The present rules. Until the present comes down like a ton of bricks and your world crumbles overnight.

Pull out your phone. Take a picture. Any picture. Do you know who invented the first digital camera that made that possible? His name is Steve Sasson. His company? Kodak Corporation. It was 1975. Sasson, in this New York Times article, characterized the initial corporate response to his invention this way:

“But it was filmless photography, so management’s reaction was, ‘that’s cute — but don’t tell anyone about it.’”

This same article chronicles the next 32 years

In 1981, six years after its invention and with the support of his CEO, Vince Barabba, Kodak’s head of market intelligence, conducted an extensive research project comparing technologies and adoption curves for silver halide film versus digital photography. TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER, in 2007, a Kodak marketing video trumpeted that,

“Kodak is back” and that Kodak “wasn’t going to play grab ass anymore” with digital.”

Five years later, Kodak declared bankruptcy after a 124-year run, dominating its markets for a century.

So why is that? What really happened here? Business school gurus will point to mismanagement and poor decision making. And this may all be true. But I’m going to play with the possibility of a root cause that goes much deeper and is much more insidious.

How many lost opportunities do you think Kodak had to hear the truth and act on it? This isn’t ancient history, and it didn’t transpire over the course of a few months or even years. This failure was 32 years in the making. So what do you think was going on year-after- year? Quarter-to-quarter? Week-in and week-out? Day-to-day? Hour-by-hour?

We can’t know for sure, although there may be those who lived it and could shed some more light. Maybe they’ll find this article and comment. That’d be great! Absent that, I’m going to take a leap and ponder some questions to illuminate my suspicions.

• How many Kodak employees, do you think, purchased digital cameras over the two decades from 1989, when Fujifilm introduced the first commercially available, fully digital camera, to 2007, when Kodak declared it “wasn’t going to play grab ass anymore…with digital.”?
• The first phone camera was introduced in Japan in 1999. By 2002, Nokia and Sanyo made the first versions publically available. How many Kodak executives and employees do you think purchased smartphones with cameras during the ten years they marched toward bankruptcy?
• In 1975, the year Kodak invented the digital camera, Kodak’s reported U.S. market share for film sales was 90% and camera sales was 85%. By 1988 they employed 145,000 workers worldwide. They were a money machine. Current sales paid everyone and, I’d imagine, generated bonuses large enough to buy small islands. How aligned do you think Kodak’s compensation, promotion, and retention practices were with the long-term viability of the company?
• Given what ultimately happened, how likely is it that Kodak’s employees felt empowered and safe to truly voice their concerns along the way if it flew in the face of quarterly earnings and short term stock performance? They, like everyone else in the modern world, were swimming in digital camera technology and markets. They literally held it in their hands every day.

There is no comparison in magnitude or meaning to what the “Greensboro Four” did versus any corporate truth telling, no matter its impact. But the underlying dynamic is the same. The truth will come out. It always does. But we have a choice about how it shows up. We can suppress it until it comes out in a crisis. Or we can invite it, and the inconvenient discomfort it creates, to inform us of changes that need to be made to avoid the crisis in the first place.

If you’re in an organization where it’s safe to speak your respectful truth, that’s a great start. There’s a chance that actions will align with truth to make your organization strong over the long term. If truth telling is risky where you are, and you’re in a leadership position to help move in this direction, I implore you to take steps in that direction and don’t stop until safe truth-telling is at the core of your culture. If there is no hope for truth-telling in your organization, move on. And don’t waste time making that change. Organizations that don’t welcome the truth are destined to suffer at its hand. It’s not a matter of if. It’s only a matter of when.

Yo Maties!! Avast Ye!
And you landlubbers… Listen up! And listen good!

This lass not be takin’ any crap, from settin’ sail to makin’ landfall.
No prey. No pay.

So let’s get to it. They’ll be plenty o’ grog to go round.

ahhh yeah…
…wet me pipe…

Weigh anchor!
Booty awaits!

Capn Zelly Sets Sail was originally published in Be Yourself Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This is what unconditional, infinite love looks like.

This is what the deepest exchange between souls looks like.

This is what peering into a lifetime looks like.

Gma and Jack were locked in this extraordinary exchange for a half hour.

I imagined her sharing special moments and events from the 33,367 days that separate the beginning of her earthly journey and his.

I imagined she was also bringing another “Jack” into this conversation. The love of her life, long ago. One who passed too soon, leaving their family in her care. I imagined him joining this union. Holding his gaze with hers. Intermingling his stories and love.

I imagined Gma traveling to her past to imbue baby Jack with a deep knowledge of the Yamashiro heritage. I imagined the most extraordinary download of family history and rich life experiences through the generations.

I imagined baby Jack taking it all in. Every morsel. Enchanted.

I imagined…

…or did I?

Daily, we move through so much more than our physical senses can perceive.

What woke me at 1:00AM and compelled me to write this?

I can viscerally feel that it is the same force, the same energy, the same Love that joined Gma’s soul, and likely many others, in silent communion with Jack. The same force that forever breathes Love and Life into all of us, every one, from the moment of our creation.

Some may say, “Yes, Carl, you imagined this.”
But my soul feels otherwise.

Those precious moments have a purpose beyond a touching encounter. Beyond words. Beyond conscious thought. Agnes had something to convey. And Jack was tuned to receive.

Flow. My soul felt it then. My soul feels it now.

Imagination? I think not.
But if it is, I’m eternally grateful for a rich one.

Peering into a Lifetime was originally published in Be Yourself Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This topic is of particular interest to me because I don’t have a name. Well, I do have a name. Actually, I have several names. It’s confusing. My name got off to a weird start and it’s gotten even weirder. Allow me a moment to vent.

I was born John Carlton Godlove, II. A third child, and first son. My seven-year-old sister called me “Brother” from birth because, well, I was her brother! It made sense to her, and was pretty descriptive, so it stuck. My entire family and old neighborhood friends called me Brother. They still do.

When I entered school, this apparently wouldn’t do. My father went by Carlton, so Carlton it was. My elementary school principal was one of my dad’s old friends, so I suppose using his name seemed aligned with her understanding of who I was. Kindergarten through college, I was Brother at home and Carlton at school.

As I prepared to enter the work world in 1979, “Carlton” felt too formal in my job interviews. It also didn’t help that Rhoda’s sitcom made famous the always inebriated, “Carlton, your doorman.” So I shortened my name to “Carl” to convey a more casual and sober guy. I never looked back. Well, mostly never. And mostly sober.

My wife doesn’t know what to call me to this day. When we dated in college, she constantly heard “Brother” when we’d visit my family. But it’s impossible (or maybe just too kinky) to call your boyfriend “Brother.” And “Carlton” just wasn’t in those cards. So she just cooed. That worked. Now I’m also “Dad.” Yes, I’m a father. And “Papa.” You guessed it. A grandfather too. So it’s gotten worse.

Thanks for letting me dump on you. I feel better now. My identity has been chasing a name my whole life. But here’s the good news. I’ll be getting a new name! Eventually. When I die, actually. And I’m looking forward to it. The new name, that is. Not dying. Although I’m not worried about that. It’s just that I have more to do first. Or at least I think I do.

So how do I know I’m getting a new name? And a good one?
Good ole Swedenborg.

“The nature of names in the spiritual world makes it clear that someone’s name does not mean her or his name alone, but also her or his full nature.”

True Christianity §300

He goes further:

“When anyone is named, or a name is mentioned, an idea of the person’s character springs to mind — a picture of everything that belongs to, exists with, or resides in the person.”

Secrets of Heaven §2009

That’s a lot packed into a name! How is that even possible?
Swedenborg explains further.

“This naming is effected by spiritual language, which is such that it can give a name to everything, because there each letter signifies one thing, and the letters combined into one word, forming a person’s name, include the entire state of what is named. This is one of the wonderful things of the spiritual world.”

Divine Providence §230

Sounds amazing. And impossible. But wait. Maybe this isn’t so far-fetched. We have corresponding technologies today. QR codes are a great example. Like the one below. Believe it or not, this image contains my entire poem from my post, “No Turning Back.” Don’t take my word for it. Scan it with your phone and click on the link below it. I did. It’s all there!

“In [the spiritual] world, people stop using all the names they were given in baptism in this world and the names they received from their parents or their family. All there are named for what they are like. Angels get a name that indicates the moral and spiritual life they have.”

True Christianlty §300

Cool! I get a new name. One that perfectly describes me in full detail! And so does everyone else. What an elegant way to facilitate instant, honest introductions.

But it goes far beyond introductions.

“All spirits share a common language that flows from their thinking and is made up of concepts that are heard as words in the spiritual world.”

Other Planets §95

Quick aside — did your notice the referenced source? — “Other Planets”
Oh yeah. Swedenborg is cool!

“People in the spiritual world do not have names the way we do in this physical world. Rather, each individual is named for her or his own love and wisdom. As soon as we enter a community or gathering of people, we are immediately given a name that expresses our nature.”

Divine Providence §230

Of course, this also means there’s no way to hide your true self from others in the afterlife. If your name exposes who you truly are, what “belongs to, exists with, or resides in” you, then your true inner self is laid bare the moment you’re introduced. That could be very interesting. Add to this that “all spirits share a common language that flows from their thinking,” and this may begin to explain Swedenborg’s reporting that communities are built around true, compatible essence. We find ourselves very much at home with people who care about and love what we truly care about and love. There is no deception in these communities, and that extends to our speech. But that’s a topic for another time. This is probably enough to ponder for now.

If this exploration into Swedenborg’s world has piqued your curiosity, check out the OffTheLeftEye website and YouTube channel. They do an amazing job of bringing Swedenborg to life!

If you’d like to dive deeper, here are two, related OffTheLeftEye YouTube Channel videos. The first is an 8-minute extraction from the second, full episode.

If you’ve made it this far, you might as well join the 300,000+ viewers who have taken the deep dive into the full episode!

The Spiritual Meaning of Names was originally published in Exploring Swedenborg on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What Matters

It matters I’ve succeeded.
But it doesn’t matter most.

It matters that I’ve failed.
But it doesn’t matter most.

It matters who I’ve loved.
But it doesn’t matter most.

It matters who I’ve lost.
But it doesn’t matter most.

It matters I’ve felt joy.
But it doesn’t matter most.

It matters I’ve felt pain.
But it doesn’t matter most.

Do I engage with these great teachers,
taking time in deep reflection?

Or skim across the surface,
and ignore my greatest lessons?

Life’s secret, whispered softly,
to those who lean in close,
“Events, are only guests.
Contrast, is your host.”

What Matters was originally published in Be Yourself Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Friday, April 18, 2014 7:00PM

Potluck dishes fill the air with the smell of homemade cooking. We wait patiently for the medium, ten friends eating and mingling. At last, the doorbell announces Verna’s arrival.

Our host, Jeff, excuses himself to welcome the expected guest. Their quiet banter through the entry hall turns to silence the moment her heel clicks on the tiled kitchen floor. This beautiful Sicilian woman locks eyes with me as she steps forward.

“Oh wow! He’s not gonna wait. Your father’s here!”

Thirty-one years earlier
Friday, February 11, 1983
Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C.

We feel her before we see her through our sleepy eyes. Mom moves gently through the dim light of the waiting room.

“Dad’s gone.”

My sister, my wife, and I, soothe our five-month-old baby girl while we comfort Mom, and each other, after the long, overnight vigil. The love of Mom’s life, and ours, John Carlton Godlove, passed away in a cardiac intensive care unit following a diagnostic procedure. Like his father before him, he was seventy-one.

There had been no reasonable hope. Dad was bleeding internally. He couldn’t survive surgery; his heart couldn’t tolerate the drugs needed to stop it; and pain meds only made the hemorrhaging worse. It was brutal. So we waited. And waited. And waited. In and out of the intensive care unit all night.

His bed, the first bay on the right, is bathed in cold, fluorescent light. Unable to open his eyes or speak, he motions to write. Mom holds a pad of paper and gently puts a pen in his hand. He makes motions in the air above the pad, sometimes on it, but it’s futile. He wants to communicate, but can’t. We try to make him comfortable. We tell him we love him. We tell him we know he loves us. We’re powerless to help and our hearts ache.

The night finally delivers death and relief from his long suffering. It also delivers one of the worst blizzards on record for the eastern seaboard, stamping this moment indelibly on us. We gather our things to return to the motel that will be home, and the 7-Eleven that will be our kitchen, until the interstates are plowed days later. We scrounge for plastic garbage bags to wear as boots to get to my Subaru through the thigh-high snow. Everything is shut down.

Picking up my cardigan sweater, I notice something is different. In that dim morning light, I can just make out a single red thread, tenderly weaved through its breast. A small heart. My mother’s overnight handiwork so close to Valentine’s Day. It remained in that sweater until I wore it out.

You’re never old enough to lose your dad. And at 25, I was a new father with so much ground to cover without his gentle words and wisdom to help guide me.

Thirty-one years and three children later, standing in that kitchen, face-to-face with Verna, I discovered I was wrong about that. Dad had been with me every step of the way. And he still is. I revised my personal history to include that truth, and it paved a way to an entirely new future.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Spirit was hard at work leading up to this life-changing evening with Verna. It started eight months before I met her.

Saturday evening, August 17, 2013
Eight months before meeting Verna
Sovereign Performing Arts Center, Reading, PA

The line was a city block long and four people wide. Reading rarely sees this. Sarah and I inched forward with the crowd to see Theresa Caputo, The Long Island Medium. We headed for the fifth row in this vintage theater, third and fourth seats from the aisle, house right. In front of us was a single man, and beside him, a couple. We later recalled seeing the couple dining in a nearby restaurant.

Theresa opened the show on stage and then entered the audience using the far aisle on the opposite side of the theater. She was mic’d with two cameramen in tow. They projected Theresa, and the people she was reading, on a huge screen at the front of the theater. When she got to the back row, she took the stairs up to the balcony and did readings as she crossed to the staircase on our side of the theater. She descended those stairs and resumed her readings, moving toward the stage, working her way down our aisle.

All night, the readings were intense. So many tragic deaths and so much grief resolved through her readings. Theresa slowed as she approached us, then stopped one row past ours where the single man and couple were seated. This reading proved to be as intense as the others. The man’s son died violently as a police officer. The couple’s son, in the armed services. The parents didn’t know each other, but their sons showed up together in spirit. Theresa called it a tag team. Their stories, like every other that night, were tearjerkers.

When she finished, she headed to the front row but stopped short. Turning around, she walked back to the people she had just read. The cameras, now aimed squarely in our direction, projected them, and us, onto the huge screen above the stage.

“I’m getting a ring.”

Both the man and the couple thought about it. The man acknowledged that his son had a ring, but it didn’t lead anywhere. Theresa stayed with it for a while, then finally gave up. When she turned to walk away she stopped short again and came back.

“Or it could be a cufflink.”

Again, there was no meaningful response, so she turned and walked toward the stage. And again, she stopped short, as if caught by the collar, and walked back once more.

“They say you have the same name.”

They remained stumped and silent, so she finally gave up and moved on.

That said, I have a confession to make. I owe Theresa an apology. I’ve wondered ever since how often this happens. She was right on, but I was too self-conscious to respond.

The only thing I brought with me to this show was my Dad’s ring. Which, by the way, looks exactly like a cufflink — slightly rectangular shape with the corners knocked off, gold with a brown stone. It’s the only personal item I have of his, and I brought it with me in a black velvet pouch that night. It was deep in my right front jeans pocket. With the cameras and lights on us, I was too self-conscious to dig the ring out and draw attention to myself. This theater is really old and the seats are very narrow. The contortion required to extract that ring would have made me look like I had gas!

Then there was the whole tragic tenor of the evening. My dad passed decades before. It was sad, for sure, but not a tragedy per se (sorry Dad!). And many of the stories that night were more recent passings. It just didn’t seem to fit the evening. That, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to call out, even to the row directly in front of me, “Yo! Theresa! Let’s see what we have here!” Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen in a theater peppered with people I knew.

Oh! The name? Right on. My full name is John Carlton Godlove, II.

I know. I know. I’m an idiot. Or at least that’s what I thought over the next several days.

Four days later
Wednesday, August 21, 2013

I was kicking myself on Sunday. And Monday. And Tuesday. I had blown the only opportunity I’d ever have to connect with my dad. Finally, on Wednesday, I decided to do something about it. I had a business meeting half an hour from my office. Sitting in traffic at the last stoplight, exasperated, I bargain out loud.

“Hey Dad! I know you were there Saturday night. I’d sure like a confirmation. If you could please send me a sign, that’d be great. Something electronic would be good!”

It was an inside joke. I got my love for gadgets from my dad. So much so that I designed and patented a golf device a few years before. Not electronic, but still pretty cool. My dad would (does!) approve. So I smile to myself at the thought and drive on, still heavy with regret that I had missed, what I assumed, was my one and only opportunity to “speak” with him.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the meeting room, plopping my binder on the right rear corner of our U-shaped conference table. A breakfast buffet and coffee are waiting outside the room and I waste no time joining my under-caffeinated cohorts in the hall.

As I dish out my oatmeal, I hear a sound coming from inside the room. It’s a beeping, an electronic beeping. It starts quietly and then gets louder and louder and louder before stopping for a moment and then starting again, over and over. I’d never heard it before, and haven’t since. It’s incessant and obnoxious, and I think to myself,

“Why isn’t someone turning off that alarm?!”

Oatmeal in one hand, coffee in the other, I re-enter the room and approach my seat. That’s when I realize it’s my phone that’s screaming. I had mindlessly left it with my binder. I had no memory of setting it down. I never do that. Except this one time.

I pick it up and look for everything I can imagine that could make it scream. Nothing is running to create that sound. No alarms. No apps. Nothing! I close every app anyway. Still it persists. It doesn’t stop until I shut the phone down completely by powering it off.

I was so focused on getting the attention off my corner of the room, that my earlier conversation on the drive there didn’t even come to mind. That happened later that day during a quiet moment. I remembered in a flash, and instantly knew that Dad had honored my request. I knew he was laughing, and I smiled at the thought for the rest of the day. I must have looked like a Cheshire cat.

And it still makes me smile! That sign, in the face of what happened with Theresa over the weekend, lifted me. I just didn’t know then, how much higher I was going to rise.

Five months later — three months before Verna
Saturday evening, January 25, 2014
Gourmet Dinner Club at a friend’s home

Sarah and I have been members of a gourmet dinner club for years. It’s a good excuse to make and enjoy dishes we don’t normally eat, and a wonderful time to visit with friends we don’t normally see, like Jeff and Elyse.

Five months after Sarah and I attended the Long Island Medium show, Elyse was bubbling over at one of our dinners. She had recently attended a small group reading by a local medium, Verna Lisa.

Elyse wasn’t on the original list for that reading. A snow storm caused it to be rescheduled and one woman, originally attending, couldn’t make the new date. Elyse was invited to fill in and jumped at the chance.

So we weren’t the only ones to have had an incredible recent encounter with a medium! Elyse’s account of her experience gave all of us chills. We couldn’t get enough. So she offered to host a group reading at her home if there was enough interest. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Yes!” A second chance to talk to my dad!

She contacted Verna the following week, and ten of us were scheduled for a group reading at Jeff and Elyse’s home on April 18th. I could barely contain myself over the next three months.

Friday, April 18, 2014 7:00PM
Back where we started, face-to-face with Verna

“Oh wow! He’s not gonna wait. Your father’s here!”

That took my breath away as she continued.

“I’m getting a “J” name.”

— “Yes. His first name is John.”

“He’s telling me that you’re one of four (children).”

— “Well I’m actually one of three.”

Then I paused. My mom had miscarried a baby girl before my oldest sibling was born. The details are lost in our family history, but she was spoken of often while I was growing up. I hadn’t thought of this for years. Looking back on it now, I realize, as a parent, and now a grandparent, how heartbreaking it would be to lose a child in any manner. So yes, I explained to Verna that I may well have been one of four in my parents’ eyes, and perhaps in truth as well.

Then Verna patted her chest.

“Did your father pass from the heart?”

— “Yes.”

“Because he’s telling me to tell you to take care of yours.”

Duly noted. I smiled and nodded yes.

“He’s telling me that you have his ring.”

— “Yes, I do.”

“No, he means that you have it here, with you now, in your right front pocket.”

Ok, well, that totally blew me away. I reached into my right front pocket and pulled out the black velvet pouch and produced the ring. The same pouch and ring I had taken to the Long Island Medium show. I held it up for her to see.

“Yep! That’s the ring! But I saw a darker stone.”

I placed the ring on my finger and showed it to her again. The stone appears noticeably darker when worn.

“That’s it!”

To say the least, everyone was giddy with excitement, including Verna. She said that we hadn’t even gotten started. My father’s energy was so strong. And she was so right. The hours flew by and my father, and others in spirit, including my mother and my wife’s parents, had a blast. So did we.

Post-it Notes

After Effects

What happened over the course of that evening, together with the events that led up to it, radically changed my mindset and life trajectory. The shift from belief to knowing is powerful.

My father recounted events and inner thoughts of mine that no one else knew. And he delivered profound wisdom peppered with humor. A father-son talk that was so familiar to me, even after all these years. The entire group was riveted!

His final words of advice? “Do what feeds you.”

Radical changes had to occur for this to happen.
They did. And I am.

Verna

I feel that a parting note about Verna, “the rest of the story,” if you will, is important to speak to her credibility.

Verna and I didn’t know that evening that we would become good friends. She didn’t just show up, do a reading, and then disappear from my life. We stayed in touch. In part, because we connected so powerfully that evening. In part, because, as she walked up to our host’s front door, she had a related experience with one of her own family members in spirit. She shared that with me months later.

Verna isn’t just a medium to us now. She’s a friend with a special gift. Sarah and I have enjoyed her phenomenal Italian home cooking. We get together for coffee. I’ve helped her son think through his future. I’ve learned that mediumship runs in her family, as it often does. Some family members embrace it. Others want nothing to do with it. This gift can carry a heavy burden. And beyond all that, Verna is a gifted therapist and coach, and a wonderful human being.

The Wisdom of Waiting

Thirty years and definitely worth the wait. Dad was acquainted with Verna long before I was, meticulously orchestrating the events that led me to her and him. And he knew how it had to happen to have this powerful impact on me, knowing I’d move through it with an open mind and a willing spirit.

Thanks, Dad! I am so looking forward to a very long hug. :) But there’s work to do in the meantime, so I’ll keep doing what feeds me. And I’ll always trust that you’re beside me all the way, or perhaps slightly ahead, blazing trails. :)

Love you to the moon and back, Dad!

(But you already knew that ❤)

We Don’t Die was originally published in Be Yourself Blog on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.