LIVING THE POWER OF ONE
A couple years after the Seattle conference, I went to another in San Diego. This one featured a man named John O’Leary, who turned out to be one of the most inspirational speakers I’d ever heard.
At the age of nine, John had been playing with matches and gasoline in his garage–just as he had seen older boys doing. A fire exploded, consuming the garage, and sending John flying back against the wall. In an instant, he was burned over 98 percent of his body, and his world turned upside down. There was enough parallel to what had happened to me in high school to catch my attention, though in his case the firestorm that hit him was literal, not figurative—and I spent a few hours in jail, while he spent five months in the hospital, went through countless surgeries, and required years of physical therapy.
When it was over, all he wanted was what I’d wanted, which was for his life to settle back into normal and stay that way: another reason why his story resonated so strongly with me.
In his case, his life did settle back to normal…until twenty years later, when his parents wrote a book about it. It was called Overwhelming Odds, and was initially limited to 100 copies that were sent out to friends and family who’d been supportive during John’s (and his family’s) long journey of healing, but it quickly grew beyond that and has now sold tens of thousands of copies and inspired John to write his own book, On Fire, in which he talks both of what happened to him and how he ultimately used it to transform his life. Since then, he’s become a much-in-demand inspirational speaker, selected to give the keynote at the San Diego conference.
He called his talk “The Power of One,” but it didn’t center on himself. It centered on the people who’d supported him, encouraged him, and pushed him to persevere when all he wanted to do at the time was die. His point was that all of us can be the “one”; no matter who we are, we can play a pivotal role in someone else’s life, if we only keep awake to the opportunities and act when they arrive.
Sitting in the San Diego Convention Center Ballroom listening to John tell his story, I felt an urge. There was someone I knew who needed the power of one. Not the speech, but a “one” to help heal an old wound. The wounded one was Heidi, and the wound—however well she’d coped with it over the years—was her non-relationship with her father. She had only met him twice in her life: once when she was 18 and again when she was 21. She knew where he lived, but not much about his side of the family—only that his name was Jason.
I opened my workbook and wrote: Heidi will have some communication with her dad within one year. As I wrote those words, I remembered my mom always telling me one year from today…
How this might happen, I didn’t know. But the call to try to make it come about felt very strong, very personal. When I got back to Portland, I went to work looking for a way to be the one who made it happen.
Nothing happened for several months. Fall came and with it, Thanksgiving, when our company hosted an annual “pie party” in which we handed out Thanksgiving pies as a token of our gratitude. As we were preparing for it, I thought again of all the wonderful gatherings that had been hosted by Buffini—conventions where, among other things, we’d been treated to an enormous array of great speakers. There’d been Lou Holz, the legendary football coach at Notre Dame. Authors like Chris Gardner, who had at one point been homeless with a toddler son while working as a low-level employee at a stock brokerage to make ends meet and keep his son safe. His story became the movie The Pursuit of Happiness, starring Will Smith. There’d even been a speech by Neil Armstrong, first human to walk on the Moon. But O’Leary was the one who stood out. He hadn’t gone to the Moon. He wasn’t a famous coach. He was inspiring simply because he wanted to pass on the power of the people who’d come into his own life when he so much needed them.
“Wouldn’t it be incredible if our friends, family, and clients had the opportunity to hear some of these people?” Heidi said.
And thus was born the Andrews Gratitude Gathering. It would be a sit-down dinner in a local ballroom, with a speaker. Initially, we were thinking of hiring someone from the Portland area—a newscaster or other local celebrity. Then my brother mentioned John O’Leary.
“We’d never be able to afford it,” I said, certain that O’Leary’s speaking fee was well out of our budget. Yes, our various companies were growing rapidly—we now had 45 realtors working for us in addition to the family. But flying in someone like O’Leary? Surely, that was beyond our reach.
But my brother didn’t want to write the idea off that easily. “You never know until you ask,” he said. We contacted O’Leary’s agent, discovered we could afford him, and decided to split the costs among the various family businesses. We also set a date. Instead of a pie party next year, we’d have a banquet. We searched for a venue, decided on a menu, and set a date: November 5, 2015.
Meanwhile, I continued writing notes and making calls to clients. Not only was that how I grew a referral business, but I’d not forgotten what I’d written in my workbook in San Diego: Heidi will have some communication with her dad within one year. I felt, in my gut, that working hard and communicating would somehow lead to a connection between Heidi and her dad. Many of my clients were on Facebook or other social media, and each morning I scanned the feed for big events in their lives.
“Hi Craig. We’ve never met, but I’ve known Denisse for years. Congratulations on your wedding! Not only have you gained a wonderful wife, but you are now part of our client appreciation program. If you ever come across anyone looking to buy or sell a home, we would be grateful if you would pass our names along.
Every day, I’d look for reasons to celebrate with friends, clients, or other people I knew and send out notes:
Happy anniversary!
Congratulations on your son’s first soccer goal!
I love the picture you just posted of your drawing—keep up the good work!
The more I did this, the more I loved doing it. But I also hoped that the more contacts I had, and the more personalized they were, the greater the chance that someone would casually mention something about Heidi’s father. It was the only thing I could think of to do.
One day in late February, I received a call from a prospective client: “Ben, I’m looking to sell my house and I’d like you to come out and take a look at it.”
“Wonderful! Thank you for the opportunity,” I said—my normal response to all such invitations. “What’s your ideal timeline?”
“I’m ready yesterday.”
“Have you ever sold a home?”
“Yes—this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Where’s your home located?”
He gave me a rural address on the south side of the metropolitan area. “I have five acres and a few outbuildings.”
“Do you know where you’ll be moving?”
“Yes. I recently purchased a home, so it’ll be pretty smooth.”
The following weekend I met him at the house. Built in 1900, it was part of a network of other buildings all with wonderful turn-of-the-century details, and from outside, it was stunning and looked to be in pristine condition. Though there were four outbuildings that had been seriously neglected.
The seller, a man in his early 50s, began by telling me he was selling because his wife had died the year before. “The grounds used to be our private oasis,” he said. “But once my wife passed, the rest of us stopped going outside and started to let everything go.”
He then said he had arranged a realtor, but was glad I’d come out to take a look—it’d be on the market in two weeks.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry—I thought I was coming out for a listing appointment.”
“No, no. I have a realtor.”
“So why did you call me?”
“I had an estate sale a couple weeks ago. Someone there told me that when I was getting ready to sell my house, I should reach out to you, so I did.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No idea.”
As long as I was there, we toured the property and had a great conversation about everything but the property. We talked about how he was doing a year after his wife’s death and what it was like to lose his wife.
“It’s the worst,” he said.
“How are your kids doing?”
“That’s actually the worst part. Watching them go through it and try to navigate life without their biggest emotional supporter—that’s the worst.”
Thirty minutes later, he turned to me and said: “Ben, I like you. My other realtor hasn’t mentioned a damn word about how any of my family is doing. I can tell you care and I would like you to represent me and my family as we close this chapter of our lives.”
I was flattered, but told him it would be unethical to take the listing from the other realtor. “I can try to find you a buyer.”
“Ben, I don’t have a contract signed with anyone. I want you to represent me and I’m ready to sign.”
That was different. Legally and ethically, he was still searching for realtors and he had the right to change his mind. I extended my hand and told him I’d get to work right now.
Work began by touring the neighborhood—mostly small farms—and letting people know that I was listing their neighbor’s property. “My hope is to get top dollar,” I said, explaining that doing so would also improve their property values and give them more equity in their own homes.
The third property I visited had a store at the entrance and was a thriving local farm known, among other things, for fresh eggs. It also had a feed store, and a farm equipment repair service—the type of thing you’d expect in a place urban growth had not yet swallowed them up. I was greeted by a pleasant woman named Kay, about 60 years old, wearing a sweatshirt that proclaimed Property of Jesus Christ.
“I like your sweatshirt,” I said after explaining why I was there. “I could use your prayers on this sale. Have a good day!”
When I came home, I told Heidi about the appointment.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Good! I’m not sure how the heck I got it but I did and the property is beautiful!”
“Where’s the property?”
“West Linn, or, technically, I guess Wilsonville.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s real cool property. It’s off Stafford Road.”
“Can you show me where it’s at?”
I pulled out my iPad, opened the maps app, typed in the address, pinched and scrolled. Heidi’s eyes got big and she reached for my iPad. She pointed to the neighboring property. The one with the egg store.
“That’s where my dad lives.”
“What?”
“Yep. I’ve driven by a few times over the years.”
“Well, if your dad lives there, I talked to your stepmom today.”
“Hmm—that’s weird.”
She’d only been on the property once, she said—one of the two times she’d actually talked to her father. She was 18, and he’d given her a pair of socks for her birthday. Even though everyone was nice, she said, she’d felt like an outsider and never returned.
Two days later, she asked again about the property. “When does that listing go live?”
“I’m going out this weekend to take pictures.”
“Oh.” Then she fell silent.
“I’ll be making my rounds to the neighbors again, letting them know the status of the listing. Do you want me to stop by your dad’s house?”
“If you want to, sure.” The answer was a bit noncommittal, but that was good enough for me.
As I was preparing the property for listing, chatting with the seller, trying to focus on him and not the upcoming meeting with Heidi’s father, he said, “Oh, I remember who referred you to me. I don’t know his name, but he and his wife own a cleaning company and he was interested in vintage vacuum cleaner parts. That’s why he was at the sale.”
I knew who it was. His name was Craig Baker, the Craig who’d married my friend Denisse and I’d congratulated on his wedding. I’d asked him to remember me if he knew someone who needed a realtor, and now, he’d given me the referral of a lifetime, better in its way than the referral that had given me my first big contract with the 57 condominiums. A referral that now had me moments away from meeting Heidi’s dad and, hopefully, reconnecting them.
I left the house and drove a quarter-mile to her dad’s property: a short distance as physical geography is measured, but a long one in terms of Heidi’s and my spiritual geography. On the way, I prayed, grateful for this opportunity, but aware that the outcome was not in my hands.
I walked into the shop and reintroduced myself to the woman I’d spoken with the previous week.
“Hello, Kay—how are you doing today?”
“Hey, you’re the realtor—good job remembering my name. Sold the house yet?”
“No, not yet. We’re just taking pictures today and then we should be on the market next Thursday. We like to list our homes on Thursdays.”
“Well, that’s great. Good luck!”
“Thank you very much, but actually, I’m here on a personal matter.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was wondering if I could speak with Jason.”
“About what?”
“A personal matter.”
“What is it you want with Jason?”
“Well, I’m Heidi’s husband; Jason is her father.”
Her face tensed. “You get the hell off my property.”
Two customers who were buying eggs looked at me, then at Kay, wondering what I’d said to anger her.
It wasn’t a reaction I’d expected and I didn’t know what to do. I could feel my face flush. But I also remembered what I’d written in my workbook: my firm belief that within a year, Heidi would be reunited with her father. All of this felt like what a friend of a friend calls “a God thing.” Divine intervention.
Now I felt nudged to push it, one more time. “When I was here last week, you had on a Property of Jesus Christ sweatshirt. Would you like me to wait here until you put it back on? Or should I come back when you’re wearing it?” Not the kindest thing I’d ever said, but I was running out of time, and options, and I knew well enough from being on the receiving end of disappointment from Dellinger that there can be a difference between short-term and long-term kindness.
“Jason isn’t here right now.” At least she was no longer ordering me to leave.
“Well, if you could let him know that I came by, I’d appreciate it.”
“What is it you want with him anyway?” Anger had turned to suspicion.
“I don’t want anything. He’s not my dad. I thought it’d be nice if he and Heidi could spend some time together and it’d give him the opportunity to meet his grandson, Henry.”
She confessed that they’d seen pictures on Facebook of Henry and commented on how cute he was. I explained how this meeting came to be and that, through prayer and determination, we were standing face to face.
“I don’t need anything,” I said. “I don’t expect anything; I’m just following through on a commitment I made to myself. I’m following a path I believe God has paved.”
The next day, I received a call.
“Hello, Ben. I had to track down your phone number. This is Kay. I met with you yesterday or—you met with me yesterday. Um, the first thing I want to say is that the home you’re selling was, um, the first home Heidi’s I believe great-great-great grandparents lived in when they first came to Oregon. Second of all, I wanted to let you know that I talked to Jason about you coming here yesterday and he’s actually really excited. He said he feels really comfortable about this and that he’s looking forward to meeting you and meeting Henry—and seeing his daughter.”
Not in my wildest dreams had I thought the reunion might be this well received. The San Diego conference had been 10 months ago. The seemingly impossible impulse I’d felt during O’Leary’s talk had come to pass two months ahead of schedule.
The reunion itself was the first of a few and came two weeks later in the coastal town of Lincoln City. A pleasant place to have lunch, walk the beach, and lay a new path forward in terrain not cluttered with memories from old ones. That was followed by more meetings, phone calls, and staying in touch on social media. Everyone was determined to move forward, not look backward, and Heidi’s skills at empathizing with clients and former shipping-company customers now helped grease the skids, too. Not that I was surprised. Challenging relationships always brough out the best in her, and now her father and stepmother were equally determined to help. When the time came to finalize arrangements for the Andrews Gratitude Gathering, Jason and Kay were among those we invited to celebrate and hear John O’Leary’s talk.
All told, we invited 210 people, and to our amazement, 202 showed up. Friends of our family. Clients who’d become friends. Plus a few we felt needed to hear John’s message.
Among them were Cami Napoli, who’d flown up from San Diego. Merwin and Beckie Doud, my aunt and uncle from Medford. Craig Baker was also there. And Jason and Kay. And Kelley Slayton, from that first memorable day at the Oregon State Penitentiary, when I’d known him only as Rock. Sean Hackney, a fellow realtor from Washington who had become a close friend and someone I met through my association with Buffini and Company. I watched as person after person arrived and hugged my parents, my brother, Heidi, and myself. We had created an enormous extended family, as diverse as it was strong.
It was a magical night. John O’Leary talked about the Power of One: If one person will live their life with the right attitude and passion, they can create a ripple effect that can be felt oceans away. As John was closing the evening, he had everyone pull out an envelope that we had placed beneath their plates before the event started. Inside each envelope was a blank piece of paper. John instructed everyone to self-address the envelope. They’d be told later what to do with the paper it contained.
He walked over to a piano saying that he’d once made it a goal to play. Before he sat down, he held up his hands for all to see. They’d been the closest part of his body to the fire that had engulfed him all those years ago, and his fingers had been burned down to nubs.
“Seems impossible that I can play the piano, right?”
He then told people to take the paper out of the envelope. I’m going to ask you to write something on it and put it back in the envelope. Six months from now, you’ll get it back in the mail. But for now, I just want you to find a pen and address the envelope to yourself.
Then, he sat down, told people to close their eyes, and began to play a tune he had written. “Think of the impossible,” he said.
That moment, more than the dinner and pleasant time together, was the gift we’d wanted to bestow on the people we’d invited there that night. We wanted them to dream the impossible: the one they’d never been willing to entertain.
I was watching John, wondering how he’d accomplished his own impossible dream and done it so well. When he next spoke, it was quietly, geared not to break the spell his music had created. Open your eyes, he told people, and find the paper in your envelopes: write down a goal that you hope to reach in the next 12 months. Not necessarily the impossible dream itself, but a steppingstone on its path.
There was a rustle, as people opened their envelops and looked for pens. But mostly it was quiet, while John continued to play. As he did, I thought not so much about my own dreams for the next 12 months as the path that had led to this particular moment. How would John’s life have been different if he hadn’t started the fire that almost killed him? Where would I have been without the faith and encouragement of my mom, my dad, and my brother?
Eventually, I wrote something down on my own sheet of paper and sealed it up in my envelope. But the reality was that I was living my own impossible dream, supported by a host of people who’d intuitively known John’s “power of one” message and had done something to help rescue me from my pit of fear and insecurity, bringing me to this point, where I could now do what I could to pay it forward.
Some of these people were in the past, like Robert Brannon, the former NFL Player turned high school security guard demanding me to ‘keep my mind right’. Dellinger, quietly reproving me and showing this horse the way to water, even as he knew it was up to me to decide what to do with it. But many were in this room. There was Heidi, who’d done the same, staunchly sticking by my side, even as I took my sweet time recognizing the need to quit listening to voices from my past and moving on to becoming the best person I could become not only for her, but for myself and the legacy I will leave behind in our son, Henry. My mom, for always reminding me that one year from today… anything and absolutely everything is possible. My dad for reminding me of who I was when I had forgotten. There was Cami, a one-time stranger who took the mentor and coach baton from Dellinger. Missing was Brad, still determined to preserve his anonymity so he could pay his own success forward to whoever came after me, even if I’d never forget his generosity.
Another was John himself. He was the one who’d motivated me to dream of connecting Heidi with her father, some way, somehow. Talk about an impossible dream! But now both were not only here together, but so was John, without whom it would never have happened.
Then John put the capstone on it.
“Turn to the person next to you,” he said.
For me, that was Kelley Slayton. But also at my table were Heidi and her father, and I could also see them turn toward each other.
“I want you to look in each other’s eyes and tell each other these words,” John said. “’I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it.’”
I watched as Jason looked into his daughter’s eyes and repeated those amazing words. “I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Talk about impossible dreams. Jesus, how did you orchestrate all of this? I thought.
Then I turned to Kelley and, eyes welling, said the same.
At the age of nine, John had been playing with matches and gasoline in his garage–just as he had seen older boys doing. A fire exploded, consuming the garage, and sending John flying back against the wall. In an instant, he was burned over 98 percent of his body, and his world turned upside down. There was enough parallel to what had happened to me in high school to catch my attention, though in his case the firestorm that hit him was literal, not figurative—and I spent a few hours in jail, while he spent five months in the hospital, went through countless surgeries, and required years of physical therapy.
When it was over, all he wanted was what I’d wanted, which was for his life to settle back into normal and stay that way: another reason why his story resonated so strongly with me.
In his case, his life did settle back to normal…until twenty years later, when his parents wrote a book about it. It was called Overwhelming Odds, and was initially limited to 100 copies that were sent out to friends and family who’d been supportive during John’s (and his family’s) long journey of healing, but it quickly grew beyond that and has now sold tens of thousands of copies and inspired John to write his own book, On Fire, in which he talks both of what happened to him and how he ultimately used it to transform his life. Since then, he’s become a much-in-demand inspirational speaker, selected to give the keynote at the San Diego conference.
He called his talk “The Power of One,” but it didn’t center on himself. It centered on the people who’d supported him, encouraged him, and pushed him to persevere when all he wanted to do at the time was die. His point was that all of us can be the “one”; no matter who we are, we can play a pivotal role in someone else’s life, if we only keep awake to the opportunities and act when they arrive.
Sitting in the San Diego Convention Center Ballroom listening to John tell his story, I felt an urge. There was someone I knew who needed the power of one. Not the speech, but a “one” to help heal an old wound. The wounded one was Heidi, and the wound—however well she’d coped with it over the years—was her non-relationship with her father. She had only met him twice in her life: once when she was 18 and again when she was 21. She knew where he lived, but not much about his side of the family—only that his name was Jason.
I opened my workbook and wrote: Heidi will have some communication with her dad within one year. As I wrote those words, I remembered my mom always telling me one year from today…
How this might happen, I didn’t know. But the call to try to make it come about felt very strong, very personal. When I got back to Portland, I went to work looking for a way to be the one who made it happen.
Nothing happened for several months. Fall came and with it, Thanksgiving, when our company hosted an annual “pie party” in which we handed out Thanksgiving pies as a token of our gratitude. As we were preparing for it, I thought again of all the wonderful gatherings that had been hosted by Buffini—conventions where, among other things, we’d been treated to an enormous array of great speakers. There’d been Lou Holz, the legendary football coach at Notre Dame. Authors like Chris Gardner, who had at one point been homeless with a toddler son while working as a low-level employee at a stock brokerage to make ends meet and keep his son safe. His story became the movie The Pursuit of Happiness, starring Will Smith. There’d even been a speech by Neil Armstrong, first human to walk on the Moon. But O’Leary was the one who stood out. He hadn’t gone to the Moon. He wasn’t a famous coach. He was inspiring simply because he wanted to pass on the power of the people who’d come into his own life when he so much needed them.
“Wouldn’t it be incredible if our friends, family, and clients had the opportunity to hear some of these people?” Heidi said.
And thus was born the Andrews Gratitude Gathering. It would be a sit-down dinner in a local ballroom, with a speaker. Initially, we were thinking of hiring someone from the Portland area—a newscaster or other local celebrity. Then my brother mentioned John O’Leary.
“We’d never be able to afford it,” I said, certain that O’Leary’s speaking fee was well out of our budget. Yes, our various companies were growing rapidly—we now had 45 realtors working for us in addition to the family. But flying in someone like O’Leary? Surely, that was beyond our reach.
But my brother didn’t want to write the idea off that easily. “You never know until you ask,” he said. We contacted O’Leary’s agent, discovered we could afford him, and decided to split the costs among the various family businesses. We also set a date. Instead of a pie party next year, we’d have a banquet. We searched for a venue, decided on a menu, and set a date: November 5, 2015.
Meanwhile, I continued writing notes and making calls to clients. Not only was that how I grew a referral business, but I’d not forgotten what I’d written in my workbook in San Diego: Heidi will have some communication with her dad within one year. I felt, in my gut, that working hard and communicating would somehow lead to a connection between Heidi and her dad. Many of my clients were on Facebook or other social media, and each morning I scanned the feed for big events in their lives.
“Hi Craig. We’ve never met, but I’ve known Denisse for years. Congratulations on your wedding! Not only have you gained a wonderful wife, but you are now part of our client appreciation program. If you ever come across anyone looking to buy or sell a home, we would be grateful if you would pass our names along.
Every day, I’d look for reasons to celebrate with friends, clients, or other people I knew and send out notes:
Happy anniversary!
Congratulations on your son’s first soccer goal!
I love the picture you just posted of your drawing—keep up the good work!
The more I did this, the more I loved doing it. But I also hoped that the more contacts I had, and the more personalized they were, the greater the chance that someone would casually mention something about Heidi’s father. It was the only thing I could think of to do.
One day in late February, I received a call from a prospective client: “Ben, I’m looking to sell my house and I’d like you to come out and take a look at it.”
“Wonderful! Thank you for the opportunity,” I said—my normal response to all such invitations. “What’s your ideal timeline?”
“I’m ready yesterday.”
“Have you ever sold a home?”
“Yes—this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Where’s your home located?”
He gave me a rural address on the south side of the metropolitan area. “I have five acres and a few outbuildings.”
“Do you know where you’ll be moving?”
“Yes. I recently purchased a home, so it’ll be pretty smooth.”
The following weekend I met him at the house. Built in 1900, it was part of a network of other buildings all with wonderful turn-of-the-century details, and from outside, it was stunning and looked to be in pristine condition. Though there were four outbuildings that had been seriously neglected.
The seller, a man in his early 50s, began by telling me he was selling because his wife had died the year before. “The grounds used to be our private oasis,” he said. “But once my wife passed, the rest of us stopped going outside and started to let everything go.”
He then said he had arranged a realtor, but was glad I’d come out to take a look—it’d be on the market in two weeks.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry—I thought I was coming out for a listing appointment.”
“No, no. I have a realtor.”
“So why did you call me?”
“I had an estate sale a couple weeks ago. Someone there told me that when I was getting ready to sell my house, I should reach out to you, so I did.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No idea.”
As long as I was there, we toured the property and had a great conversation about everything but the property. We talked about how he was doing a year after his wife’s death and what it was like to lose his wife.
“It’s the worst,” he said.
“How are your kids doing?”
“That’s actually the worst part. Watching them go through it and try to navigate life without their biggest emotional supporter—that’s the worst.”
Thirty minutes later, he turned to me and said: “Ben, I like you. My other realtor hasn’t mentioned a damn word about how any of my family is doing. I can tell you care and I would like you to represent me and my family as we close this chapter of our lives.”
I was flattered, but told him it would be unethical to take the listing from the other realtor. “I can try to find you a buyer.”
“Ben, I don’t have a contract signed with anyone. I want you to represent me and I’m ready to sign.”
That was different. Legally and ethically, he was still searching for realtors and he had the right to change his mind. I extended my hand and told him I’d get to work right now.
Work began by touring the neighborhood—mostly small farms—and letting people know that I was listing their neighbor’s property. “My hope is to get top dollar,” I said, explaining that doing so would also improve their property values and give them more equity in their own homes.
The third property I visited had a store at the entrance and was a thriving local farm known, among other things, for fresh eggs. It also had a feed store, and a farm equipment repair service—the type of thing you’d expect in a place urban growth had not yet swallowed them up. I was greeted by a pleasant woman named Kay, about 60 years old, wearing a sweatshirt that proclaimed Property of Jesus Christ.
“I like your sweatshirt,” I said after explaining why I was there. “I could use your prayers on this sale. Have a good day!”
When I came home, I told Heidi about the appointment.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Good! I’m not sure how the heck I got it but I did and the property is beautiful!”
“Where’s the property?”
“West Linn, or, technically, I guess Wilsonville.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s real cool property. It’s off Stafford Road.”
“Can you show me where it’s at?”
I pulled out my iPad, opened the maps app, typed in the address, pinched and scrolled. Heidi’s eyes got big and she reached for my iPad. She pointed to the neighboring property. The one with the egg store.
“That’s where my dad lives.”
“What?”
“Yep. I’ve driven by a few times over the years.”
“Well, if your dad lives there, I talked to your stepmom today.”
“Hmm—that’s weird.”
She’d only been on the property once, she said—one of the two times she’d actually talked to her father. She was 18, and he’d given her a pair of socks for her birthday. Even though everyone was nice, she said, she’d felt like an outsider and never returned.
Two days later, she asked again about the property. “When does that listing go live?”
“I’m going out this weekend to take pictures.”
“Oh.” Then she fell silent.
“I’ll be making my rounds to the neighbors again, letting them know the status of the listing. Do you want me to stop by your dad’s house?”
“If you want to, sure.” The answer was a bit noncommittal, but that was good enough for me.
As I was preparing the property for listing, chatting with the seller, trying to focus on him and not the upcoming meeting with Heidi’s father, he said, “Oh, I remember who referred you to me. I don’t know his name, but he and his wife own a cleaning company and he was interested in vintage vacuum cleaner parts. That’s why he was at the sale.”
I knew who it was. His name was Craig Baker, the Craig who’d married my friend Denisse and I’d congratulated on his wedding. I’d asked him to remember me if he knew someone who needed a realtor, and now, he’d given me the referral of a lifetime, better in its way than the referral that had given me my first big contract with the 57 condominiums. A referral that now had me moments away from meeting Heidi’s dad and, hopefully, reconnecting them.
I left the house and drove a quarter-mile to her dad’s property: a short distance as physical geography is measured, but a long one in terms of Heidi’s and my spiritual geography. On the way, I prayed, grateful for this opportunity, but aware that the outcome was not in my hands.
I walked into the shop and reintroduced myself to the woman I’d spoken with the previous week.
“Hello, Kay—how are you doing today?”
“Hey, you’re the realtor—good job remembering my name. Sold the house yet?”
“No, not yet. We’re just taking pictures today and then we should be on the market next Thursday. We like to list our homes on Thursdays.”
“Well, that’s great. Good luck!”
“Thank you very much, but actually, I’m here on a personal matter.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was wondering if I could speak with Jason.”
“About what?”
“A personal matter.”
“What is it you want with Jason?”
“Well, I’m Heidi’s husband; Jason is her father.”
Her face tensed. “You get the hell off my property.”
Two customers who were buying eggs looked at me, then at Kay, wondering what I’d said to anger her.
It wasn’t a reaction I’d expected and I didn’t know what to do. I could feel my face flush. But I also remembered what I’d written in my workbook: my firm belief that within a year, Heidi would be reunited with her father. All of this felt like what a friend of a friend calls “a God thing.” Divine intervention.
Now I felt nudged to push it, one more time. “When I was here last week, you had on a Property of Jesus Christ sweatshirt. Would you like me to wait here until you put it back on? Or should I come back when you’re wearing it?” Not the kindest thing I’d ever said, but I was running out of time, and options, and I knew well enough from being on the receiving end of disappointment from Dellinger that there can be a difference between short-term and long-term kindness.
“Jason isn’t here right now.” At least she was no longer ordering me to leave.
“Well, if you could let him know that I came by, I’d appreciate it.”
“What is it you want with him anyway?” Anger had turned to suspicion.
“I don’t want anything. He’s not my dad. I thought it’d be nice if he and Heidi could spend some time together and it’d give him the opportunity to meet his grandson, Henry.”
She confessed that they’d seen pictures on Facebook of Henry and commented on how cute he was. I explained how this meeting came to be and that, through prayer and determination, we were standing face to face.
“I don’t need anything,” I said. “I don’t expect anything; I’m just following through on a commitment I made to myself. I’m following a path I believe God has paved.”
The next day, I received a call.
“Hello, Ben. I had to track down your phone number. This is Kay. I met with you yesterday or—you met with me yesterday. Um, the first thing I want to say is that the home you’re selling was, um, the first home Heidi’s I believe great-great-great grandparents lived in when they first came to Oregon. Second of all, I wanted to let you know that I talked to Jason about you coming here yesterday and he’s actually really excited. He said he feels really comfortable about this and that he’s looking forward to meeting you and meeting Henry—and seeing his daughter.”
Not in my wildest dreams had I thought the reunion might be this well received. The San Diego conference had been 10 months ago. The seemingly impossible impulse I’d felt during O’Leary’s talk had come to pass two months ahead of schedule.
The reunion itself was the first of a few and came two weeks later in the coastal town of Lincoln City. A pleasant place to have lunch, walk the beach, and lay a new path forward in terrain not cluttered with memories from old ones. That was followed by more meetings, phone calls, and staying in touch on social media. Everyone was determined to move forward, not look backward, and Heidi’s skills at empathizing with clients and former shipping-company customers now helped grease the skids, too. Not that I was surprised. Challenging relationships always brough out the best in her, and now her father and stepmother were equally determined to help. When the time came to finalize arrangements for the Andrews Gratitude Gathering, Jason and Kay were among those we invited to celebrate and hear John O’Leary’s talk.
All told, we invited 210 people, and to our amazement, 202 showed up. Friends of our family. Clients who’d become friends. Plus a few we felt needed to hear John’s message.
Among them were Cami Napoli, who’d flown up from San Diego. Merwin and Beckie Doud, my aunt and uncle from Medford. Craig Baker was also there. And Jason and Kay. And Kelley Slayton, from that first memorable day at the Oregon State Penitentiary, when I’d known him only as Rock. Sean Hackney, a fellow realtor from Washington who had become a close friend and someone I met through my association with Buffini and Company. I watched as person after person arrived and hugged my parents, my brother, Heidi, and myself. We had created an enormous extended family, as diverse as it was strong.
It was a magical night. John O’Leary talked about the Power of One: If one person will live their life with the right attitude and passion, they can create a ripple effect that can be felt oceans away. As John was closing the evening, he had everyone pull out an envelope that we had placed beneath their plates before the event started. Inside each envelope was a blank piece of paper. John instructed everyone to self-address the envelope. They’d be told later what to do with the paper it contained.
He walked over to a piano saying that he’d once made it a goal to play. Before he sat down, he held up his hands for all to see. They’d been the closest part of his body to the fire that had engulfed him all those years ago, and his fingers had been burned down to nubs.
“Seems impossible that I can play the piano, right?”
He then told people to take the paper out of the envelope. I’m going to ask you to write something on it and put it back in the envelope. Six months from now, you’ll get it back in the mail. But for now, I just want you to find a pen and address the envelope to yourself.
Then, he sat down, told people to close their eyes, and began to play a tune he had written. “Think of the impossible,” he said.
That moment, more than the dinner and pleasant time together, was the gift we’d wanted to bestow on the people we’d invited there that night. We wanted them to dream the impossible: the one they’d never been willing to entertain.
I was watching John, wondering how he’d accomplished his own impossible dream and done it so well. When he next spoke, it was quietly, geared not to break the spell his music had created. Open your eyes, he told people, and find the paper in your envelopes: write down a goal that you hope to reach in the next 12 months. Not necessarily the impossible dream itself, but a steppingstone on its path.
There was a rustle, as people opened their envelops and looked for pens. But mostly it was quiet, while John continued to play. As he did, I thought not so much about my own dreams for the next 12 months as the path that had led to this particular moment. How would John’s life have been different if he hadn’t started the fire that almost killed him? Where would I have been without the faith and encouragement of my mom, my dad, and my brother?
Eventually, I wrote something down on my own sheet of paper and sealed it up in my envelope. But the reality was that I was living my own impossible dream, supported by a host of people who’d intuitively known John’s “power of one” message and had done something to help rescue me from my pit of fear and insecurity, bringing me to this point, where I could now do what I could to pay it forward.
Some of these people were in the past, like Robert Brannon, the former NFL Player turned high school security guard demanding me to ‘keep my mind right’. Dellinger, quietly reproving me and showing this horse the way to water, even as he knew it was up to me to decide what to do with it. But many were in this room. There was Heidi, who’d done the same, staunchly sticking by my side, even as I took my sweet time recognizing the need to quit listening to voices from my past and moving on to becoming the best person I could become not only for her, but for myself and the legacy I will leave behind in our son, Henry. My mom, for always reminding me that one year from today… anything and absolutely everything is possible. My dad for reminding me of who I was when I had forgotten. There was Cami, a one-time stranger who took the mentor and coach baton from Dellinger. Missing was Brad, still determined to preserve his anonymity so he could pay his own success forward to whoever came after me, even if I’d never forget his generosity.
Another was John himself. He was the one who’d motivated me to dream of connecting Heidi with her father, some way, somehow. Talk about an impossible dream! But now both were not only here together, but so was John, without whom it would never have happened.
Then John put the capstone on it.
“Turn to the person next to you,” he said.
For me, that was Kelley Slayton. But also at my table were Heidi and her father, and I could also see them turn toward each other.
“I want you to look in each other’s eyes and tell each other these words,” John said. “’I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it.’”
I watched as Jason looked into his daughter’s eyes and repeated those amazing words. “I love you and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Talk about impossible dreams. Jesus, how did you orchestrate all of this? I thought.
Then I turned to Kelley and, eyes welling, said the same.