Sleeping Giants

by Nathan Mellor

  I am forever indebted to Dr. David and Leah Burks, Dr. Dee Carson, Dr. Steve Eckman, Tony and Kathy Kendall, Dr. Carl Mitchell, and Dr. Mike O’Neal for their gift of love and kindness. Thank you to the dream team at Hixson especially: Chuck McAlpin, Kathy Holt, Alicia Henderson, Jake and Shelly Hendrix, and Suzanne Belcher. Although they have been taken from us, I am grateful to have the voices of Eric Baird, Ralph Thompson, Pete Winemiller, and Colonel Pendleton Woods in my head.

  Finally, I want to express my appreciation for a small group of friends that I affectionately call the Whistle Pigs:

  Dale Bresee

  James Bennett

  Steven Bickley

  Bruce Bockus

  Steven Buck

  Tom Connell

  Paul Crawford

  Scott Dewald

  Shad Glass

  Nico Gomez

  Scott Griffin

  Marty Hepp

  Thomas Hill

  Jason Emerson

  David Kenyon

  Scott McLain

  Scott Mueller

  Michael Newcity

  Trevor Nutt

  Ken Parker

  Kevin Penwell

  Myron Pope

  Jim Priest

  David Ross

  Todd Schatzman

  Frank Smith

  Brandon Tatum

  Tim Thorne

  David Whitlock

  Introduction

  Throughout this book, I will be introducing you to people and concepts that I hope you will find interesting and helpful. Some of the stories are about public or historical figures, but most are friends and family. Whenever possible, I have used their real names (with permission), but there are a few times when I felt doing so would have been inappropriate. I have changed their names accordingly.

  Included are several personal stories, and my purpose in sharing them is not an effort to write an autobiography. My reason for telling personal stories is to help make the underlying concepts more accessible. I have been in audiences where someone had a story to tell but did not have a point to make. I hope to have a point to make that can be explained through a story that helps make the concept more easily understood.

  At the core, Sleeping Giants is about mental models. There are numerous definitions of mental models, but researcher and author, Peter Senge, provided one that I have found useful. In Senge’s 1990 classic, The Fifth Discipline, he stated, “Mental models are deeply held internal images of how the world works, images that limit us to familiar ways of thinking and acting. Very often, we are not consciously aware of our mental models or the effects they have on our behavior.”1

  Mental models are continually forming, being shaped, and revised. From the time our brains were able to process information, each of us began collecting data about the world in which we live. Through each chapter, I will present a loose framework intended to challenge and inspire more profound thought about your mental model.

  PART ONE

  THE STORIES WE BELIEVE

  Chapter 1

  “You’re Not as Dumb as Daniel”

  Discovering Your Value

  My father’s name is David, but most people, if they call him by his first name, call him Dave. To his former students, he is “Mr. Mellor,” and to the athletes who played for him, he is “Coach.” Now, in his seventh decade, his shoulders are still broad, and although he carries a few extra pounds on his 5’-7” frame, he has retained the powerful physique of an athlete. His once brown hair has turned to a distinguished blend of gray and white.

  When he was a child, his nickname was “Indian.” The name was not meant as a racial epithet but as a description of his skin color and musculature. In the summer sun of his childhood, his toned skin became a deep brown. His appearance was reminiscent of the Shawnee, who were among the Natives that had once lived in southeastern Ohio, where he grew up.1, 2

  When I hear my father’s voice in my head, it makes me smile. His voice has the raspy quality that is common among veteran coaches, but it is strong and distinct. When he is passionate about a topic, he unleashes his words, as if he were a verbal prizefighter delivering devastating combinations. A longtime coach, preacher, and teacher, he projects his voice without the aid of a microphone or sound system. He is intense, an original thinker, and he has the heart of a lion.

  It was during the early years of elementary school that I recognized that he and my mother were unique. My discovery was not the result of a single experience but a series of events that eventually tipped the scales for me. Interestingly, it was not their actions that caused me to take notice as much as it was the reactions of others to them that opened my eyes.

  My mother’s name is Susan. If for some reason our family were forced to vote on which person was the most talented, the vote would be unanimous for her. A leader, she is thoughtful, creative, funny, and a remarkable communicator. When my brother and I were young, she chose to be a stay-at-home mother. As we moved into junior and senior high school, she began working in professional roles that played to her strengths. When we left for college, she focused her efforts primarily on managing a bookstore before transitioning to business-to-business sales. Due to her blend of determination and likability, it was no surprise to any of us that she was successful.

  THE TALKING TREE

  The process by which we become self-aware includes a series of awakening moments. Through this process of discovery, we gain insights into how the world works and our place within it. By becoming self-aware, we also become aware of others and how our lives intersect with them. Awakening moments consist of breakthrough experiences that represent a leap forward in our understanding. They are “aha” moments in which we are able to make sense of something that had been a mystery before. When we have an awakening moment, we see the world more clearly and our perspective is changed.

  One of the earliest awakening moments for me, regarding my dad, happened when I was very young. It is one of my first memories. The elementary school my brother and I were attending was hosting a fall festival. As part of the festivities, there were booths for face painting, cakewalks, ring tosses, and other attractions. To help make the event possible, parents were recruited to manage the games. Dad was asked to be the voice for a large puppet, known as the “Talking Tree.”

  The life-size tree was constructed from wood, cardboard, and paper. I am not sure who built it, but it was a masterpiece. Jim Henson would have been proud to have had this tree on the set of Sesame Street. Hidden inside the trunk, dad became a puppeteer, and the tree magically sprang to life.

  The genius of the Talking Tree was its simplicity. The Tree told knock-knock jokes that appealed to kids. The jokes were from a thick joke book that had been sitting on a shelf in our home since my birth in the summer of 1973. Dad bought the book when mom was in the hospital giving birth to me. He thought she might enjoy hearing a few jokes to help pass the time. Amazingly, my mother did not fully appreciate his comedic genius as she recovered from her cesarean section.

  Even though it was the era of the Muppet Show, if it had not been for the fact that he was lending his voice and humor to the Talking Tree, it would not have been a draw. However, with dad telling jokes, the line for the Talking Tree began to grow. By the end of the evening, it seemed the Talking Tree had become the most popular attraction. It takes a special kind of person to make kids laugh, and he knew what he was doing.

  THE STORYTELLER

  Around that same time, I had a similar experience with my mother, but instead of it happening at school, it was at church. The congregation we attended was very community minded and had focused their efforts on building an active bus ministry. The busses allowed children to attend church who could not do so otherwise because of a lack of transportation. The church started with a couple of busses and whenever there was enough money saved, dad and a few of the me
n from the church would drive to a wholesaler and purchase additional used school buses.

  One of the members at the church owned a sawmill that had a large covered area they used as a makeshift paint booth. When they were prepping a bus for paint, they would work late into the evening, taping windows, sanding and removing hardware. Sometimes my brother and I would go to the sawmill while dad painted. Because it was often late in the evening, we would explore a little, but then we would find a comfortable spot to sleep. The paint had a sweet smell, and coupled with the smell of the wood, it created a scent that I will always associate with childhood. The buses rolled in “school bus yellow,” and a few days later, they rolled out freshly painted white with a blue stripe along the side. They were renamed “Joy Buses” and were added to a growing fleet. Each week, the buses rumbled through the surrounding neighborhoods, picking up children who wanted to go to church but needed a ride.

  On occasion, to help build momentum and a sense of excitement, the church would host special days that were designed to make it easier to invite friends and family to visit. One of those days was “Bust the Record” day. That morning, as the buses picked up the children along their routes, the turnout was beyond what anyone could have possibly imagined. Kids kept piling on until the bus was standing room only. They sang along the way, and their voices were so loud, they could literally be heard from a block away. When the buses finished their route and arrived back at the building, they counted the number of kids on each bus to see which one had the best turnout. The winning bus had 147 very excited and happy kids on board.

  There were several practical challenges in having so many children attending a church without their parents. One of those was having enough adults and teens on hand to keep the children safe and to make sure the classes were engaging. On some of the highest attendance days, the ratio between the children and teachers could easily be 30 to 40 kids to one adult.

  My mother and two other teachers taught the second grade Sunday school class. When the buses were packed full, their class ballooned to 120 children. As the kids kept pouring in, she recognized the activity planned for the day was not going to work. Instead of panicking, she got creative. She looked in her purse for a prop and located a fluffy, white, powder applicator. Knowing the natural curiosity of kids, she let them see that she was looking at something extraordinary, but she kept the object of her attention concealed from their sight. With her back to the kids, she carefully cupped the applicator in her hands. Turning to face the children, she lifted her cupped hands to eye level. They could see the white “fur,” but they could not identify what it was.

  Due to the sheer number of kids, she stood on top of a table to teach the class. In a matter of minutes, the entire group sat with their mouths open in disbelief. Amazingly, she was playing “make believe” with 120 7-year-olds simultaneously. The storyteller cast her spell, and the children were mesmerized. When they would get too comfortable, she would make it appear as if she was struggling to contain the tiny animal. The kids would act bravely until she twitched her hands in their direction. They jumped and laughed in delight. It takes an exceptional teacher to capture the imagination of children. Watching my mother hold her class spellbound provided undeniable proof that she was indeed remarkable.

  A SAFE HOME

  Around that same time, when I was old enough to understand the concept, my parents sat my brother and me down to talk about what it meant to be a foster family. They explained some of the reasons why there were children in foster care and the challenges we could expect. Even before this moment, we had opened our home to children in need, but I was too young to understand why. Consequently, throughout the bulk of my childhood, we were a foster family. Sometimes it was for just a few days, but typically it was for 2 to 3 years at a time. There are differing opinions about how best to care for children in foster care. At the time, there was very little guidance or research on the topic. Our approach was straightforward. When kids came to our home, they did not just live in our house; they became a part of our family.

  KRISTI

  Kristi was a little girl who came to our home as a toddler and lived with us for nearly three years while spending occasional weekends with her birth mother. From the first moment she stepped foot in our house, she became a Mellor. Many memories could be shared about Kristi, but there are a few that stand out.

  Anyone who has ever eaten a meal at our house knows that among my mother’s many talents is her ability to cook. Not surprisingly, the kitchen is among my mother’s favorite places in the house. When she would cook, Kristi would sit on the countertop with her tiny feet resting in the sink. While mom prepared the food, they would sing or talk. Kristi would watch mom cook, and it was their way of bonding.

  On many evenings, dad would brush out Kristi’s long brown hair. As hard as he tried, getting her pigtails symmetrical was beyond his ability. When I became the father of daughters, I would often think of these tender moments when my father, the wrestler and football player, would gently brush Kristi’s hair. It is one of my favorite mental images of both him and Kristi.

  We had begun the process of adopting her, with her mother’s approval, when Kristi was unexpectedly taken from us. She had gone to be with her birth mother over a weekend, but instead of bringing her back at the appointed time, she had skipped town. Although it was against the law to do so, she had taken Kristi with her. Without knowing any of this, we waited for Kristi to return, but she never showed up. After a few hours, we began a search, but there was no trace of her. The hours became days, which turned into months and then years.

  At one point, someone gave us a tip about her whereabouts. We thought we had a breakthrough, but when we contacted the Department of Human Services, they said they were powerless to help because she was living across state lines. Her absence was a black hole for years and a topic we could not discuss without getting emotional. It had been nearly 30 years since she left our home when we finally found her on social media. We shared a few pictures with her from her childhood and told her that we wanted to connect if she would like to do so.

  When she agreed to connect, it was as if someone who had died had been brought back to life. Reconnecting with her was one of the most powerful emotions I have ever experienced. Through our messages back and forth, we started catching up on what had happened. There were moments of joy to celebrate, but there were also moments that made my stomach turn and brought tears of anger and frustration to my eyes. My parents suggested a face-to-face meeting with Kristi, and she agreed.

  At the informal reunion, no one knew what to expect. It took every ounce of my parent’s strength to keep their composure when she arrived still wearing her brown hair long. My dad mentioned something about her hair, and she said, “I have always liked my long hair.” Later in the conversation, my mom asked her about her hobbies. She said, “My favorite thing is cooking. I have always enjoyed cooking and would like to do it professionally someday.” She may not have remembered my dad brushing her hair in the evenings before she went to bed or my mom talking to her in the kitchen, but it was evident that those moments had registered somewhere. I cannot express how grateful I am that we found her and now have a renewed relationship with her. She is a brave and strong woman, and our family will forever love her.

  ADAM

  Adam came to our home when he was 3. When the caseworker brought him to our house, he was frustrated, confused, and angry. When she tried to calm him, he responded violently. He made a fist and punched her in the eye with as much force as he could deliver. The blow broke her glasses and cut her face.

  As my parents attended to the caseworker, he snuck into their bedroom and found my mother’s fingernail polishes. He poured one bottle on the bedspread and another on the wooden bedroom furniture. He then smeared the polish around for good measure. Noticing he was gone, my mother walked into her room and saw what he had done. When she confronted him, he responded to her
aggressively. He put his fists on his hips and growled, “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  The abuse he had endured in the first years of his life had been horrific. The chaos of his first day with us was a window into the hell he had suffered his entire life. He had only known pain and chaos. It was his normal.

  The specific moment that required the state to take him from his birth family defied all logic. For reasons unknown, his mother filled their bathtub with scalding hot water and then put her child, who would have been between 1 and 2 years old, in the water. Every inch of his tender skin that touched the water was badly burned. Due to his age, he was utterly powerless to defend himself or to get out of the tub. When he came to our home, the burns had healed, but the scars, both physical and emotional, remained visible.

  As might be expected, even though the abuse had been when he was so young, he remained terrified of the bathtub. When it was bath time, dad did not force him into the tub. Instead, he put on a pair of swim trunks and got in the water to show him it was safe. Slowly, Adam began to rebuild trust. In time, mom or dad would place their hands under the faucet so he could see that the water pouring over their hands was not too hot. They would invite him to do the same, and he would place his little hand under the water. Eventually, he was able to take baths on his own.

  In the first few months, Adam was highly resistant to affection, and although it is a parental instinct to hug and touch, my parents were very slow to do so because of his negative responses. It was around the Christmas holidays when he came down with a particularly bad case of the flu. He was exhausted and miserable when he unexpectedly reached for my mother. She picked him up in her arms, took him to the rocking chair beside the fireplace, and quietly rocked him to sleep. We were shocked and overjoyed by the breakthrough. Based on his aversion to being touched, it would not surprise me if this had been the first time that he had ever been held and rocked to sleep in the arms of a loving parent.