An interesting thought: for an organization that’s constituency is always in a state of transformation, how “risk averse” some of the Girl Scouts’ volunteer constituency has been. Courageous girls wake up one day and their clothes don’t fit, their hair looks odd and now they have braces. Days later they feel funny, maybe a little bloated and, well, you know. Yet they still have to go out and face the world, go to school, take those changes in stride, and keep moving forward. We should all take a page from that book.
At our recent annual meeting, held at an historic hotel in Oklahoma City, we hosted almost 200 Girl Scout delegates from all over our 39 counties in central and western Oklahoma. For those of you not in Girl Scouts, we take the democratic process very seriously. Delegates are elected in Service Units across the Council’s territory to represent their area at the annual meeting.
Annual meetings are an opportunity for an organization to share with its stakeholders the financial health of the organization, to make any changes to the by-laws or other corporate documents of the organization, to give a report on how well the organization is fulfilling its mission, to honor retiring board members and other stakeholders who have helped the organization fulfill its mission, to elect the new board and to share a vision going forward into the new year. In the not for profit world, organizations are usually required by their by-laws to conduct this annual business meeting.
In the past, for many Girl Scout Councils, the annual meeting was an opportunity for volunteers who are troop leaders to come together to share stories, to elect the new board and to have an annual awards event. The “business” of the annual meeting may have taken a back seat to operational issues.
To reach more girls with the leadership message of Girl Scouts, we have to address the business of Girl Scouting. Some of our evaluations of the annual meeting; reflected this change: “This was the best meeting I have attended so far. I am pleased to see us in a “power” spot in the city.” As many as 3 delegates to one scored this annual meeting better than any they had ever attended. So we are changing this 100 year old organization into a more dynamic, vibrant, successful and nimble one, moving at the speed and the courage of girls.
Yet, it strikes me as odd that some of the volunteers who have been troop leaders for years seem particularly risk averse. They get upset when talking about changes and making shifts. They often say, “but it’s all about the girls.” I wonder, what girls are they talking about?
Some of the comments left on evaluations of our annual meeting were of this vein. In speaking about a long time supporter and donor to the Girl Scouts who received a well-deserved award, some of the comments were similar to this one submitted: “What service unit are they from? What troop number, how many girls are in their troop? What a joke! Thank God us regular folks love the Girls – because to us Girl Scouts is about them! The Girls!”
This comment referred to our discussion on the importance of reaching more girls with Girl Scouts: “Why are girls referred to as market shares? They are GIRLS!” Others were like this comment about the year-end financial report that lists where all of our money was spent: “I would like to see what areas the money is being spent – not necessarily a budget.”
All the girls I know are continually changing and re-inventing themselves. The speed of their transformational shifts astound me as a mother, friend, aunt, neighbor and acquaintance. I try not to be too shocked when I see a girl sporting a new way of being than she was a mere few weeks earlier. I support her changes; I revel in her marvelous ability to land on her feet, to adapt, to be nimble.
If only some of the folks who say, “It’s all about the girls” were really in touch with the girls and their ever-transforming needs, they might see the great changes being made in Girl Scouts today a whole lot differently!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
No Judgment, Just Prayer
It was 4am when I drove up to the shelter to pick her up. Four in the morning, not unlike the countless numbers of times her husband would wake her in the night to abuse her and not unlike the last time when she awoke to the sound of the gun being cocked and felt the cold metal on her face. How she managed to talk him out of killing her that night, I can only guess because she never said, she just cried for the first week I saw her in the shelter.
She’d been there a month and sometimes she smiled now, especially with her two toddlers who also seemed to be feeling the cloud of abuse lifting, even in the close and crowded conditions of the battered women’s shelter. Then her demeanor seemed to change, she was so quiet all the time, my heart hurt for her through her shyness. Something was wrong and finally she told me, she was pregnant. The last year had been a blur of rape and abuse by her husband, who was stationed at the local military base. He had seen his father abuse his mother all his young life, culminating in his shooting her in front of him, his young son.
This morning we were heading to Wichita, a decision she agonized over for many days. She got in the car and we headed down the Kansas Turnpike. She sobbed quietly in the dark. In my early twenties, I could not comprehend all that she was going through. I could not even imagine the hell in which she had been living.
Dr. Tiller’s office was on Kellogg. We had to arrive early and the process would take most of the day. I knew this was a very, very sad day for her. I was only a witness to her pain, trying to keep her grounded in the world so that there might be a tomorrow for her and her young boys.
My religious upbringing included the idea that only God could judge us – no man could cast judgment on another (lest he be judged). At the kitchen table of my New York born and bred black Irish grandmother I learned a mixture of love, spirituality and common sense. She lit candles in church for the “poor souls in purgatory.” She loved the God she worshipped and I think believed that her praying for those who made mistakes was what we were meant to do. No judgment, just prayer.
Scott Roeder judged another and took his life. Now I struggle to not judge his actions as he had judged another. George Tiller was in church. His family, his God, his pastor, did not judge him.
At the end of a very long day we drove back to Manhattan while she sobbed sometime uncontrollably and I had to pull over and hold her, to the battered women’s shelter. When we got in the door she hugged her sons so tightly, their lives, just beginning again.
She’d been there a month and sometimes she smiled now, especially with her two toddlers who also seemed to be feeling the cloud of abuse lifting, even in the close and crowded conditions of the battered women’s shelter. Then her demeanor seemed to change, she was so quiet all the time, my heart hurt for her through her shyness. Something was wrong and finally she told me, she was pregnant. The last year had been a blur of rape and abuse by her husband, who was stationed at the local military base. He had seen his father abuse his mother all his young life, culminating in his shooting her in front of him, his young son.
This morning we were heading to Wichita, a decision she agonized over for many days. She got in the car and we headed down the Kansas Turnpike. She sobbed quietly in the dark. In my early twenties, I could not comprehend all that she was going through. I could not even imagine the hell in which she had been living.
Dr. Tiller’s office was on Kellogg. We had to arrive early and the process would take most of the day. I knew this was a very, very sad day for her. I was only a witness to her pain, trying to keep her grounded in the world so that there might be a tomorrow for her and her young boys.
My religious upbringing included the idea that only God could judge us – no man could cast judgment on another (lest he be judged). At the kitchen table of my New York born and bred black Irish grandmother I learned a mixture of love, spirituality and common sense. She lit candles in church for the “poor souls in purgatory.” She loved the God she worshipped and I think believed that her praying for those who made mistakes was what we were meant to do. No judgment, just prayer.
Scott Roeder judged another and took his life. Now I struggle to not judge his actions as he had judged another. George Tiller was in church. His family, his God, his pastor, did not judge him.
At the end of a very long day we drove back to Manhattan while she sobbed sometime uncontrollably and I had to pull over and hold her, to the battered women’s shelter. When we got in the door she hugged her sons so tightly, their lives, just beginning again.
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