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Chapter Three

The Fears Came First

It seemed easy, but what came first were the fears. In full force, they took up the invitation to speak to me and had lots to say. Night sweats would wake me up at 3 a.m., unusual for me. Not much wakes me up, but, like Ebenezer Scrooge, I had three rounds of middle-of-the-night visitors, each with a specific concern and each lasting for two to three weeks.

Fear of Incompetence

The first round had me worrying about leading in a field where I have not only minimal knowledge but the least knowledge among all my colleagues. I dreamt about showing up at meetings having prepared the wrong material, running out of time to read everything, or trying to speak but no words would come. I woke up to a sense of panic and embarrassment. Following Fr. Ken’s instructions, I would write down these fears on the pad I kept on the night table next to my bed, acknowledge my fear, give this to God, and fall back to sleep.

Depth of knowledge is the calling card for academics and the basis of legitimacy for our credibility. Academics draw very tight perimeters within which they will plumb deep. One has to be clear on which microslice of what topic one is proffering unassailable knowledge and opinion. Because they often interact with others who have equivalent depth but on different topics, academics are very careful not to wander into areas (even highly related contiguous topics) that are not their specializations. There is no word more damning to an academic than “shallow.” Thus the idea of leading an organization when I possessed little knowledge horrified me.

During the day, I actually did not think about it. Fr. Ken’s instruction freed me from having to resolve the problem: I was merely to listen, to note, to name my fear. There was no analytic with which to approach this, I would just offer it to God. Somehow, in random moments, insights would come, and they would help me move past a hurdle.

I cannot tell you when these insights arrived or where they came from — it was almost like a doorbell rang and a message was delivered. Out of the blue, it dawned on me that I had never presented myself as an international development specialist; nothing on my résumé would indicate that. I had not misled anyone. Given that the search committee could not have seen international development on my résumé, they must be looking for something else.

At that point, I recalled the words of a beloved mentor who had since passed away. Dr. Robert Ringel, Executive Vice President of Academic Affairs (EVPAA) — essentially the provost — of Purdue University, had offered me the position of Associate EVPAA. At that time, I had had only one semester as a full professor and felt completely unqualified and unprepared for the position. I had no exposure to university governance and budgets, nor had I been engaged in the deliberation of decisions for which the Office of the EVPAA would develop policy guidance.

Even though the post of Associate EVPAA would be several steps up the hierarchy, I did not think it was time for me to move on to a new assignment. I turned down Dr. Ringel and the assignment. To show proper respect in the Chinese way, my letter presented a litany of the many things I had not handled and areas for which I had no expertise. I highlighted my deficiencies and concluded that he deserved someone better and more knowledgeable than me.

That evening I ran into Dr. Ringel at the intermission of a concert. He was disappointed and somber. He told me that he was not capable of small talk because he just lost a friend to suicide, so he would speak directly, perhaps undiplomatically. He then said three things to me.

First, I should not put myself down and focus on things I had not done. What we do not know in the universe is unbounded. Humility does not require us to deny or diminish what we have done, what we have invested to learn, and the contributions we stand to make.

Second, he noted that I should trust him: he knew what I had and had not done; he could decipher my strengths, gaps, and experiences.

Third, and most important, he knew what he needed. He felt that I had not given any weight to his judgment in reaching out to me. He was right. He told me to call him when I felt ready to move on, that he would have a place for me on his team.

In the winter of 2011, when I was overwhelmed by what I did not know about international development, Dr. Ringel’s words from 1993 came flooding into my memory. Were he alive, he would be one of the first persons I would call. Though he was gone, he still spoke to me. When I did join the Purdue EVPAA Office two years after our talk, I did not end up crafting administrative policies, but assumed the responsibility for designing and coordinating the university-wide strategic planning, change management, and continuous improvement processes. My role was unique to the university, was complementary to others’ efforts, and drew on expertise I had developed over decades.

Such insights settled my nerves and helped me turn my focus to what I could do rather than what I could not do. Just as important was the acknowledgment that CRS, with five thousand employees, easily enjoys more than fifty thousand people-years of knowledge about international development. If I were to become CRS’s CEO, I would need to respect what I did not know and turn to and access the deep expertise of colleagues. I found the opportunity for others to help me lead energizing. I have taught executive leadership for a long time, and one of the myths and blind spots is that the leader should know everything and make every decision. This is unhealthy for the leader and grossly underutilizes the talents within the organization. In some ways, having decades of experience may get in the way of cultivating others’ perspectives and developing their leadership potential.

My fear about incompetence lost its grip on me.

Fear of Danger

My second round of night sweats brought into consciousness the danger of being in highly insecure countries and also the fear that something might happen to David while I am gone on one of my many trips. Among the countries in which CRS serves, many face a high degree of violence or are exposed to health and physical hazards. Threats to personnel in the development sector have been rising steadily over the years.

I was in Ethiopia as a CRS board member in 2008. We arrived at our hotel one hour after a bomb exploded in a minibus across the street. We were fortunate in that our arrival was held up because of a delay in baggage handling. In 2010, I spent five days in Afghanistan when three security threats took place: the first targeted the staff of another humanitarian organization; the second was an explosion that sprayed shrapnel and injured the wife of a CRS staff member; and the third incident involved a round of attacks near the airport from which I would be leaving later that afternoon. My middle-of-the-night thoughts drifted to Fr. Larry Jenco, who was kidnapped in Lebanon in 1985 by members of the radical group Islamic Holy War and released after 564 days in captivity. At that time, he was serving as CRS Lebanon country manager.

It should be noted that CRS has very strict security protocols that include comprehensive training, restrictions in movements, readiness preparation, ratings of countries for the assignment of personnel, as well as participation in various networks for security updates and evacuations. Safety is the number-one concern, and all decisions pivot around this. Yet unpredictable violence is always a part of some of our operating environments.

And the risks are not confined to man-made violence. When I went to Indonesia in 2005 to survey the tsunami relief, an aftershock brought on an earthquake of 8.7 on the Richter scale while I was on the top — eighth — floor of a hotel. All these were on my mind as I sat up in bed in the middle of the night. I felt strongly that as CEO one should be ready to go wherever the staff are; otherwise we have no business putting people there. Did I have the courage? Could I embrace this aspect of the position?

A bigger worry was about my husband. Dave is relatively healthy but has had blackouts due to atrial fibrillation, which causes an irregular heartbeat. What would happen if David had a blackout and I was not there?

This fear is essentially about death. That is, of course, a big one. I had no answers: I just gave this to God. As in the first round of worries, insights would just come: sometimes in church, and more often in the cafés where I tended to do my work. A thought came to me amidst coffee and a pile of work that I was not with David either of the times he had his spells. One time, a friend was there; the other time Dave was alone. As it was, I travelled a lot as dean. Right around that time, someone told me the story of a man who went down to the basement to get a bottle of wine and had a fatal heart attack. It dawned on me that things could happen any time, in or out of my presence, regardless of where I worked. The key is to trust God, to know that David is in His care as much as in mine.

We should always be prudent, sensible, and responsible. I am not the risk-seeker type: chasing storms, bungee jumping, and extreme sports hold absolutely no thrill for me. But it was also clear that we can allow the worry about death to clutch us so tightly that we give up living. We take risks daily, every time we cross a street or get in a car. I had to trust my CRS colleagues: if they designate a country or region as sufficiently safe for operations, then it will be safe enough for me. The big question really is: do we trust that God is always with us? That we are in the palm of His hand?

There was a final message that came to me. While death is loss and loss is painful, our Christian faith tells us that death is not a punishment. It is the return to the Father who made us and to the home where each of us was promised a place. It is life continued in a different form, where we finally know love for all that it is and not through a mirror dimly. Whatever loss there is, eventually we will be together again. Another mentor for me is Fr. Theodore “Ted” Hesburgh, C.S.C., the legendary President Emeritus of the University of Notre Dame. When he spoke of death during a homily, his eyes sparkled, and he recited the verse “Eye has not seen, and ear has not heard … what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9). How long we are meant to be on this earth is God’s call, not ours. I was able to put the fear of mishaps for Dave and me in God’s hands and felt a sense of relief.

Fear of Change

The third set of worries that woke me up was kind of silly: a leap from the sublime to the mundane. I am a creature of habit, and I do not like to spend a lot of time attending to daily logistics. I keep the same doctors, dentist, dry cleaner, beauty salon, seamstress, fitness club, shoe repair, car maintenance, grocery store, and Chinese supply store. I am also not a great driver and have a poor sense of direction. Navigating in new cities is always Dave’s job. A new location would require me to start all over again. By then, we had also decided that if I were to be offered the job at CRS, David would stay in South Bend. It wouldn’t make sense for him to move to Baltimore with me because I would be traveling so much. So I would be on my own quite a bit.

I woke up tied in knots over the most trivial matters. Should I move my car to Baltimore or keep it in South Bend? Where will I take my dry-cleaning? Where will I exercise? Should we drive back and forth or spend the money flying back and forth to South Bend? Who will cut my hair? Where will I take my clothes for alterations? I felt like Gulliver as each strand of his hair was pinned down by his tiny captors until he was immobilized.

In the daylight, I recognized these concerns for what they were: about change, about giving up what is familiar, about meeting new challenges, and about leaving one’s community. I felt an attachment to the people behind those services. These individuals — like Karen who did my alterations, Laura who cut my hair, the Sisters of Holy Cross who welcome us every Sunday to worship with them, our faith-filled and gracious neighbors John and Jan Jenkins, my colleagues at the Mendoza College — are friends who care for each other. I did not want to let them go.

Leaving would be hard, as I knew only too well from experience. For me, it would be akin to removing old contact paper from drawers. When the glue of the liner has bonded with the wood fiber of the drawer, the paper does not come off easily and jagged pieces remain.

As I dealt with this, one word from Jesus was lodged in my head: “Go.” It seemed that every reading in scripture at that time echoed that invitation: Abraham, Moses, Isaiah, Jonah, the disciples, St. Paul, and so on. “Go” — a simple enough word; I got the message.

Then there was another word — joy.