The day finally arrived. The hours dragged by as I waited at the hotel. Six o’clock came, but Dad didn’t. Finally, at 6:30, he arrived with another man—a dear friend and an influential business acquaintance. I remember how my heart sank as this man said, “I’m so excited to have you here, Stephen. Tonight, Lois and I would like to take you to the wharf for a spectacular seafood dinner, and then you must see the view from our house.” When Dad told him I was there, this man said, “Of course, she can come, too. We’d love having her.”
Oh, great! I thought. I hate fish, and I’ll be stuck alone in the backseat while Dad and his friend talk. I could see all my hopes and plans going down the drain.
My disappointment was bigger than life. This man was pressing so hard. I wanted to say, “Dad, this is our time together! You promised!” But I was twelve years old, so I only cried inside.
I will never forget the feeling I had when Dad said, “Gosh, Bill, I’d love to see you both, but this is a special time with my girl. We’ve already got it planned to the minute. You were kind to invite us.” I could tell this man was disappointed, but—amazingly to me—he seemed to understand.
We did absolutely everything we had planned on that trip. We didn’t miss a thing. That was just about the happiest time of my life. I don’t think any young girl ever loved her father as much as I loved mine that night.
I’m convinced you would be hard-pressed to come up with a deposit that has more impact in the family than making and keeping promises. Just think about it! How much excitement, anticipation, and hope is created by a promise? And the promises we make in the family are the most vital and often the most tender promises of all.
The most foundational promise we ever make to another human being is the vow inside a marriage. It’s the ultimate promise. And equal to it is the promise we implicitly have with our children—particularly when they’re little—that we will take care of them, that we will nurture them. That’s why divorce and abandonment are such painful withdrawals. Those involved often feel as though the ultimate promises have been broken. So when these things have occurred, it becomes even more important to make deposits that will help rebuild bridges of confidence and trust.
At one time a man who had helped me on a particular project described the awful divorce he had just gone through. But he spoke with a kind of glowing pride about how he had kept the promise he had made to himself and his wife many months before that no matter what happened, he would not bad-mouth her—especially in front of his kids—and that he would always speak of her in ways that were affirming, uplifting, and positive. This was during the time when the legal and emotional battles were going on, and he said it was the hardest thing he had ever done. But he also said how grateful he was that he did it because it made all the difference—not only in how his children felt about themselves but also in how they felt about both their parents and their sense of family, despite the very difficult situation. He couldn’t say enough about how glad he was that he kept the promise he had made.
Even when promises have been broken in the past, you can sometimes turn the situation into a deposit. I remember a man once who didn’t come through on a commitment he had made to me. Later, he asked if he could have the opportunity to do something else, and I said no. Based on my past experience with him, I wasn’t sure he would follow through.
But that man said to me, “I didn’t come through before. I should have acknowledged it. I just gave a halfhearted effort, and that was wrong of me. Would you please give me one more opportunity? Not only will I come through, I will come through in gangbuster style.”
I agreed, and he did it. He came through in a remarkable way. And in my eyes, he rose even higher than if he had kept his first commitment. His courage in coming back, in dealing with a difficult problem and a mistake in an honorable way, made a massive deposit in my Emotional Bank Account.
Forgiving
For many people the ultimate test of the proactive muscle comes in forgiving. In fact, you will always be a victim until you forgive.
One woman shared this experience:
I came from a very united family. We were always together—children, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—and we dearly loved one another.
When my father followed my mother in death, it deeply saddened us all. The four of us children met to divide our parents’ things among us and our families. What happened at that meeting was an unforeseen shock from which we thought we would never recover. We had always been an emotional family, and at times we had disagreed to the point of some arguing and temporary ill will toward one another. But this time we argued beyond anything we had ever known before. The fight became so heated that we found ourselves yelling bitterly at one another. We began to emotionally tear at each other. Without being able to settle our differences, we each determined and announced that we were going to get lawyers to represent us and that the matter would be settled in court.
Each of us left that meeting feeling bitter and deeply resentful. We stopped visiting or even phoning one another. We stopped getting together on birthdays or holidays.
The situation went on for four years. It was the hardest trial of my life. Often, I felt the pain of loneliness and the unforgiving spirit of the bitterness and accusations that divided us. As my pain deepened, I kept thinking, If they really loved me, they would call me. What’s wrong with them? Why don’t they call?
Then one day I learned about the concept of the Emotional Bank Account. I came to realize that not forgiving my brothers and sisters was reactive on my part and that love is a verb, an action, something that I must do.
That night, as I was sitting alone in my room, the phone seemed to cry out to be used. I mustered all my courage and dialed the number of my oldest brother. When I heard his wonderful voice say, “Hello,” tears flooded my eyes, and I could scarcely speak.
When he learned who it was, his emotions matched mine. We each raced to be the first to say, “I’m sorry.” The conversation turned to expressions of love, forgiveness, and memories.
I called the others. It took most of the night. Each responded just as my oldest brother had.
That was the greatest and most significant night of my life. For the first time in four years I felt whole. The pain that had quietly been ever present was gone—replaced by the joy of forgiveness and peace. I felt renewed.
Notice how all four gifts came into play in this remarkable reconciliation. Look at this woman’s depth of awareness of what was happening. Observe this woman’s connection with her conscience, her moral sense. Also note how the concept of the Emotional Bank Account created a vision of what is possible and how these three gifts joined in producing the willpower to forgive and connect together again, and to experience the happiness that such an emotional reunion brings.
Another woman shared this experience:
I remember as a child feeling happy and secure. I have warm memories of going on picnics as a family, playing games in the front room, and gardening together. I knew my parents loved each other and they loved us children.
But as I reached my mid-teens, things began to change. My dad went on occasional business trips. He began working late at night and on Saturdays. The relationship between him and my mom seemed strained. He didn’t spend time with the family anymore. One night as I was returning home from the graveyard shift at the restaurant where I worked, I saw my Dad pull up at the same time. I realized then that he hadn’t been home all night.
Eventually, my mother and father separated and then divorced. It was a bitter blow to all of us children, especially when we discovered that Dad had been unfaithful to Mom. His infidelity, we learned, had started on one of his business trips.
Several years later I married a wonderful young man. We loved each other deeply, and we both took our marriage vows very seriously. Everything seemed to be going very well—until one day when he told me his job would require him to leave for a few days on a business trip. Suddenly, all the pain of the past washed over me. It was on his business trips, I remembered, that my dad began being unfaithful to my mother. I had absolutely no reason to doubt my husband. There was nothing to justify my fear. But the fear was there—deep and painful.