Trust Accounts

Black’s Law Dictionary defines a “TRUST” as “A right of property, real or personal, held by one party for the benefit of another. A confidence reposed in one person who is termed trustee, for the benefit of another . . . Any arrangement whereby property is transferred with intention that it be administered by trustee for another’s benefit.”

Is it possible that all I possess has been given to me . . . and I am simply a “Trustee” . . . it was all deposited into my “Trust Account” to be distributed out to others in order to benefit those around me, instead of it being selfishly spent on myself?

Is it possible that I have a “Fiduciary Responsibility” to manage my portfolio of possessions in such a way as to make other people around me “better off”?

I have come to a place in my life where I really believe the above to be the case. I have also come to a place where I have empirically experienced the phenomenon where, as I transfer those things out of my “portfolio of possession,” there is some kind of terrestrial accounting system that kicks into action, and compensating deposits are strangely and generously placed back into my Trust Account so that I can give out even more!

My next statement makes me feel a bit sophomoric and silly, but in my early days of experimenting with this phenomenon, I actually tried to out-give God. I tried to see if I could transfer out of my Trust Account into the Trust Accounts of others faster than God could transfer compensating deposits back into my Trust Account. I failed miserably. I came to the consoling conclusion that I could not out-give God. The faster I would give it away, the faster he would put it back in . . . always with a bit more. I found that I always had something left over to give away again!

The other day I walked through the aisleways of one of our huge Project C.U.R.E.warehouses. Stacked high on the steel racks were millions and millions of dollars worth of medical supplies and pieces of medical equipment. At several of the overhead dock doors of the warehouse, ocean-going cargo containers were parked, being loaded for distribution to needy hospitals and clinics far away. At other dock doors were incoming trucks being unloaded of donated medical goods to be inventoried and processed. I was nearly overwhelmed with both a raging excitement and a deeply embedded peace, all at the same time.

Immediately, a scene replayed across the screen of my mind. I was in a very dirty hotel room in an area of high poverty in the old Soviet Union during the beginning days of Project C.U.R.E. I had just promised my new friends at the near-by hospitals and clinics that I would send them desperately needed medical supplies. “But what . . . ,” I was saying aloud to myself in the room, “what if I get home and I don’t have the needed goods to send to these people?” Then I heard from heaven. “You concern yourself with helping these people, I will give you just a bit more than you can ever give away.” As I have obediently given away out of my Trust Account, God has always faithfully replenished that Trust Account with generous compensating deposits allowing me to freely give again, again and again.

I believe that being a responsible Trustee with the things deposited into my Trust Account, and acting with a sense of fiduciary responsibility and resolute confidence regarding all that has been entrusted to me, is a great part of what makes me The Happiest Man in the World.

A Vietnamese Lullaby

I traveled to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, where we had teamed up with an extremely talented group of surgeons, nurses and anesthetists that specialized in incidences of pediatric cleft palates and hair lips. There was a backlog of over 7,000 children needing maxillofacial procedures. The need was overwhelming. I accompanied the doctors to the children’s wards for their pre-op rounds. My heart and attention was drawn to one particular seven-month-old Vietnamese boy. His condition was one of the most forbidding I had ever seen. He suffered a complicated double hair lip, as well as an extremely severe cleft palate. There was so much of the face missing that I could look directly into the child’s sinus cavities. Obviously, the hospital doctors had given the team a most desperate and dramatic case to reconstruct.

As the young mother handed the baby to the surgeon, her eyes and expressions did all the talking. She was literally pleading for someone to help her and her critically disfigured child. Because of the baby’s condition, it was impossible for him to suck.  The mother was required to extract the milk from her breasts and use a spoon to feed him.  She had to be very careful as she aimed the milk so that it did not spill into the air passageway and drown the child.

I slipped into some surgical scrubs and accompanied the team into the theater with my camera.  The surgeon took his pen and drew a diagram of a mouth on the surgery drape that covered the baby’s shoulders. He then took the pen and made reference dots on the baby’s face. I thought as I watched, “He not only needs to be a skilled surgeon, but he also is required to be a sensitive artist, visualizing a perfect mouth all the while he is cutting and stitching that little face.” There was a tremendous amount of concentration, and I could feel the intensity of the situation grow with each slice of the scalpel and each stitch of the curved needle.  When it was time for the surgeon to make the new lip pieces to fill in under the restructured nose, he slit open the two large flesh bulbs and began carving the tissue out of them and stretching them across to join the two beneath the nose. It was not just an exterior surface procedure that took place. The skin on the outside had to all fit together, but so did all the pieces of the tissue and muscle underneath the skin. For the bone and marrow needed to restructure the missing palate and gums, bone was extracted from the baby’s hip area.

After more than four hours of intense surgery the job was really beginning to look incredibly good. But, the surgeon was not quite happy with how the last part was coming together.  So, he unstitched part of what he had done and reformed the little lip until it came together and matched perfectly. Later that day I went with the doctors to the recovery room.  The scene that I encountered next burned a picture into my mind that I will never be able to forget. The little mother of the terribly disfigured baby and her young husband were both in the recovery room.

The baby was their first-born child. He was awake, but not crying . . .  just whimpering as he looked around for reassurance from his mommy. The doctor gently handed the baby to his mother, who was smiling from ear to ear as she took her child. Then, with the husband looking over her shoulder, the impact of the occasion slammed her. Her smiles turned to a look of disbelief and I could see her struggling, trying to determine if what she was seeing was for real, or was she just dreaming another haunting and cruel dream about having a perfectly normal baby?  She held the little guy tightly to her breast and then pulled him back up and looked straight into his face again. She could not hold the seven months of pent up emotion inside her any longer.  

She cried softly for a little while. The tears dropped down on the baby as she held him again to her breast. Then she pulled him back again and looked at him again and saw her own tears on the baby’s body and realized that the moment was not a dream. It was for real.  

Far gone now were the moments in the room where the baby was born and she had been handed the child for the first time. It had been there that the horror and disappointment had filled her mind, while at the same time, love for the precious child had filled her heart. Gone now were the long hours of rocking and walking the child, looking down at his face and questioning, “Why was my baby, my very first baby, destined to go through life like this? Did we do something wrong? Are we being punished?” There were never any answers to her questions before. But now, she was holding the beautiful baby of her dreams. She had loved him completely when he was deformed.  She now had the beautiful opportunity to love him completely, as he was whole.

The little boy’s brown eyes met the mother’s eyes and he tried to smile. That was more than she could handle. She sobbed. The young father reached into his pocket and pulled out a small dirty handkerchief.  He took the rag and began wiping the tears from the mother's face. He quietly cried. I cried freely. The tears seemed to be the telescopes that allowed us to see into heaven.  Something special had happened in that recovery room on that hot day in Ho Chi Minh. Jesus, the healer, had come to walk the halls of that hospital and touch the torn hearts of a young Vietnamese peasant couple. As I left the recovery room I could hear the mother begin to softly sing a lullaby to her child  . . . or was it angels that I heard singing?

Life's Finest

by Dr. James W. Jackson

Author, The Happiest Man in the World: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist;

Recently, Winston-Crown Publishing Housepublished the book, “THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD: Life Lessons from a Cultural Economist.” In using the term “happiest man,” I didn’t intend to write a treatise on the subject of “happiness.” I simply wanted to tell the unusual story of the phenomenon called “Project C.U.R.E.,” and share a bit of the privilege and excitement I experienced through being a part of the adventure. However, the term “happiness” has sparked some unexpected inquiries and has started at least a hundred conversations. Happiness is a pretty hot subject.

I have decided to pass on, in future articles, some of the comments and concepts that have been generated from our discussions regarding “happiness.” In a broad sense, I have concluded that “Life is full of alternatives, alternatives demand choices, choices set into motion consequences; how we reconcile and managethe consequences that have been set into motion by our choices will determine the level of our happiness.” Even if consequences are imposed upon us by others, yet, how we reconcile and manage those consequences that have been set into motion will determine our level of happiness.


Another concept regarding happiness has come through personal observation throughout my lifetime: “If a man tells me he is a ‘happy person,’ I try to discreetly find out from him the three people he has made happy, recently. If he is not engaged in making other people better off, then he is not yet truly happy, because he is still consumed with himself.”

Project C.U.R.E. (http://www.projectcure.org/) is a large organization that is viewed as a service vehicle, capable of fulfilling a person’s desire to help make other people “better off.” That intrigues me. We have over 12,000 volunteers throughout the U.S. actively engaged in collecting, sorting, inventorying, packing, and delivering medical goods that will be sent to thousands of clinics and hospitals in 123 countries around the world. The volunteers have a burning desire to help those needy people, even though they will probably never meet them personally or ever receive a “thank you” for loving and helping them. But, through the act of making other people happy, they have personally set into motion consequences that bring happiness back to them, the volunteers. Additionally, Project C.U.R.E.’s efforts to afford the volunteers an opportunity to make others better off have returned to bless Project C.U.R.E. immeasurably.

And now, for a more personal note, someone asked me recently, “What are some of the finest things you are experiencing as the ‘happiest man in the world?'” My answer was simple:

“Unfailing love and faultless fidelity from my mate is my Finest Treasure, 
Good health is my Finest Possession, 
A clear conscience is my Finest Friend, and, 
Assurance of spending forever and forever with my friends in heaven is my Finest Joy.”

How would you answer the question regarding your Finest Treasure, Finest Possession, Finest Friend and Finest Joy? Let’s get a dialogue started on your questions, thoughts and concepts about “happiness.” Who knows? . . . Maybe Winston-Crown Publishing House would like to tackle a new project on the subject of “Happiness.” Let’s share some ideas.

Take vs. Give

Following the collapse of the old Soviet Union, Project C.U.R.E. was pulled into the rescue and rehabilitation of the health care systems of the bankrupt Soviet. After assessing the hospitals, clinics and practices, we immediately began pouring in millions of dollars worth of donated medical goods from the US. We started with the corridor stretching from St. Petersburg to Moscow, but eventually shipped into the remaining republics. 

By 1998, I had worked my way to Tbilisi, the capital of the Republic of Georgia. While there, I traveled about forty miles north to the city of Gori, the birthplace of Joseph Stalin, where I met with city officials and medical directors. Throughout Georgia, the discouraged leaders were crying out for businessmen and leaders from the West to come and to teach them the ways of free market enterprise and entrepreneurial concepts. But, sadly, no one showed up in the old Soviet to help educate them, even though they were so open to new options of capitalism and the free market.

When I returned to Tbilisi, I was invited by the university to speak to all their graduate students. “Dr. Jackson, we want you to tell us about Project C.U.R.E., and humanitarians, and free market capitalism.” I jumped at the chance. The auditorium was packed with students and professors.

When I approached the podium I announced my lecture subject, “I want to talk to you today about the‘Economics of Compassion.’” In my presentation I explained that in the mid-1700s Adam Smith, a Scottish economist, proposed economic theories of freedom of choice, economic growth, division of labor, free market movement, self-determination and minimal government intervention.

About 100 years later Karl Marx said Adam Smith was wrong. In order for a society to be successful, Marx held that the economy needed to be controlled at the top by the Politburo and subsequently determined by intelligent people who knew what was best for the society. The only fair thing, according to Marx, was to take away from those who “have” and redistribute to those who “have not,” then there would be peace and equality. The economic experiment of Lenin, Marx, and Trotsky was even further complicated by Stalin’s insistence that aggravation of the class struggle was mandatory, and that political repression was necessary.

The Marxian model touted that the element of compassion was at the center of the philosophy. “We will overthrow the Czars, grab their wealth and equally divide it amongst the peasants.” But the driving force behind the philosophy was not compassion but control. It was not designed that everyone should be equal, because it would be the Politburo’s elite who would be in control and decide just who would be equal and just how equal each would be.

I went on to explain that the operative word in the whole scheme was the word“take.” “Take from those who have and distribute to those who have not.” The moral and emotional basis for the word “take” is a whole world apart from that of “give.”When “take” is employed, the spirit of “give” is trampled, compassion is thwarted and it is presumed that any “care- giving” activity is the responsibility of the state. The recipients of the “give” soon become entitled, addicted and controlled by the handouts of the Politburo. There certainly was no compassion in the word “take.” Words like concern, compunction, benevolence or compassion had to become foreign ideas.

Toward the end of my talk, I shared how free market enterprise had encouraged me to become a compassionate capitalist with the opportunities to help millions of needy people all over the world through humanitarian acts of kindness. “Your greatest fulfillment while living will be realized through your voluntary giving.”

I encouraged the listeners to cultivate kindness and personal compassion. “As you face new opportunities of freedom, you can now experiment with new financial and political concepts. Determine, as you earn and accumulate your wealth in the future, that your motivation will be the compassionate acts of kindness to others. But don’t allow the government to steal the compassion from your soul as it arbitrarily takes your earnings from your purse. Cultivate this concept and your beloved country of Georgia will blossom like a rose in a fertile garden.” Professors and students rose to their feet as one. All their lives they had experienced the debilitating phenomenon of being “taken.”

What Would It Take?

During the thirty years I have traveled internationally, I traveled literally millions of miles to more than 150 countries and became very familiar with not only all types and shapes of aircraft, but, also, all types and shapes of travelers. Since the cabins had become my adopted abode, I was tempted upon occasion to Velcro my family pictures to the plastic walls just to help me feel at home. I even learned to enjoy the company of my flying sojourners. 

I boarded a morning flight out of Frankfurt and headed for Colorado. Sheri wanted to know if my travels originated in Frankfurt. I asked if her flight to Dulles meant Washington, D.C. was her final destination. She said her company sent her to Germany quite often, and she enjoyed traveling because she liked to observe all the people. Then she asked me, “Where is your favorite place in the whole world?” I responded, “There is a 25 acre spot in Colorado on a crystal clear mountain stream and blanketed with majestic trees. A romantic fire crackles in the gigantic fire place of the old log and stone house. “Wow,” blurted Sheri, “Have you been there on vacation?” “No, I live there every day when I am not constrained by this seat belt! 

“Sheri, you said that you enjoy observing people as you travel, what have you observed so far on this trip?” “The thing that impressed me this morning at the airport,” Sheri confided, “was the high percentage of folks who looked terribly unhappy . . . and I suppose I looked as disgruntled as the rest of them. Except for this pleasant conversation, my own life is sort of bummed. It’s beginning to dawn on me that I am running faster and faster, chasing something that I can’t really identify. For certain, I’m not catching whatever it is I’m running after.” 

“Is it possible,” I asked, “that someone or something, or perhaps the entire culture, has instructed all of us that we should be in hot pursuit everyday and spend our energy to the last dregs in order to lay hold of whatever it is that we are all supposed to be chasing?” I went on, “Sheri, don’t answer this unless you feel comfortable doing so. “What was it that made you get up this morning and go through the hassle and security procedures to get on this flight?” She studied her hands that were folded in her lap and pensively mumbled something about “economic security” and “happiness.” 

“This is none of my business,” I replied, “But I am very curious, just how much economic security would it take to make you really happy?” Her reply came surprisingly quickly, “About twice as much as I am presently making!” Then she grinned sheepishly. “Yea, I think more money, about twice as much, would give me a good shot at personal security. That would be enough to make me happy!” The captain came on the intercom with some announcements, and we put a bookmark in our conversation. But Sheri was not through talking. 

“You know something?” Sheri asked, “It just hit me. I am presently making twice as much as I was making two years ago and now I am back into the same emotional cycle, saying the same things over again, ‘I need about twice as much as I am making to make me secure and happy.’Who keeps moving the bar up on the high-jump standards?” We laughed together. 

“Sheri,” I continued, “just one more question from a fellow traveler . . . If money were not the issue, what would your list look like that would really make you happy?” “I want to feel worthwhile,” she confided. “I would want to be involved in some worthwhile things. I would want to personally enjoy some love, some fun, some friendship and respect from my family and a few other people. And, I guess, I would like to leave some kind of legacy when I am gone. 

"Then Sheri said something absolutely brilliant, “You know, none of those things I just listed is available on the open market or e-bay. Therefore, I guess, if something isn’t priced on the market, then you can’t buy it. And if you can’t buy it with money, then, just possessing twice as much of the stuff called ‘money’ perhaps is not the answer. I guess I’ve been looking for happiness in the wrong places! What a wonderful observation I have made today!”

When Are You Strongest?

I began traveling to Chiang Mai, Thailand, with my Burmese friend, Daniel Kalnin, in 1996. Earlier, he had flown to Denver to ask me to help him with his "Barefoot Doctors" program. "We are training village people from the closed country of Burma," he explained. "We instruct them in basic health care procedures in Chiang Mai, then, send them back into their hill-tribe villages. They return as the only 'doctors' in their areas. I don't have any medical goods to send back with them, and I also need help in training them." 
  
Both the man and his story had intrigued me. He was a quiet, dignified Asian in his 50s. His request was straight forward, his urgency and sincerity compelling. I knew that most of the universities and institutions had been closed in Burma, now called "Myanmar," because the paranoid new government had feared the possibility of insurgency on the campuses.

The training process stretched over a 3-year period. Those chosen by their villages to be trained walked out of Burma, usually illegally, and crossed into Thailand and stayed for one month in each of the three years. It would sometimes take three weeks for them to make the journey on foot. The term, "Barefoot Doctors" described well the picture of the simple Burmese villagers walking barefoot among their people caring for the sick and injured. 

The first time I visited one of the "Barefoot Doctors" training sessions in Chiang Mai, there were 21 candidates enrolled. Following the training sessions and dinner, I would encourage them to tell me about themselves and their experiences. They all told me how inadequate they felt as they traveled back home knowing they were the only ones in their villages with any medical or emergency information. Everyone looked to them for help. But they also shared that when they received a call for help there was a certain power and confidence that came over them as they faced the emergency.

One woman told me how God had helped her understand how to fabricate an IV- starting device and get some sterile water into a dying boy's body while the entire village looked on. The boy lived, to the astonishment of everyone.


Another lady cried as she told me that the previous year she had returned to her village after having received two of the three annual training courses. "I was called in the night to the home of my dearest childhood friend. She was very sick. I had enough training to determine that she was having a severe appendicitis attack. But I had never done any procedure such as that. My friend begged me to help her. I knew if I did not do something she would surely die.

"Then the lady explained, "I went into another dark room. I prayed to God and raised my hands up toward Him and told Him that I didn't know what to do with my hands and mind, but I didn't want my dear friend to die. I was the only person who knew anything about medical things. We put my friend on her kitchen table and I began the procedure. I was able to perform the procedure and my friend is alive today. It was a miracle!"  

As that precious hill-tribe Burmese lady shared her story with me that night, I remembered a quote from Pope Paul VI, "Nothing makes one feel so strong as a call for help." She had heard the call for help. She was emboldened enough to ask God to help her in an impossible situation, and God made her strong in her weakness so that she could successfully respond to the incomprehensible challenge.
 

The Eternal Goad

 

Haiti’s squalor, poverty and chaotic governance lay naked for the whole world to see, following Haiti’s recent epic earthquake disaster. No one could look away and ignore the failed social and economic experiment. Something was wrong . . . and had been wrong for a long time. Of course, I had tears of gratitude in my eyes as I scanned the media coverage and watched the millions of dollars worth of medical goods donated by Project C.U.R.E. being flown from the decks of US Navy ships by Navy helicopters directly to the front lines of the terrible disaster. But our determination to help Haiti did not just start with the recent earthquake. 

In 1996, I had been summoned to Port-au-Prince to assess the local hospitals and arrange for donated medical goods to be delivered from our US warehouses. Of Haiti’s 7 million people, 4.5 million were children. Fifteen out of every 1,000 children died from malnutrition, dehydration, infection and HIV Aids. Dr. Frank Thomas, director of the central hospital, accompanied me on the assessment study. We walked through stuffy passageways, ducking into large open wards crowded with sick and dying people. The tumult and turmoil was reminiscent of war hospital scenes from Gone with the Wind or Dr. Zhivago. There was no such thing as privacy and one person's groans or screams were piled upon everyone else's misery. 

As Dr. Thomas and I walked along one of the outside walls of the children’s ward, we passed a closed door. Through the door I could hear the screams and wailing of some tormented soul. I nudged Dr. Thomas with my elbow and winked as I asked, “Psych ward through there?” He stopped in his tracks and opened the door to the outside. The sun had not yet burned the jungle mist from the Haitian morning. At the foot of the stairway was a very young woman kneeling in the moist soil. Her face and hair were a mess. I could tell she had been lying face down in the mud, and the tears had washed down through the dirty face and had fallen on her starched white blouse. The noise she was emitting was not crying. She would raise herself out of the mud and begin with a low guttural moan. As she straightened up, the wailing would crescendo into an agonizing scream . . . then sobs, so deep she could have been vomiting.

Dr. Thomas took hold of my arm and pointed back through the doorway and into the children’s ward. “Look over there where all the babies are lined up lying on that long wooden plank.” I looked across the large room and saw, perhaps, ten babies lying side by side. At either end of the plank was an IV station with a baby tethered to an infusion tube that was connected to a bag of saline hanging from a rusty IV pole. “We have only two infusion stations for the dehydrated babies. They must wait in that line until it is their turn. That young mother’s baby could not wait long enough to receive the infusion. He just died and they wrapped him in a towel and carried him away. This young mother intuitively knows her precious baby didn’t need to die.”

I looked away from the room and back out at the tormented young mother. At that moment I could not move. I felt her grief start in the back of my head, down over my shoulders through my thorax and into my abdominal area, across the fronts of my thighs and into my shins. I didn’t just feel sorry for her . . . I didn’t just feel compassion toward her . . . at that moment, I owned her grief!

After a bit, I could walk again and Dr. Thomas and I moved back into the hospital and gently closed the door. In my warehouses in the US I had thousands of IV stations and thousands of bags of saline solution! Sympathy and compassion were not enough; I had spiritually become engaged.

The grief and compassion that I had experienced was not guilt . . . but it was a goad. I had been prodded by eternity. From that time on, I would endeavor not to stumble, not to take my ease, but to press on, to push to the desperate locations where the need would not wait for my own convenience. I would endeavor with all my heart to arrive in time in the future so that it would not be necessary for the precious young mother to fall in the mud of Haiti, weeping for her lost child.

No wonder I was so happy to see those US Navy ships unloading millions of dollars worth of Project C.U.R.E. donations into Port-au-Prince!

The Law of Planting

One of the greatest life lessons I ever learned was taught to me by the gentle rice farmers of Vietnam. I have traveled into nearly every province of Vietnam helping them rebuild their health care delivery systems. They would explain to me "Don't judge each day by the harvest of rice you scythe, but by the seedlings that you plant."  

In the verdant stretches of Phu Tho province, north of Hanoi, tradition holds that the patient peasants learned how to perfect the skill of domestic cultivation of rice over 4,000 years ago. They learned they could grow three simultaneous crops each year by staggering the planting calendar. It was there that the method of "puddling" was perfected, where the internal structure of the soil was manipulated, so that there would be a minimal loss of water through percolation. Then they discovered that by transplanting "clums" of one- to six-week-old rice seedlings into the flooded soil of the paddies, they could out-smart the weeds and rodents, and thus greatly increase their production of the rice by giving the seedlings a head start. 

Of course, there were efficient methods of tending and harvesting that were developed over the centuries. But, intuitively, the Asians came to supremely respect the ritual of the planting: "Don't judge each day by the harvest of rice you scythe, but by the seedlings you plant." They knew that the maturation, growth and harvest would be there, as sure as the rising sun, if they had been faithful and diligent in their responsibility of properly planting the seedlings. 

Many times in the early days of giving birth to Project C.U.R.E., I would become tired to the bone and tempted with discouragement. We were always planting, planting, planting. Where were the results of the garnered donations of medical supplies and pieces of medical equipment? Where were the anticipated good results of all the dangerous travels and meetings and volunteer hours and efforts? 

Our present culture does not just suggest, but rather compels us to go directly to the "bottom line" as the single criterion of our worth and value . . . "What is the size of your harvest, today?" But, instead, let your success be judged by your diligence and faithfulness in continuing to plant the seedlings, and the harvest will take care of itself.

Today, I revel in the knowledge that thousands and thousands of lives around the world are being saved right now through the seedlings that were planted over the past 25 years at Project C.U.R.E. The fact that I can plant a "clum" of rice seedlings today that will soon become a harvest, and the fact that I can plant a bit of knowledge in the hearts and minds of others and it becomes their very own, and the fact that I can give a joyful smile to another and receive another in return, gives me the absolute assurance that the law of the planting and the harvest is valid and real. 

If you are tempted today to be discouraged because the culture has pressured you to judge each day by the harvest you captured . . . look up, take a deep breath and realize that the only factor that will absolutely guarantee that you will not realize a rewarding harvest is if you neglect the diligent planting of the tender seedlings!"Don't judge each day by the harvest you scythe, but by the seedlings you plant." 

Giving While Living

I’ve heard it said: IF YOU’RE GIVING WHILE YOU’RE LIVING . . . THEN YOU’RE KNOWING WHERE IT’S GOING!

Dr. Merl Jacobsen and his wife, Barbara, certainly never waited until after they were gone in order to begin their giving. In an attitude of celebration they have given unreservedly of themselves as well as their acquired possessions. Having made the decision to be givers while they were still alive, they have thrilled at being able to watch the multiplied benefits of their generosity in venues all around the world.

I recall when, in the early 1990s, Barbara and Dr. Merl came to me as excited as prom pals. They had fallen madly in love with Project C.U.R.E. and suggested having a party at their home on Ketring Lake. “We want to invite all our friends from Denver’s medical community and get them introduced to this amazing organization.” And a party we had, indeed! The prerequisite for attending was each medical person had to bring a piece of medical equipment, a batch of fresh medical supplies or old fashioned cash as a donation. Barbara’s party theme was “Africa” and even the catering personnel dressed up like lions and zebras. When the party was over it was necessary to retain a truck to haul all the donations back to our Project C.U.R.E. warehouse!

But the love affair with giving grew with intensity and soon Barbara and Dr. Merl were leading our medical teams into Bolivia, Senegal, Tanzania, Ethiopia (and 8 other African countries) and even China. They became living portraits of the axiom, “If you give light, people will find the way.” They were freely dispensing the light of help, hope, and unselfishness.

The Jacobsen’s infectious enthusiasm for giving began affecting the lives of hundreds of people in the Denver area. Barbara became affectionately known as “Project C.U.R.E.’s “Angel Ambassador,” and the energized couple recruited hundreds of people to come to our warehouse to help them sort, package, and ship medical goods into over a hundred countries around the world. They had discovered the joy of giving!

As devoted Rotarians, Barbara and Dr. Merl helped spearhead an effort to raise $250,000 for the purchase of Project C.U.R.E.’s new warehouse and international headquarters. Like the multiplication miracle of the loaves and fish, that amount eventually multiplied into nearly one- and-one- half million dollars. And even in the time of tragedy, when their beloved grandson, Peter, was killed in a rock climbing accident in Yosemite National Park, the Jacobsens reached deep into their reserve of love and compassion, and in memory of Peter gave comfort, joy and peace to those of us who grieved and mourned the loss of Peter.

Our world is learning a great truth: “What I hoard I lose . . . What I try to keep will be left and fought over by others . . . What I give will continue to return forever.” What the Jacobsens learned was that, “What you’re giving while you’re living . . . you (and thousands of others) are knowing where it’s going!” May we experience early the joys and rewards of giving while we are still alive.

How to Help Everyone

Following the collapse of the old Soviet Union, Project C.U.R.E. witnessed some of its most dramatic humanitarian work in the Republic of Ukraine. One day I heard President Ronald Reagan say something that startled me and helped me through those hectic days, "We can't help everyone, but everyone can help someone."

On one of my trips I had been invited to perform "needs assessment studies" on hospitals and clinics in the Ternopil and Liviv areas of Ukraine. The director of the large hospital was my host. He told me how it was the driving passion of every Ukrainian to escape Ukraine and move to America. But even though he had been offered a very lucrative position in USA, he returned quickly to Ukraine and rededicated his life to rebuilding the health care system in his own country. He said, "I can't help everybody, but I can make a difference."

In the city of Liviv, Lloyd and "Biggy" wanted me to take a detour from the assessments and see the soup kitchen they had established for street kids. The boys and girls were never placed in an orphanage, but left on the streets to fend for themselves. "We can't feed everybody, but this is a start." I left with the echoes in my ears of Ukrainian orphans singing around cauldrons of steaming stew.

My new Ukrainian friend, Meeche, had stopped in a hallway where he had grabbed a large plastic-handled knife and began sharpening it on a stone. He had requested that I accompany him to see if Project C.U.R.E. could supply medical goods to the wretched clinic at the large prison in Liviv. "Are you really crazy enough to think you can take that knife into the prison with us?" I asked. Meeche grinned and we headed for a state-run store on a narrow back street where people were pushing and shoving to get to the counter. We bought enough loaves of bread to fill our crumpled boxes, and a small case of packets that contained about two cups of sugar each.

Down the block we parked our old car in front of some frightening gates of solid steel. Only when we were on the inside did I realize the expanse of the prison built of stone and covered with razor wire. With guards surrounding us, Meeche drew out his large knife and cut each loaf of bread in quarters. Loaded down with the bread, packets of sugar, little bags of candy and a box of Ukrainian Bibles, we followed the armed guards through the entry process, into the main building and up to the second floor. Inside, the stench threatened to gag me. I was introduced to the nurse who was in charge of the clinic and all medical matters at the prison. She was a hardened ex-military vet in her 50s, whose experiment with blonde hair had backfired. She showed me her pitiful clinic and literally begged me for anything medical.

Each ward in the prison hospital was secured by solid steel doors, and additional doors of bars and locks. There was only one small, barred window per ward, high up on one wall and sealed tightly. The farther down the corridor, the more severe the cases in the large open wards. At the very end were the advanced cancer wards. These were all very sick patients who were prisoners, but confined to the prison hospital wards. Their severe illnesses had become their own death sentences.

The old Soviet system of medical care and prison treatment was diabolical and inhumane. But into that nightmarish world, Meeche and his friends would go and take bread, packets of sugar, little bags of candy and a word of hope contained in a small Bible written in their own language.

I shall never have erased from my mind those scenes of suffering, nor will I forget Meeche and his friends saying, "No one else cares for these lost souls. But we can help begin making our beloved Ukraine a better place by taking love to them." I somehow knew that one day Ukraine would be better again!

You were right, President Reagan, "We can't help everyone, but everyone can help someone."