Zac Parsons

Two weeks ago, I showed many of my students a PSA (public service announcement) at the beginning of class.  It is surprisingly powerful and emotional.  In fact, since it’s less than two minutes long, I will just let the video make it’s own point without me spoiling anything.

March 3, 2010 marked the official day to “Spread the Word to End the Word”.  The word that we are looking to end is the r-word, which can stand for both “retard” and “retarded”.  Really, we just want it’s derogatory use to stop.  When someone uses that word to describe or color something as “stupid” or “less than” in some way, it’s more than just being insensitive; it’s bullying.

Even though I do not have any close family members who deal with a cognitive disability or who are differently abled in some way, I knew that many of my students do.  Inspired by r-word.org, We got together this past week to shoot a quick video and make our own PSA.

It’s been a fantastic experience.  I’ve already had a high school student approach me to say that she has been convinced to forever change her language because of this.

I’d say that is a pretty good start.

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Tonight, as I write this, the sun is setting on my twenties.  The third decade of my life comes to a chronological end at midnight.  I happened to be born in the first year of a new decade (1980), so my twenties coincided with the 2000’s.  It’s fun to reflect on milestones of life, and I’d like to share some of mine from this past decade.

When I turned 20…  I wondered if I would ever bench press 200 pounds.

When I turned 30… I wondered if I would ever weigh less than 200 pounds again.

When I turned 20…  I was sure that Friends was the best show on TV.

When I turned 30… I was sure that LOST was the best show on TV… ever!

When I turned 20…  I was sure that my closest college friends would remain my best friends for life.

When I turned 30… I still believed that, and finally stopped pining for a time machine to go back to those good ol’ days.

When I turned 20…  I was positive that I would be a Christian minister for the rest of my life.

When I turned 30… I sat back and counted eight different full time jobs within several different career paths over the past decade.

When I turned 20…  I marveled at the spiritual themes in The Matrix, and congratulated myself for being so spiritual to “get” all of them.

When I turned 30… I play a sort of pin the tail on the donkey with everything, and God is there… every time.

When I turned 20…  I wondered what there was left in life to learn, because I had figured out so much already.

When I turned 30… I appreciated each new day as an opportunity to learn something new.

When I turned 20…  I knew the woman that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

When I turned 30… I spent many months without her, and I still knew that she was the woman for me.

When I turned 20…  I dreamed about how I could change the world.

When I turned 30… I reflected on how much the world had changed me.

When I turned 20…  I believed that Phoenix, AZ was the best place in the world to live.

When I turned 30… I still believed that Phoenix, AZ was the best place in the world to live, but that an amazing life is possible anywhere.

30 has always seemed like a magical year for me.  Jesus got his show on the road around this age. Siddhartha began his path towardsenlightenment after 29 years on the earth.  My mother was 30 years old when she gave birth to me.  So there are various reasons as to why this birthday is significant for me.

I don’t want to fall into a trap of feeling like I have “arrived”, but I’m looking forward to some geographical, financial, and vocational stability in my life for a change.  Time will tell if that is what my thirties have in store for me.  I’m finally ready to start them… tomorrow.  Tonight, I’m going to go kiss my kids goodnight and know that if it all ended, I would still count myself as blessed.

Namaste.

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In case you missed the breakfast in Birmingham a couple of weeks ago, TPI’s own Ron Medved presented the Leadership Innovation Award to Alabama football coach Nick Saban for his team’s incredible championship season this year.  This nine minute clip below shows some of the highlights from the event.

If you are a coach, athletic director, or even an athlete looking for a every ethical edge you can get, maybe you should check out our PX2 program and see if The Pacific Institute can help you and your team to do more of the things you know you are capable of.

Congratulations again coach.  You definitely deserve it.

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Even though I may not be able to make a sailor blush, I’ve been known to run a blue streak with my mouth from time to time.  Most of the time, it has been a moment of anger that would inspire an outburst of coarse or profane language from my lips.  But, with my close friends, I felt comfortable enough to let a few s-words and f-bombs fly in the midst of regular conversation.

I can vividly remember the first time that I said “Goddamnit” in Matti’s basement, with my friend Ryan glaring at me in silent horror.  At the time, I felt shame and regret, but that didn’t stop me from arguing about the word’s relative evil or sinfulness compared to the others that we threw around as teenagers.  Most of the other swear words or put-downs that I employed in my youth didn’t seem to have much to do with the situation or people that I inflicted them on.  There wasn’t a real victim in my choice of language (other than my own vocabulary and the object of my malice, of course).  It wasn’t as if a proctologist would wince every time I said “a–hole” without regards for the literal definition of the word.

Not a lot has changed in my foul-language patterns since that time.  I’m not a saint, and my angry moments can still stir up the more colorful part of my tongue.

However, there is one word that has always given me pause.  It’s not just speaking it that bothers me, it’s hearing it as well.  In fact, it’s been almost 20 years since I used the r-word (retard) in a derogatory way.

Corky and the family from "Life Goes On"

I’m not sure why this word offended me so deeply, like the n-word.  I didn’t have a close friend or family member that was retarded or developmentally disabled in some way.  My closest relationship to anyone with a mental retardation was Corky from “Life Goes On“.  I don’t say that in jest.  I have always had an unusually close relationship with television characters.  I have kids named Kiefer and Evangeline.  I understand that it is a little odd, but it has always been an easy way for me to relate to the rest of humanity.

Nonetheless, when anyone would say the r-word, I would immediately imagine Corky standing next to me, turning to me, and asking the question: “Is that person saying that there is something wrong with me?”  This imaginary friend of mine helped me to keep my lips sealed from uttering the r-word in that context ever again.

During my sixth grade geography class yesterday, we somehow began a discussion about the r-word.  I asked the students if anyone had a family member who would be considered retarded.  A student raised his hand and shared some details about his uncle.  I explained my thoughts on the r-word and the lack of tolerance that would offered in my classes in regards to that word.

We talk about meaningful topics quite a bit, but this seemed different.  They were silent.  Pensive.  It was a powerful moment.  I could almost see the wheels turning in the minds of my students as they considered the potency of that word in their own vernacular.

Last night, I noticed that Sarah Palin has taken up a campaign against the usage of the r-word.  Although it may have started out as a political move to draw attention to White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel’s use of the r-word  in reference to liberal democrats, the point is well taken by Republicans and Democrats.  It brings to mind the uproar caused by President Obama on the Tonight Show last year, captured in this CNN.com article from spring of 2009.

Political motivation aside, I actually agree with and commend Mrs. Palin for her stand against this word.  Kudos and cool points to her on this.

In less than a month, on 03-03-10, an organization is gearing up to spread awareness about ridding the world of the r-word, or at least as it is all to commonly used right now.  This group is an offshoot of the Special Olympics.  Their website is www.r-word.org, and even features an “r-word counter”, where you can see how often your favorite websites have used the r-word (Disclaimer: www.zacparsons.com was proudly r-word free before the publishing of this article.).  There are resources of how to get involved in the quest to “Spread the word, to end the word”.

Of note, there is a video of John C. McGinley (Scrubs) giving a talk to a group of elementary school students about using the r-word.

I’ve stopped using the r-word for a long time now.  I’d be proud and encouraged if you chose to do the same.  What do you say?

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A couple of months ago, I stumbled across a video about an author named Samir Selmanovic on Zach Lind’s website.  If you don’t want to make the jump, you can just watch the video here:

The video was exactly the breath of fresh air that my religion-weary lungs needed to take in.  I started a quest to learn more about this man, this book, and this new perspective on my faith that might rescue it from the toilet bowl it has been sitting in for the past several years.

I became a fan of his book on Facebook, ordered his book from Amazon, and basically fell in love with his spirit and perspective on the most important things in life.  Samir is a sage.  I highly recommend his book to people that ponder the mysteries of life, God, and one’s relationship to the “other”.

To give you a unique look at Samir, check out this video that his daughters made to encourage people to NOT purchase this book:

I don’t want to discuss too much of the book without you.  I want you to read it and talk about it with me and others on this website.

If you’re still not sure what this book is about, and you aren’t much for watching videos, check out this interview of Samir by Robin Russell.  Here is my favorite quote from Samir from that interview:

We are going through a period where what it means to be religious is changing. Religion has to adjust to an interdependent world. In the past, the strong city was a city with big walls. But today, the strong city is the city that has more bridges and airports and links. Links make you strong, and links are also boundaries, so we can have our identity. If our roots go deeper, we can afford to take off some walls.

So, if you can’t find the book locally, just buy it here.  If you want to talk more about this book through this website, let me know in the comments.  If we have enough people involved, Samir may be willing to participate in a group Skype chat with us.  Sounds pretty great to me!

Cheers and Namaste!

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In the fall of 2008, I was lost.  I had just arrived at the Toussaint Louverture International Airport in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.  My instructions from Lenny were to wait for a man named Nader (like Darth Vader), and to NOT GO OUTSIDE.  Nader was the man who was supposed to taxi me to a smaller airport to catch a propeller plane to Port-de-Paix on the northern coast of the country.  Well, after getting my bags, I just kept walking.  Wouldn’t you know, I ended up outside after all.

Although it was just like Lenny had described it to me, it was a far cry from the peaceful view of  the city that I had observed on my flight in.  A sea of people, at least 10 deep on each side, were beckoning and hollering at me as soon as I came into eyeshot.  Since I don’t speak Creole, I couldn’t make out what was being said to me.  I picked up on a “taxi” here, and a “American” there.  A Haitian woman approached me and offered me a taxi ride.  I told her that I was looking for Nader, and she said that Nader was not there.  I didn’t want to offend her, but I also didn’t want to go with her.  Suddenly, a man in the middle of the crowd yelled “Sack!”, which I have come accustomed to responding to, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

My relief was short lived though, as this man was not Nader, and he informed me that Nader was not there, but he could help me.  Because he had called out my name, I had to trust that he was a friend of Nader’s and would be able to help me with the rest of my journey to my friends.  I told him that I was scheduled to fly out on a Tortug’ Air flight to Port-de-Paix in less than 90 minutes.  ”Port-de-Paix?” he said.  ”We go now!”

The roads in Port-au-Prince are not all paved, and those that are are not painted for opposing traffic to each know which lane is theirs.  It was one of the more white knuckled passenger experiences of my life.  When my driver wasn’t zig-zagging through oncoming traffic, he was laying on the horn with the drivers in front of us with the audacity of driving at a reasonable speed.  But, all is well that ends well, and we arrived at the regional airport in time to catch an early flight to Port-de-Paix.  My driver negotiated my ticket exchange on the earlier flight, and I wished him well with a five dollar handshake.

Sitting in the final airport of my trip (I had been in the Phoenix Sky Harbor and Miami International Airport just the day before), I was anxious for the reunion with my best friends from college: Lenny and Warren.  The last time that we had all been together was at our mutual friend Phil’s wedding in the summer of 2003.  Our time apart (five years) had been longer than our time together (four years of college), and freaky coincidences had kept us apart.  Warren had asked me to be a groomsman at his wedding in 2004.  My son’s imminent birth prevented me from participating or even attending (a pretty understandable excuse).  My involvement in Lenny’s wedding was preempted by my daughter’s birth in 2006 (again, an understandable choice).  Randy was a little sullen when the birth of my third child did not coincide with his marriage.

When people around me started moving towards the gate, I figured it was a good time to follow them.  I ended up with a seat in the front of the propeller plane just a few feet longer than a Suburban.  This was the view in front of me:  

while this was the view behind me:

After flying in jumbo jet for my most of my life, I was not prepared for the amount of turbulence that a plane this size would experience, even on a clear and pleasant day.  I decided to grab my camera and document my own death, were it to occur during this harrowing flight.  I got a decent shot of the city:

Glad to still be winning the fight against gravity, I managed to snap a shot of the Haitian mountains (and a bit of the propeller):

Less than 45 minutes into the flight, we were descending.  The shadow on the ground became larger and larger:

Finally, with children running and waving along the dirt runway, my plane landed in Port-de-Paix.  Instead of collecting my bags at the baggage claim, they were handed to me as I walked toward the airport building.  In the new sea of faces at this airport, I looked for any that I would recognize, but to no avail.  My early flight had put me in the right place, at the wrong time.

Not knowing how large the city was, or if anybody knew of these American guys named Warren and Lenny, I blurted out the name of their school, to nobody in particular.  ”Sonlight?”  A man next to me asked, in confirmation.  ”Yes!  Si!  Oui!” I said all at once like the confused outsider that I was.  Holding up a cell phone, he said: “I call Sonlight.”

After looking at this man’s clothing, I immediately felt an odd sense of familiarity.  He was wearing the jersey of the French soccer star David Trezequet, number 17 from Juventus.

He punched in some numbers and handed me the phone.  A Hatian voice greeted me on the other end.  The voice informed me that Lenny and Warren were busy and unable to come to the phone.  He would have them come to the airport to get me as soon as they were located.

So, I waited.  Even though my new buddy with the Trezeguet jersey had made me feel more at ease, he was suddenly gone.  In case something were to happen to me, I still had the strange urge to document it on film.  So I took in my surroundings, in HD:

After about 30 minutes, my main man with the zebra stripes ran up to me.

“Sonlight?  Sonlight?” he called out towards me, with his eyes and hands beckoning me to follow him.  I grabbed my bag and stepped through the gate into the city.  Just a few steps away was a banged up old pick up truck with the brake lights on.  Then, the brake lights turned off, both the passenger and driver side doors opened, and both of my friends emerged with grins even goofier than my own to welcome me to their home.  While I wasn’t able to capture that moment with any lenses outside of my physical body.  I made sure to grab a shot of the two of them before we settled in for the ride back to their homes and families.  I spruced it up in iPhoto a bit, just for dramatic effect:

Warren (left) and Lenny (right)

To be continued…

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My son and I at a community service project last Fall.

This morning, while sitting at the kitchen table, the question that I had expected my son to eventually ask me, was finally asked.  After taking the self-applied clip-on tie off of his undershirt, buttoning his top button, and correctly reseting the tie, he looked at me and said:

“Daddy, why don’t you go to church with us?”

Kim happened to be walking down the hall, but she heard the question and raised her eyebrows at me as if to say “He’s your son!”  She realized that this was going to be a man to man conversation, and continued to the bathroom to prepare herself for the upcoming church service.

I looked at my son’s earnest eyes, and contemplated his even more earnest question.  As many parents do, I weighed the merits of a short answer that would stop his questioning, but be less than truthful, against a more truthful answer than might take a series of answers and explanations about things that he might have trouble wrapping his mind around.  Today, I chose to give him the more honest answer.

I told him that it was because of my beliefs.  Although the church and I share some of the same beliefs about living a moral life, we differ on so much more.  The main difference, as I told my son, was the church’s view of the other, the outsider, the adherent of another faith, and/or the unrepentant sinner.  This church (like many others) believes that after death, certain people will end up in some sort of hell.  For most of my life, I have believed the same.  But in the past few years, for a variety of reasons, I no longer do.

Before explaining anything else to him, I let him know that despite his desire to be just like me in so many ways, his beliefs would have to be his own.  Whether my words of explanation will have any more influence on him than my actions, only time will tell.  But, I wanted to express to him how personal everyone’s beliefs are, and how they should have some measure of respect.

After describing hell as a place where people were sad and crying for ever and ever, and where God could not/would not ever see them or rescue them, my son replied that he did not want to ever go there.  I told him that some people believe that the population of hell is made up of people who deserve to be there.  I shared with him my belief in a God who would not create someone who would eventually end up in hell.  In fact, I read a great quote in a book by Samir Selmanovic just yesterday:

“I have become convinced that a God who favors me over others is not worth worshipping.”

In the end, my son walked away with a couple of new thoughts about God and hell, and an apparently sufficient answer about why daddy wasn’t going to church.

Really, I just can’t wrap my head around the belief that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and at the same time that God is the creator of this mess that falls short of Him.  If God is responsible for the situations in our life that lead us to make choices, then He is also somewhat responsible for those choices.  If He is not responsible for those situations, then everything is just chance and chaos.  God cannot judge our actions justly if we are all playing with different pieces on often vastly different game boards.

I’m sure that I could say more about this, but I’ll save it for another time.

Not believing in hell is just a stone’s throw away from not believing in “sin”.  In light of my Christian upbringing, this is a belief that challenges much of what is commonly understood about the purpose and nature of Jesus, the namesake of Christianity.  If there is no hell, and there is no sin, then what was Jesus all about?  If he was just a great moral teacher, and not God incarnate, then this changes everything.  Depending on what criteria you use to classify a Christian, then you may not consider me one anymore.  To be honest, I myself often wonder if I should claim that for myself anymore.

I feel like I’m a sort of religious no man’s land.  Where I’m going to end up is unclear.  I just know where I don’t want to be:  In a place where God loves me (enough to give me life in heaven) more than he loves other people (so little that He lets them die in hell).  If you found some place where I could find myself more at home, please let me know.

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After a disappointing end to last year’s nearly perfect football campaign, the University of Alabama football team completed their perfect season last night with a win over the University of Texas in the BCS National Championship game.

A lot has been said about the reasons for Alabama’s resurgence to national prominence as a football powerhouse.  Most of these articles and discussions start with head coach Nick Saban, and they should.  His leadership has set the tone for every aspect of the football program.  While having the best college football program in the country is the goal of the University, producing fine, responsible, and productive young men is the ultimate aim of the program.  With each player understanding their responsibilities to the team and taking responsibility for reaching their potential, both the team and the players succeeded.

Check out this article from ESPN.

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One of the paradoxes of the curriculum at The Pacific Institute (and I mean that in a very complementary way) is the mandate to set a firm goal, and to be flexible with the process that gets you there.  Maybe its more of a misnomer than a paradox, because it’s often difficult to identify what is a process or step towards the goal, and what is a goal in and of itself.

I have a lot of goals.  One of them involves becoming a better facilitator.  Another involves becoming a better communicator.  Still another is about being a wise man.  A few months back, a local college preparatory school asked if I would be interested in substitute teaching.  I identified this opportunity as a process that would help me towards those first two goals, and even provide a little income on the side.  After meeting with the administration and learning a little about the school and its values, I agreed and began to substitute a few days per month, for various courses.

While I was there, a funny thing happened.  I LOVED it.  Now, I don’t mean that it was a pleasant surprise and a welcome change to my schedule.  I mean that I could feel something inside of me and around me as I walked through the doors into the hallway.  Now, it may be that they pump laughing gas through the air vents, but I think it is more likely that some vivid picture of life that I had in my own mind was being matched by something outside of me.  It was the realization of a goal that my subconscious mind had been teleologically fixed to, and I thoroughly enjoyed becoming aware of it.

Still, my goal remained to be a full-time Project Director and Facilitator with The Pacific Institute.  I was meeting new people, developing new projects, and collaborating with others for some exciting work in the coming months and years.  The goal was fixed, my affirmations were clear, and the plan was moving forward.

Then a door opened.

The head of the upper school called me to inquire if I would be available to fill in for a teacher for the rest of the school year.  Without even thinking, I politely declined, citing the amount of time I needed for my projects with The Pacific Institute.  Because my goal was clear, and I perceived this new information to be a threat to that goal, I shut the door.

But, as it sometimes does, opportunity knocked again.  This time, our conversation touched on the courses that would be on my docket.  Subjects like psychology, religion, history, and social studies.  She wasn’t asking for me to fill a hole as a warm body.  She was telling me that she had interviewed several interested applicants, and still believed that I was the best candidate for the position.  She was confident in the positive impact the position would have on me, and the students of the school.

So I did something that I should have done the first time around: I evaluated.

As I looked closely at the opportunity, I became acutely aware that I was not operating within a vacuum.  Taking responsibility for my choices and their consequences has been my modus operandi for the past seven months, but I often forget that almost every choice has consequences outside of me as well.  It’s another paradox, it seems.  I can’t focus just on my own choices and their consequences, and I can’t just be passive and let my life happen to me.  It’s a delicate balance, and I was leaning too much on the goal of being a successful Project Director.

But why did I want to become a successful Project Director?  Was it so that I could share my own experiences with others in a way that would help them to avoid the pain that I had experienced?  Was it to impact people in a meaningful way so that they would find something great within themselves because of something I did or said?  Was it to do my part as a citizen of the world to make it a better place?  When I took all of those things into consideration, the teaching position was offering me a process towards an even greater goal: not just to be a wise man, but to be a wise man with a legacy for my children.

In the end (or beginning, as it were), I gladly accepted the position and will begin on January 4, 2010.  Since I was a teenager, I have had the idea in my mind that I will have my act together (in some way) by the time that I reach 30.  If Jesus didn’t really get his game going until then, and Siddhārtha didn’t reach enlightenment before 30, why would I?  In February, I’ll reach that magical age, and while I’m not sure that I’m going to have my act together, this new chapter has me very excited about what life (and my students) will teach me as a teacher.

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Tuesday Newsday has been a fun idea over the last several months.  Some of the stories struck a nerve (Roman Polanski, Jon and Kate), while others just struck a thud (Jasmine Fiore, Super Memory).  Either way, the discipline and rhythm of searching the news for topics to write about was a healthy one, often exposing me to stories and details that I would not have discovered otherwise.  I guess the same is true with many repetitive tasks when viewed in hindsight: even though it didn’t always “feel” like what I wanted to, I still grew in a way that I value now, because of it.

My wife and were doing one of those repetitive tasks last night…  Re-watching episodes of LOST.  (What were you thinking?)

Before starting that though, we saw that a new episode of “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia” was in our queue.  Now, it’s is one of those irreverent shows that isn’t afraid to discuss touchy topics.  Some episode titles include: The Gang Exploits a Miracle, Charlie Gets Molested, Charlie Wants An Abortion, and Dee Is Dating a Retarded Person.  Not exactly dinner conversation topics in most households, but in the midst of the “shock”, there was some “awe”some moments of true humanity and hilarity.  (Did you see what I did there?  I kill me!)

Now into its fifth season, the show has added more episodes each year, and the quality of those episodes has waned considerably.  With most of the humor of last night’s show revolving around the destruction of property, poisoning rivals, and public urination, my wife reached her breaking point, saying: “I’m done watching this show, if you want to keep watching it, you can do it without me.”  While I’m not ready to give up on the show completely just yet (e.g. the last season of Scrubs was a renaissance of the brilliance that filled the first four seasons of that show), I think I understand why the show has sunk.

Instead of a creative force in the show that says: “We have something to say, let’s try to say it in our own way”, the situation morphed into: “Holy crap!  We have x number of shows to do this season, we have to say something!”  In a lot of ways, Tuesday Newsday has become like that for me.  To tweak the parental mantra about  mean-spirited talk: If I don’t have anything useful to say, then why am I saying anything at all?

If you will permit me another pop culture reference (we’re up to five right now), it reminds me of the 1994 movie, Airheads.  In the film, because they have taken a radio station hostage, a rock band becomes wildly famous and is even offered a record deal, because of the attention given to them.  The record company executive signs them without even listening to their music.  I don’t remember the exact context, but the lead singer Chazz, (Brendan Fraser) alludes to the record just being filled with the drummer Pip (Adam Sandler) farting on a snare drum.  Pip’s response: “I ain’t farting on no snare drum!” has stuck with me ever since, and pretty much sums up what any worthwhile endeavor can become if the circumstances around it cease to be conducive to it’s creative inception.

Even a beast of a sentence like the last one can sound pedantic if I’m just trying to say something in an interesting way, when I don’t have much to say at all.  (For another example of this, just re-read the previous sentence.  Seriously, who says “pedantic”?)

Just as Jemaine knew when it was business time, seeing that it was Wednesday, so I knew it was time to pontificate about some news item with sunrise each Tuesday.  I had created a machine that demanded me to have something to say, even if the content wasn’t inspired.  Let’s be honest… sometimes I was just farting on a snare drum.

Now, I feel more comfortable writing about things, when I actually have something to say.  There may be the occasional link-jacking where I just want to post something that really needs no commentary or introduction, but I don’t want to write just for the sake of writing.  If you are taking the time to read this, then I want to take the time to write something worth reading.

Interestingly enough, in the episode of LOST that we watched last night, the creator and star of “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia”, Rob McElhenney, made cameo appearance that my wife did not remember from the first time she watched the show.  ”Hey!  It’s Mac!” she said with a happy smile.  Apparently, the end of her relationship with the show didn’t leave her with hard feelings about everything related to that show.  I’ve gotta say… I love this woman.

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Just incredible.  It’s tough to see his mother preparing for his death, but it is beautiful to witness how much love this boy’s family has for him.

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In 1994, Brad Jacobsen was hanging out with some friends along the bank of a river in the Pacific Northwest.  Someone decided to break out a frisbee, and a spirited game began.  At some point, when someone threw a frisbee near to one side of him, like he did with so many other things in his life, Brad went all out.  With a few steps in the water and a quick, spry jump that was always natural for the athletic young man from British Columbia, he tried to leap into the water.  But his foot slipped on the sand.  Thinking that part of the river was deeper (and trying to avoid an embarrassing bellyflop), he tried to roll as he hit the water.  Sadly, it wasn’t.  It would be the last time he would ever have the use of his legs.  Brad’s spinal cord was irreparably injured.

Since that day, Brad has persevered from the life-altering accident to become a man more focused than ever on having a positive impact on this world and a high quality of life.  He also happens to be a VJ for The Pacific Institute’s “Discovering the Power in Me“.  Brad has an incredible sense of self-efficacy.  He continues to be an avid outdoorsman and has hiked the physically and mentally exhausting Pacific Trail.  He is producing a documentary of the journey he and nine friends took on the trail.  Check out the preview below.  If you would like to be a part of financially supporting the completion of his movie, you can contact Brad at poobala@hotmail.com.

His body may be seated, but his spirit is standing.

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