The large casino coffee shop was bustling and clanging with dinnertime activity. Busy hostesses, servers, customers, and patrons were an endless stream of movement.

I noticed two uniformed police officers emerge from the kitchen. They flanked the doorway, their backs against the wall as they scanned the dining room. One of them gave a subtle nod to the other end of the room where there were two more officers entering from the casino.  Wow, I thought, something big must be going down here.

Someone was tapping me on the shoulder. I turned to see a short, stocky steel-haired, gruff looking guy in a gray suit. He flipped a badge in my face and said, “Are you Tom Justin?”  I nodded numbly, my eyes darting around the spacious dining room. Then I heard him say he was the chief of police.

I noticed the four uniforms closing in on our location.  They surrounded us. I was shocked and freighted at this sudden show of power. And the chief of police?

I was 16 years old. I’d run away from my hometown in North Dakota a few days before, making my way to Las Vegas and a busboy job at the Thunderbird Hotel.

Of course the police were looking for me. But still, I was shocked at the manpower that had arrived.

I was holding onto a tray of dirty dishes, which I was instructed to put down. I slowly laid the tray on the stand while aware of the sudden quiet in the room.  I detected the hushed whispers of the wide-eyed patrons, who were probably guessing as to the heinous crimes I must have committed.

The chief took me by the elbow and guided me back through the kitchen into the employee’s locker room. After searching me he sat me down on a bench.

I discovered that I’d misunderstood the “chief of police.” Turns out he was chief of hotel security, not the police chief. And all those “cops,” with one exception were also security. Nevertheless, I was terrified and deeply embarrassed.

He explained that the police officer standing behind him would have to take me down to juvenile hall for processing and detention until my parents could arrive and take me back home. He said, “Your parents have been very worried about you.”

Until then I’d held everything in check, barely breathing. The realization of what was happening burst forth in a torrent of sobs and tears that doubled me over.

A minute later, I felt an arm across my back. The gruff looking chief had seated himself next to me. He waited for me to calm down. He asked why I’d run away. More tears and choking sobs followed until I could compose myself.

I came from a good middle-class home in Williston, North Dakota. My dad was a chiropractor, but more than that, he was a highly respected healer, whose reputation went beyond even the borders of our small state.

Mom was always working, either at home or running dad’s office. Both were well-known, liked and visible members of our small town of 10,000.

They were good and loving, even tolerant parents to their three children. Growing up we had frequent trips to California to see our grandmothers along with the usual sites of the ocean, Disneyland, and other fun events. It was a good life!

So, why then, you might ask, did I run away from all this, and why am I telling you this story? There is a point to this, so please bear with me.

Dad’s weakness was an occasional drinking binge. He’d would come home, angry with someone or something, not usually his family. But the few times he did, it usually be directed at my mom or me. I was the oldest.

Dad was broad shouldered and strong; he looked much larger than his six feet.  His voice was a cross between Walter Cronkite and John Wayne. His physical strength came from being born and raised on a hardscrabble Montana farm in the 1920′s.

A few years before, late at night, was the first time he’d directed his drunken rage at me. He yelled upstairs for me to, “Get down here now!” He met me at the bottom of the stairs and grabbed me by my pajama tops and pulled me down two more steps. I stumbled and started to fall backwards. Before I could land, he pulled me back up onto my feet.

His face was red with rage. I was as mystified as I was scared. He put his face up to mine and I could smell the mixture of cigarettes and bourbon as he yelled, “I thought I told you to empty the trash!”

I nearly ran out to the trash barrels to do my duty and and returned hoping to avoid any more conflict. Mom had tried to calm him down, but it did no good and she while she was mentally strong, she was no match for him in this condition. Fortunately, other than some shoving, he was never physically abusive.

The next day, sobered up, he was apologetic, asking for forgiveness. He’d always been such a loving father that it was nearly impossible not to grant forgiveness.

But after a few more events in the next few years, I finally broke. I confronted him after another night of his drinking and yelling.  It was nasty, but mom was able to separate us until he passed out.

Back in my room, fuming, I had some cash stashed in my sock drawer from part-time jobs. At 3:00 AM I wrote a note, packed a bag and got in one the family’s cars and left.

The chief, his name was Tom Bellis, asked me what happened. After telling my story, he patted me on the back. Then he stood up and looked down at me. I was exhausted and dry with no more tears left.

Then I heard his gruff, but softer voice say, “Look at me.” I raised my head up. “Listen. I could loose my job over this, but if you promise not to run off I won’t let them put you in juvie, it’s full of gang bangers and no place for a kid like you. So I’m going to take a big risk.”

The cop behind him began to look uneasy, and stepped forward and started to say something. The chief held his hand up, signaling quiet, then continued. “My wife may kill me for this but if you give me your word that I won’t find an empty bed in the morning, you can stay in our guest room.”

The cop again began to protest, and the chief turned to him, “Look Don, I’m taking responsibility for this one, so you can take off.”

On the drive to his house, after making sure that I’d never been physically abused, he asked me about the rest of my life at home. What did I like, what was I grateful for? It took me awhile, but I poured it out.

I didn’t run away that night or ever again. Once more my father’s apologies were accepted, but with a wary sense of caution.

Not only was I not punished for my escape; dad did all he could do to make up to me.

The “wound” that had occurred with dad’s first incursion had been loosely bandaged but never properly dressed. The infection was slow but grew with every incident until finally it exploded in this puss of rage and reaction.

Now we worked hard as a family to clean and heal those wounds.

A coaching client asked me once why I was so good with my coaching, especially in my life coaching. I realized that my greatest lessons were from my most negative events, and that my outcomes were determined by my focus.

Every negative thing that happened to me in life created ultimately, a positive outcome. From Dad’s story to being homeless at 21-sleeping in the back of my car, crashing an airplane, car, and motorcycle, to being shot (scary but not so bad) getting divorced, and a myriad of other unpleasant times.

Maybe that’s why personal growth and development has always been so important to me. So many crazy, bad, and wonderful things have happened to me that I became an open-minded skeptic, rarely hesitant shut the doors on anything out of hand.

I would later fly around in private jets, speak in front of thousands, host radio and TV shows, consult to clients from celebrities to corporations, make good friends and money too.

I would loose much then gain more.

I also recognized the power of you. The power of all of us because we have the ability to choose our thoughts and reactions. It was an overwhelming “AHA!”

My purpose in telling you this is two-fold:

May whatever negative events that happen to you be less powerful than your negative reactions to them.  And may you find peace with a life of forgiveness and gratitude.

More power to you

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