When I was organizing large-scale events, I quickly learned that there was a maximum number of things I could remember—still is, for that matter, and of course the number is smaller now.

But I was younger then, and when I remembered to write things down, which I mostly did, I could hold onto and bring into play large amounts of information. People's names, dates, logistics, conversations with police, contact information, agreements with other organizers, when to pick the speakers up at the airport and who would do it, and so on.

Even so, a lot of stuff slipped through the cracks and when it was general stuff, that wasn't such a big problem. Someone else was sure to know the answer to the airport question if I didn't, or remember to contact the media, or remind the peacekeepers to arrive half an hour early. I'd write those things down anyway, but if I forgot to read my notes, I didn't need to worry. It would get handled. The time I forgot to arrange for strong people to fold up and return the 20 or 30 tables to the rectory where we had borrowed them, I was able to round up three teenaged boys at the last minute, and they did a great job. Cleaned out the priest's fridge, too, but I don't think he minded.

But then there were those things that acquired great importance only later so that when I heard them early on, I didn't realize how critical it was to pay attention and make a Big Note that I couldn't ignore. One of these occurred when I was organizing in Florida. This event had hundreds of details, some of which were handled automatically by others, but some were mine alone to take care of. An advantage of being known as one of the lead organizers is that people will usually be happy to do what you ask. It's a disadvantage too, though, when someone trusts you because of your leadership role and assumes that of course you will handle the thing that's most important to them personally.

Quite a few good folks were arrested during that event, and they went to jail as expected. A woman gave me her car and house keys just before the march to the gate of Cape Canaveral began; she didn't want to lose them or have to hand them over to the guy at the jail. I told her I'd take good care of them, and I did. I gave them to a friend of hers to hang onto, someone I believed was reliable.

A week or so later the folks were released from jail and of course the first thing the woman did was to come ask me for her keys. I had absolutely no idea who had them. I didn't know the reliable friend's name and was pretty sure I wouldn't recognize her. Lots of supporters were gathered in the park where the arrestees were released, probably at least a hundred folks. I was shaking in my shoes knowing that I couldn't produce her keys and that I had promised to do so.

I told her I'd handed them over to a friend of hers, so we started walking slowly through the crowd searching for her. My stomach hurt, and I began thinking of how to explain the problem and, more importantly, how to track them down. Then, like a gift from God, we heard a voice. "Hey [whatever her name was]! You're out! That's great! Hey, I've got your keys!" A joyous reunion between keys and owner and a grateful hug for my doing such a good job of protecting her property.

I was too chicken to tell the truth—and anyway, what purpose would it serve?, I reasoned with myself. The woman was happy, it turned out I had successfully discharged my responsibility, and I learned an important lesson, which stood me in good stead for the rest of my organizing career.

People care more about getting the foundation of their life under their feet again when they've been in jail than they do about the issue that brought them there or having been in the newspaper or surviving the ordeal. Of course they do.