When You Can’t Offer a Guarantee, Cry About It

Her Grandson Was Murdered

As we chat on her balcony, I see the tears pooling in my friend’s eyes. She’s worried about about her adult daughter, the one whose son died a year ago because another boy shot a bullet instead of throwing a fist when he got annoyed.

My friend still feels the heavy grief herself. The teenage boy was her only grandson.

But the most urgent emotion rising in her throat this afternoon is helplessness. She knows her daughter is struggling hard with the absurdity of her son’s murder. Of the lack of quick justice in the courts. Of her searching but finding no meaning through it all.

As the mother of this daughter in pain, my friend doesn’t know what to do.

As she pauses her story, I want to fill in the gap with a guarantee, that everything will be okay, that this will work out fine in the end.

But I can’t do that.

I feel helpless, too.

Things We Can’t—and Can—Do

I have no fix for her pain. I have no solution for her daughter mourning her son fresh in the grave. I have no words that can explain why this happened and what will happen next.

In moments like these I am most aware of our shared humanity. Here we stand, my friend and I, fellow survivors in the messy middle of other humans also trying to survive.

So I simply bear witness to her pain. I see her wounds. I allow my eyes to weep, my tears to blend with hers.

Humans need to be in the presence of other humans as they hurt.

The Gift of Shared Pain Is Connection

See it as a gift when someone shares their pain with you. Hold their burdens with tenderness, with holiness, with care.

Yes, it might make you sad, too, as you validate another person’s aches. But it will also connect you. Allow it to fulfill one of your missions here as a human being: to connect with other human beings—through kindness and grace and compassion.

Connecting with others strengthens us to walk through our own sadness, too. Connecting is one of our most valuable powers to heal our breakings.

And sometimes, connecting is the most human thing we can do.

  • We need human hands to rest on our shoulders with a gentle squeeze.
  • We need human faces to turn toward ours as they listen.
  • We need human eyes to to leak salty water as they mirror our own wet eyes.

Being together feels better than being alone. We need to know we’re not the only human in the room.

Hold On to That Wispy Thread

After a bit, my friend’s mood shifts ever so slightly. She still remains worried, sad, even fearful of what she might have to face in the days ahead with her daughter as they both continue to grieve.

But my hope is that she feels a little less alone today in those emotions. Presence is more authentic than any false guarantee I can offer.

At the door, we hug goodbye. I step away from this holy moment. But I’ll keep holding my friend close.

In the crisscrossing of thin places, the wispy thread of connection is stronger than it looks. It bears weight.

Hold on to it for dear life. Because all of life is dear, even in our sadness.


I continue to ponder on my One Word of the Year, Human. What does human connection mean to you?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Read more:

  • Sit with the Pain
    Those who sit with us as we sit with pain are those we remember. Pain will never be my best friend, but it leads me into the presence of those who are.
  • Camera On or Off? How to Bear Witness
    I search for the “camera off” button. I don’t want to be seen today. But her plea changes me.
  • How Does It Feel to Be Alone?
    My grandson is about to be born. I feel alone. Until I hear footsteps. I look up. It’s not who I expect.


Take Your Foot Off First Base

Last Thursday night I was watching our minor league Trash Pandas baseball player on first base. He had his sliding mitt on. Let’s wait for the steal.

As I sat in the stands, I was reminded again why I’d have made a horrible baseball player (besides the obvious reason of lacking necessary skills).

There’s this weakness I have: if the time came for a steal, I might have been too scared to leave first base to head to second.

Baseball players have to be able to take chances. In pitching, batting, fielding. And they also have to be brave enough to leave first base to run to second.

Just ask Rickey Henderson.

When First Things Aren’t Enough

Rickey Henderson was considered one of the most exciting players in baseball (he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2009).

And it’s not because he played it safe.

What did Rickey do that we can learn from? He wasn’t afraid to give up first things.

But I am often reluctant to let go of first things. It’s uncomfortable to give up things I’ve always known, even when I learn differently.

Why leave a warm, secure base? Because unless I take my foot off first, I’ll never run to second.

That’s what Rickey Henderson did so well. He still holds the record for most stolen bases and runs in Major League Baseball. He was successful in stealing 1,406 times in his career, earning the nickname the “Man of Steal.”

Rickey Henderson

But there was always a risk involved. A player who tries to steal a base can be picked off or thrown out. Then instead of putting your team in scoring position, you hurt them by adding another out.

Yet to make no forward progress only hurts the team even more.

We have to be willing to move on to the better thing instead of clinging to the known thing.

3 Ways to Move On to Second Things

How can we grow from first things to second things?

1. Let the first thing propel you to the second.

When a baseball player makes it to first base, he doesn’t relax and take a seat. He stays engaged. He’s alert to the next person at bat, to the next pitch, to the base coach. He doesn’t want to stay at first; he wants to progress to second.

Learn that the first thing might just be a stepping stone to the next thing.

2. Start with behaviors (rules) but grow into motives (love).

Young children in Little League baseball and softball first learn the basics: how to hit, where to run, how to catch. But learning the rules is only part of the game. The truly passionate baseball players, the ones that stay with the game for years to come, fall in love with it.

When we’re young, we learn to adhere to the rules. We check boxes to receive rewards. But as we mature, our motives hopefully grow beyond mere obedience into a genuine love.

Love keeps us engaged in the game.

3. Use your skills but don’t depend solely on them.

While the best baseball players need to be coordinated, quick, and aggressive, they also have to rely on the help of others to be truly successful. Each player need constructive feedback from their coaches, coordination from managers, advice from other players.

We’ve each been gifted with a set of skills, too. They may serve us well, but our success doesn’t depend on what we do alone; we need our community to keep us straight.

Making It Home

It happened in the fourth inning on May 1, 1991. The Oakland Athletics were playing the New York Yankees at the Oakland Coliseum.

Rickey Henderson of the A’s got on first base, then advanced to second on a single. To progress to the next base, he didn’t wait for a hit. He sped off second and stole third, breaking Lou Brock’s old record of 938 stolen bases.

He pulled the base itself out of the ground, lifted it above his head in celebration, and waved to the crowd as he received a standing ovation.

[Watch the video here]

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Rickey didn’t just play baseball. He loved baseball.

Watching the Trash Pandas Thursday night, I never saw the guy on first steal to second. Maybe next time.

Stepping off first base may not always be easy. But do it and run to second base when you can. Running all the bases eventually leads home.

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Share your thoughts here.

Revised from the archives


Are You Offended? Next Time I’ll Keep Mine in Check

I hated to leave the good conversation. We’d been encouraging each other as fellow human beings to spread more kindness in the world. But our time was up. I got in my car to drive to my next stop.

Traffic was heavy. I needed to merge into the far right lane. But another car in the lane was coming up quickly. I turned on my blinker. I obviously needed a favor. Please let me over.

But the little red car wouldn’t let me in. I saw the driver glance at me. He had made his decision. He’d offer no grace today.

I felt my body reacting. The previous good feelings from the last hour’s camaraderie disappeared.

When the driver beside me caught my eye again, my arms flew up to say, “What do you think you’re doing???”

And I didn’t care.

That’s when I knew I’d officially crossed over into “I’m SO offended!” mode.

I no longer felt like the nice human I wanted to be, but rather a persnickety one. The kind that gets on my own nerves.

I didn’t like it.

I finally merged over and made my right turn. I looked ahead for the red car. Would I pull up beside him at the red light? Did I need to offer an apology gesture for my previous outburst?

He was long gone. Maybe he’d already forgotten the incident. Maybe he was already where he wanted to be.

But I wasn’t. I checked my mood. I reframed my perspective. I’d rather get cut off in traffic then turn into a meanie on the road.

Sometimes we do have legitimate reasons to be offended. I’ve been there; you have too. We need to address those incidents and clear the air.

But this episode in traffic was not one of those times.

And this human does not want to be one of those people so easily offended.

So I’m sorry, fella. And I’m sorry, self. Next time I hope to keep my arms—and my offense—in check.

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Share your thoughts in the comments.


Can You Think Your Way to Chronic Health?

I’m not sure. Is this good news or bad news?

“Every thought we have may affect our health. Indeed, better health for all of us may be just a thought away.”

It’s from Ellen J. Langer’s new book, The Mindful Body: Thinking Our Way to Chronic Health.

It sounds likes a double-edged sword to me, this premise that our body’s health is so intricately connected to our mind’s health. Great—as long as you can keep a positive attitude. But what about those days when you can’t?

For example, Langer says it’s a myth that a medical scare will always improve behavior. If someone is given a pre-diabetic diagnosis, she says that it often makes them more likely to get diabetes down the road.

“Perhaps they become resigned to getting diabetes, and even after an initial attempt to eat differently, become less careful about their diets. Maybe they start exercising less, since they assume they already have the disease. Or maybe the body follows the mind, which now believes it has an early form of diabetes.”

Langer intends for her book to be positive though.

And overall, the book is positive.

Take Control, Even If Illusory

She points out that when given diagnostic results, patients need to understand that scores are often still only probabilistic guesses for future outcomes, not certainties. If your hearing test reveals your score is one point below normal, you may or may NOT need a hearing aid.

“When we recognize that rules, labels, and cutoff points are made by people, there is lots of room to question how any situation could be otherwise. We gain a newfound sense of freedom. We expand our possibilities. . . . The key is to question those things we mindlessly accept, to mindfully interrogate all of the descriptions and diagnoses that can hold us back. When we do, we can get better.”

Langer also writes that our illusion of control—yes, even when it’s only an illusion—can sometimes still prove beneficial. We feel better pressing the “close door” button of the elevator even if it does nothing. Placebos often help.

Regarding our bodies and the illusion of control:

“If we’re diagnosed with a dread disease and assume we have no control, we become helpless, which itself is bad for our health.”

So Langer suggests we practice “mindful optimism,” focusing on things we actually can control. During the pandemic, many of us did this by washing hands more frequently or wearing masks when in public. It didn’t eliminate our risk entirely, but taking a few steps helped us feel (and hopefully actually become) safer.

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Good Enough Is Good Enough

Another practice Langer recommends for better health is “satisficing,” i.e. making a choice that is good enough instead of endless analysis to find a single best choice.

“I don’t think that more information, more time, and more calculations are necessarily better. Rather than all this information improving our decisions, it can result in dissatisfaction and almost crippling anxiety. . . .

My research suggests taking a limited amount of information available at the time and going ahead and choosing an option. Then, rather than worry about whether the decision was right, we should try to make it work.

Look at any advantages that accrue from whatever happens, and then play it as the ‘right decision.’ That is, don’t try to make the right decision, make the decision right.”

The Mindful Body is full of research as well as practical advice on how we can improve our bodies by including our minds. And vice versa.

“If mind and body are one, we can do more than change the body by changing the mind; we can change the mind by changing the body.”

It’s no panacea. We can’t think our way out of cancer or a broken bone or mental illness. However, we can use our minds to come alongside other measures to maximize our body’s healing.

So in the end, I highly recommend The Mindful Body. Knowing that our health isn’t totally bound by past experiences or conventional wisdom is freeing, both for my body and for my mind.


Share your thoughts in the comments.

Thanks to NetGalley + Ballantine Books
for the review copy of The Mindful Body


Before You Get On With Your Day
—Grace & Truth Linkup

Honoring time requires embracing certain truths: that time is precious and time is plentiful.
– Laura Vanderkam

I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a Friday morning, 8:15am. And I’m still in bed.

I decided to solve another Sudoku puzzle from the NYTimes website instead of getting up.

My husband Jeff is already up. I smell cinnamon rolls cooking in the kitchen.

I have things I want to be doing today. Granted, I’d already finished the pressing things on Thursday. I’d worked hard during the week. I was extra tired by Friday morning.

But . . still here, still in bed . . . I’m now also eating cinnamon rolls.

I make the comment to Jeff, “Just one more cinnamon roll before I get on with the day.”

His response to me changed everything: “Maybe this IS the day.”

Of course. This is the day.

And this is how I’m getting on with it.

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Do you struggle, too, with the notion that taking a break on an ordinary morning is sometimes the perfect way to spend a day (or at least a morning)? Share in the comments.

I’m linking at these blog parties

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Grace & Truth Featured Post

When I read Ashley’s post about letting go of “shoulding” ourselves, I immediately related. And I thought back to my morning in bed. I’d told myself that morning I “should” get up; I “should” be productive; I “should” have already worked out, eaten breakfast, made the bed.

But sometimes we need to quiet our “shoulds.” At least evaluate why they’re popping up in the first place.

Read all of Ashley’s wise post at her blog.

“Why We Gotta Stop Shoulding Ourselves and Others”

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