119 - Do what you can. It's enough.

A Saturday night note for my friends.

Welcome back!

It’s been a bit since we saw each other, since I put words into your mailbox. I tried last week, and realized I was trying too hard to get something ready. So I unscheduled it.

And then decided to write this.

This is my friend Terry. We sat across the table from each other last week for the first time in a few months. We talked about our projects and our plans. We offered each other encouragement. Nothing very structured.

But Terry’s pretty insistent that talking about talking about grief and being helpful to others is important. He’s one of the constant encouragers behind my work in this field.

He let me talk about a couple tough situations recently (or the day before. Who keeps track?) He let me listen to a couple challenges.

We looked a little into the future, hugged each other, and headed back to our families, mine across town, his forty miles north.

We didn’t have answers for each other. There aren’t any fixes for what we’re doing. We did have supper and space to talk. And mutual respect.

It’s easy for me to get wrapped up in thinking through all the options and projects in front of me. It’s easy for me to worry about getting things “right” for all the people that I think I need to satisfy, that I think I need to not let down.

That’s pretty easy for you, too. You wouldn’t be reading this newsletter, looking for ideas, wondering about how to help people if you didn’t worry a bit as well.

As we were talking about a mutual project, Terry said, “do what you can and that’s enough.”

He’s right.

Yesterday at the hospital, a couple came up behind me. The guy put his arm around my shoulder. I asked why they were there. It was a different person than usual that they were visiting, worrying about. I looked into her eyes and said, “Go home. Get rest. There are people here to watch by night.”

And then I said, “Most of what I do is give permission. To stop. To breath. To not work so hard to measure up. To stop expecting so much.”

She smiled. They left.

I smiled at Terry’s permission. We left.

I’m smiling at you. It’s not a wacky silly smile.

It’s the smile that says, “I know. This is hard. Take a nap. We’ll be back.”

See you next time.

Jon