Your Shoes

I cannot truly stand in your shoes.
I can stand at your side
to face the rise and fall of the sun,
stand firm with you as the shadows drift,
hold space for you as you ground in your light.
I cannot know what it is to stand in your shoes,
but I can stand with you.

I cannot imagine what it is to be in your shoes.
I can listen to the crunch
of the twigs and pebbles beneath your soles,
the stories of the paths you’ve walked,
the creak of the leather as it bends with the bones of your feet.
I can never know being in those shoes,
but I can listen to you.

I cannot know what it is to walk in your shoes.
I can teeter behind you
along the fallen trunk to cross the chasm,
through the bramble that litters your path,
stepping high over the patches of briars and berries.
I will never walk in your shoes,
but I can walk with you.

I cannot know your feet in those shoes.
But I can sit with you,
our weary feet beneath the table,
where we share stories of callouses and recovery,
blisters born of rough edges, tender arches protected by thick soles.
I cannot know your shoes,
but, in this stillness, I can hear your heart.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved.  2021

Lost and Found: This is me

This is me

This is me

This is me before anyone told me “You can’t do that!”

This is me before anyone responded “Here’s what I think.”

This is me before anyone said “You don’t know how.”

This is me before anyone suggested “You’re not doing it right.”

 

This is me before I questioned “Can I?”

This is me before I worried “What will they think?”

This is me before I paused “How can I do that? ”

This is me before I doubted “Is this right?”

 

This is me remembering “I can do that!”

This is me asserting “Here’s what I think.”

This is me celebrating “Hell yes and here’s how!”

This is me knowing “I knew it all along.”

 

©Pennie Nichols 2021 All Rights Reserved

Covid Memorial Project

I signed up for a slot to participate in our Covid Memorial Project.

The Covid Memorial task?

Mindfully, meditatively count 1500 stones as you place them into a jar. They represent lives lost to Covid in the United States. Then, place the jar of 1500 stones on one of the benches in our Peace Meadow.

I could tell you so many things about my church, this project, and the Peace Meadow, but you can find information in the links I included. This is an account (and accountability) of my personal experience as a participant.

I love this memorial project for many reasons. I stink at meditation. I knew right away that this was the perfect meditative project for me, because it involved movement, I didn’t have to sit still. I would be counting, sorting, filling my jars. I’m grateful to those who conceived this project.

I also love the project because, in this endless era of pandemic and political helplessness, I have something I can do: honor those we have lost.

Breaking the rules

I read the instructions on the table: count the stones into the jars, then carry the jar to the Peace Meadow. I deviated slightly, but I felt comfortable deviating towards comfort because, if my church does one thing well, it’s accept and allow for difference.Piles of dead stones

Instead of counting into the jars, I counted into piles of ten, much like I would count out coins when I collected and sorted coins, triggering pleasant childhood memories. I lined the stones up in columns of ten. I sorted 15 columns of 10 piles of 10 pebbles for one jar with mostly my dominant hand and fingers, then I moved to the other side of the table and counted out piles of 10 with mostly my left hand.

Spur of the moment decision.

I’ve been writing ten lines a day with my left hand for a few of months. My left-hand writing (left handwriting?) has improved a bit, but that’s not the point. I’m trusting the process to trigger something within. The shift resembles, for me, the walks along the same route but the opposite way. When I make the loop through my neighborhood or through the farm fields the “opposite” way, I see different parts of homes, notice different trees and structures. I feel a difference. Sorting the stones for the dead of Covid with my left hand gave me pause. I felt the loss from a different angle.

This is for me.

Counting complete, I placed my two jars of stones on the benches, took some photos, looked for angles. I don’t have anything special to share except that these stones represent real.

People I know are represented in these jars. The jars only hold the dead. I’m not sure my church campus could contain all those who have suffered and survived.Tears in a jar of stones

I don’t expect to change hearts of deniers, convince doubters, or corral troops around a cause. But I can do this. I can honor those we lost. I can be mindful of those who suffered and survived. I can hold up my child and his partner as they recover from the disease, my parents as they receive their vaccines. I can use both my right and left hands to embrace the losses and challenges. I can commit my restless body to an hour of remembrance and prayer.

As I took a few photos, I noticed some jars held condensation. I prefer to see these drops as our collective tears.

May those who were lost and have suffered loss during the pandemic be healed and remembered by our collective tears, by our mindfulness, by our commitment to do better, be better, and be present for each other.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2021

Don’t give up

Don't give upI had a moment when I first saw her.

Don’t give up.

María ravaged her park. Fountains, benches, arbors, and trees were bent, broken, flattened. Trees more ancient than this tree succumbed to the winds, roots releasing their grip.

Her roots clutched the soil.

Don’t give up.

She broke. She lost limbs, thick trunk limbs. But she clung to her place in the Bosquesito of the Parque Luis Muñoz Rivera.Don't give up

In María’s aftermath, crews carried away broken benches, dead limbs, and tree debris. Chainsaws finished what winds could not, cutting through thick five-foot trunks in anticipation of removing the roots.

But the crews and the saws let her be.

Don't give up
Don’t give up.

Crooked. Broken. Determined. She watched as they planted saplings in her shadow. Sometimes leaning against her as they took a break. Maybe they understood she wasn’t done. Shoots of green reaching through her weathered bark towards the sun. The promise of new limbs, new blooms, new seeds, new life.

Don’t give up.

Changes and loss are hard. It’s right that we make room for the new. New energy. New ideas. New vibes. New saplings. It’s also beautiful to stand strong, even if broken, and finish what you came to do.

Don’t give up.

I had a moment when I met this tree. Awe. Hope. Bliss. She’ll be my spirit plant as I wind through the remaining days of this year and make plans for 2020. I’m a little broken, perhaps bent and crooked. But I’m not done. And I won’t give up.

©Pennie Nichols All Rights Reserved 2019

I know nothing.

The stories I want to tell are inevitably intermingled with other lives, lives I don’t truly understand. Honestly, I know nothing I need to know to tell the story well.

The more I know the more I know I know nothing.

I’ve been reading. I’ve been listening. But the more I know, the more I realize I know nothing. Nothing about black lives. Nothing about brown lives. And honestly, not enough about white lives economically, religiously, and politically removed from my experience. The little bit I almost had right is just enough off center to be misleading at best, but mostly, just wrong.

I want to be an advocate and an ally. I want to tell a story. But how to do it well? How do I do it in a way that honors my experience and their truth?

I felt dismay then just as quickly hope when I listened to Justina Ireland weigh in on the controversy surrounding the young adult novel American Heart

Dismay because at first her words seemed to convey that I could never tell a story that included color. But then that nugget of hope:

“If your good intentions fall short of the reality the first time and that just kind of puts you off the sauce, then why were you here in the first place? I mean, if I’m trying to run a marathon, I’m not going to stop because I had one bad run day. It’s a lifetime.”

I’m here in the first place because I want to stand up and use my privilege and voice to connect and encourage empathy. I’m here for the lifetime, for the marathon. I’ll listen harder, lean in deeper. I’ll see myself. I’ll see you. I want to tell our story well.

©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.

 

Being the Change

The Hidden Brain podcast about being the change you want to see moved me.

The host Shankar Vedantam asks what would happen if we truly stood by our principles. He also points out how exhausting people who stick to their principles can be.

The podcast showcases the journey of one couple and their effort to raise their daughter free from gender stereotypes. This story is not only moving, but also enlightening. To shield their child from gender stereotypes these parents struggled against words, clothing, and colors. They struggled with family and friends. But they held true to their path and trusted their truth. And, importantly, they were patient.

Changes take time. Being the change takes patience.

This couple takes being the change to a fiercely high level. I feel privileged to know a few young souls who are as strong and brave as that couple. The bravery of people who fearlessly stand by their principles gives me hope. They also inspire me to be better and being the change.

©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2017.

A crazy woman

Tonight I sat behind a crazy woman.

I’ll call the woman in the pew in front of me Angie.

My first cue came when, from the corner of my eye, I saw Angie talking to the woman next to her. I looked up to see that Angie’s neighbor continued to read her program, never noticing that Angie was mouthing words, not making a sound, perhaps not even mouthing at her neighbor. I wasn’t sure who she was addressing.

Then I noticed the hair, tangled mats woven into a greasy almost-up do. I had seen this do before, sculpted by hours of a drunken head collapsed into a pillow.

My heart sank in the memory, but I knew this wasn’t my friend. She had drowned her heart in vodka, and, five years ago, her matted head had collapsed one final time, lifeless, in a bed of debris and neglect on her kitchen floor. I stared at Angie’s matted head and inhaled, pulling the air deep into my abdomen. I didn’t detect alcohol or neglected hygiene.

Angie lifted both arms, fists clutching the program, then slammed her hands into her lap. She was anxious. She turned around, looked past me to the doors then up to the mezzanine balcony. She mouthed unvoiced frustrations. As she lifted her gaze to the ceiling, surely some of those silent words were angry obscenities. Was she cursing God? She faced forward towards the empty choir risers then plopped deeper into the pew.

Who was she?

A grandparent? A parent? The latter seemed unlikely, yet possible

Angie must have looked at her watch. She looked closely at the program again, then emphatically pointed to the information on the front. A silent scream: “7:30 pm!!!” Probably followed with something like: “This is ridiculous! You’re late! You’re supposed to start at 7:30!” I looked at my phone. It was 7:30 on the nose. Angie stomped her feet like a toddler having a hissy fit, and slammed her back into the pew with a harrumph.

Maybe she was a member of the music department. A former choir director? She was anxious for this show to begin.

Angie’s clothes were crumpled and aged but didn’t have the stains and grime of the frayed pants and shirts my dead friend wore during her last days. Angie’s outfit was only slightly untidy, missing the belt, probably cloth, that should have been secured by the five wide loops along the waistline of her polyester jacket-shirt.

The watch again. This time Angie beat her fist in the air, and her neighbor seemed to notice her for the first time. She scooted away from Angie, closer to the man to her left (I’ll hazard to say her husband) and whispered something in his ear. He craned his neck in time to see Angie talking to the program, scolding it for the lies it told, right there on the front page.

Angie turned to look past me again then turned forward and, with an audible huff, crossed her arms. The concert should have started three whole minutes ago! Shaking her head, she wiggled against the hard pew as if to adjust cushions, then slammed her fists into her lap once more.

I made a mental note to pay attention after the program.

Did Angie have a child, grandchild, or friend in the Women’s Chorale? Perhaps a son or grandson who sang alongside my son in the Glee Club? I realized I wanted to know.

Angie stretched her neck high when the organist appeared. She gestured a well-it’s-about-time and sank back into the pew. Her neighbor scooted further away, wedging herself into the protection of her husband’s underarm.

The rows of heads gave a start when the organ pipes burst into chords of import and ceremony, a cantabile by César Franck. The deep lines around Angie’s mouth lifted, her shoulders settled; she sank into the warm waters of the music and muffled steps of the choristers as they filled the sanctuary.

An Interfaith Service of Thanksgiving

The service began with a welcoming that was followed by a hymn of Thanksgiving.

Crazy woman in a pewAs we all stood to sing, I peered over the pew: a large orange purse and yellow lace-up flats. Angie joined in song, out loud and with enthusiasm. I was growing fond of her.

The opening prayer was from the Islamic tradition, read by a short young woman in a hijab. Angie read along in the program, mouthing the words. She looked up with a smile as the prayer ended.

A Hebrew folk song followed the Islamic prayer. We also enjoyed a Zulu folk song, a Shoshone love song, an Iroquois prayer, a Jewish litany, Christian hymns, silly and serious poems. Angie laughed out loud for the “A Turkey Speaks” poem. We gave thanks for the harvest, thanks for the bounty, thanks for the sun, moon, and stars. Thanks to God, thanks to the Earth. We lifted the thanks and praise of many faiths.

I know I’m a little crazy, but I cherish both difference and connection. I felt grateful for this gathering that honored the prayers of other faiths, lifting them in voice and song. I felt thankful for this assembly in a place that was safe to be the other, a space where we could celebrate differences and find connections without fear. I was thankful for Angie. She carried the intensity of her frustration and anxiety for the late start (4 minutes!) into her enthusiasm for the songs and prayers that were offered during the program. And I enjoyed them more for it.

The program concluded, we applauded and began to disperse. I watched Angie. She went up to one of the members of the Glee Club, she smiled, spoke to him, and patted him on the shoulder. They didn’t seem like family. Nothing was clear. Maybe he didn’t know her. Maybe he did. I had paid attention, but, as Angie padded through the crowd and out the doors in her yellow shoes —different, brave, unafraid— I realized that even after making mental notes and scribbles, I had no idea who she was.

I also realized I was being watched. My neighbor looked from my gaze that followed Angie to my hand that held the program covered in scribbled notes about Angie. I’m sure she went home and told someone: “I sat next to a crazy woman tonight.”

© Copyright Pennie Nichols, 2016. All Rights Reserved

Worthy of Kindness?

When does a person become unworthy of kindness?

Although it’s not a rhetorical question, I’m not looking for any answers. I think there are many.

This question came up in my home the day Derrick Todd Lee, convicted serial killer, died. I wasn’t thinking about Lee, though. I googled Trevor Reese.

Trevor was my son’s high-school classmate and soccer teammate. Until he wasn’t.

Between their sophomore and junior years of high school, Trevor did the unthinkable. On a summer day, he slit the throat of Jack Attuso, a happy eight-year-old, out for a walk with his family.

My son was sixteen at the time, as was Trevor.

“Mama!!!”

The news was confounding. Even today when I read about it, my heart breaks in every direction.

  • Jack’s parents
  • Trevor’s parents
    • Jack’s siblings
    • Trevor’s siblings
      • Jack
      • Trevor

And the heartbreak goes on.

In his sixteenth year, Trevor felt he was like a Derrick Todd Lee. On that summer day in 2010, Trevor set out to get some “relief.” To get “high,” if you will. To feel better. He was sure killing would do it. In his court testimony, he explains that he was disappointed after the act.

The Lee and Trevor stories are horrifying. Google their names if you really want to know more. But I ask this:

When did/will/would a Derrick Todd Lee or a Trevor Reese become unworthy of kindness?

“Maybe he (my son) could write to him, tell him something nice he remembers about him?”

“Why?

“To lift him up. Maybe add something.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?

“Why waste your energy on someone like that?”

I was surprised to hear this from someone who sees the value in lifting up. But my partner had a point. Why expend good energy and goodwill on someone who may be immune to it? We have many people, projects, and commitments in our lives. If we prioritize it all, where would a Lee or a Trevor fall on our list?

Can I make the time? Should I make the time? Stripped down, the question is: “Is he worthy of my kindness?”

My heart answers “yes” every time.

Good people do bad things. Bad people do good things.

In a scene from an Argentinian film Hombre mirando al sudeste (Man Facing Southeast), Rantes, the protagonist, is in a pathology lab. He slices a brain in half and asks a series of questions as he explores the crevices: “Where is that afternoon where he first felt the love of a woman?”  “What marks are left of the moments of pleasure and pain that this man felt?” As he tears apart pieces of the brain and washes them down a drain: “There goes Einstein. Bach. Mr. Nobody.  A crazy man.  A murderer.” Rantes asks the doctor who is visiting him: “What do you think, doctor? Does this drain spill into hell or into heaven?”

There are so many things we can’t truly know.

  • Why?
  • What’s in a person’s head?
  • Will my kind words be fruitless or fruitful?

When I asked my son what he thought:  “I think I would actually like to write to him. I don’t know what I’d say. ‘I hope you find peace.’ Something. It can’t hurt.”

Those words, that missive would be small. Light as a ping pong ball. So why not toss it over? That ping pong ball could hit a brick wall then bounce away, back at us, over our heads, into oblivion. Or, the ball could fall into an open heart. Maybe lift it a little.

Maybe Trevor would remember something good. He’ll spend the rest if his life in Angola. What could a ping pong ball of kindness hurt?

I confess I’m drawn to stories like the Amish story of forgiveness and grief. Within weeks of the shooting in which the milk truck driver entered a school and shot ten students, killing five and then himself, Amish families donated money to the murderer’s widow and children. What’s more, the day after the services for the victims, some of the family members of the victims attended the killer’s burial service, hugged his widow, and expressed condolences to the family.

Trevor’s mom was my son’s math teacher. My son liked her. I often thought about reaching out but never did. I regret that. I should have written. I should have tossed her a ping pong ball of kindness. Maybe it’s not too late to send a kind missive, perhaps even an uplifting word to her son, Trevor. Tossing that out there will feel good, no matter how it lands or where it bounces.

Copyright © 2016 by Pennie Nichols, All Rights Reserved.

Cancer? I’m lifting you up.

lifting-you-up

Your friend has cancer. Every genuine, heartfelt phrase you want to share sounds cliché and the more you delete and rewrite, the more your words become faded Hallmark sentiments. “How can I express to her how I’m feeling?”

Then you ask yourself, “What can I do? Should I call? No, she’s probably flooded with calls, but what if she thinks . . . ? Maybe I’ll pop in to check on her. No, what if her whole family . . . ? I’ll just text. But I need to do something. I’ll bring meals for the family. But what if someone already did?”

Struggling with these questions after you receive the news is a sign that you might be a truly supportive friend. Thoughtful words and gestures are a good beginning. Thoughtful awareness is an excellent delivery vehicle for your words and acts. (Related story: Whose Story Is It Anyway?)

Over the past fifteen years, nineteen friends and close acquaintances have faced cancer. Eight died. Geography, level of intimacy, and personal circumstances were factors in the extent of my connection during their treatment and recovery. While my involvement varied greatly, the struggle with words and acts was a constant. No matter how close I am to the person, physically or personally, I want the things that I say and do to make a difference, even if as simple as a fleeting smile.

I ambitiously set out to write a list of dos and don’ts for interacting with a friend who has cancer. After reaching out to friends with cancer stories, I realized the futility of a concrete list. The perfect thing for one friend is the worst for another. What did come from my conversations and ruminations is this list of guidelines, two of which I touched on above, all of which are relevant to caring for friends in any difficult circumstance.

1. Check in.

Let your friend know that you’re thinking about her. If you decide not to call because her lines are flooded or you’re not sure what to say, send a card, an email, or a text. If you’re struggling with the words, let that struggle go and use the words you find. Even a short text that borders on cliché can make a difference to a friend who is going through a tough time.

Keep checking in. Your friend will be flailing through waves of emotions, physical hardships, and practical concerns throughout her treatment and beyond. Even if you’re not one of the primary people taking care of her, check in regularly to let her know you’re thinking of her or to offer help. When treatment is complete, check in some more. The emotional and physical impact of cancer treatments can linger well beyond the last treatment date.

2. Tune in.

Be thoughtful and aware. Each cancer journey is unique. One friend explained: “the most important thing is to remember that every person is different, and we all have different problems / obstacles / challenges, which means there is no single appropriate response.”

Tuning in is listening. If you ask: “How are you feeling?” or “How are you doing?”, listen to the response.

Tuning in is also practicing thoughtful awareness of your friend’s support network, personality, and receptiveness.

If your friend has a family or community support network, communicate with that network so that you’re not duplicating or hindering the efforts of others. If there is no “built-in” support network, team up with other friends to create one.

Your friend’s personality is your guideline for interactions. Is she stoic or does she need a little extra boost? Is she all business or does she enjoy a laugh? A little levity can be helpful, but only if she’s ready for it. During a chemo treatment, the art therapist told my friend, “You’re back! Remember me?” My friend responded no. The therapist asserted, “Yes, you were here last week,” which wasn’t true. After the fourth insistence, I responded, “Well, she’s got that bald thing going on. They all look alike, don’t they?” The art therapist stood stunned. My friend belly-laughed, and she was ready for that.

How communicative is your friend? Is she open to sharing details about her treatment and feelings? Give your friend a chance to open up if she wants, but don’t pry her for details she’s not ready to share.

3. Be specific about what you can do.

Spell out it out. Don’t carelessly toss your friend an extra burden: “Let me know if you need anything.” Specify: “Can I mow your lawn this weekend?” or “I’m available to run errands for you for two hours on Friday.”

Your friend may not know what she needs; even if she does, she may not reach out. Tuning in and being specific can help. I asked two questions in one afternoon:

“Can I get you anything from Costco?”

“No, I’m good.”

Fifteen minutes later:

“I’m at Costco. Do you need any salmon?”

“Yes, that would be great. And can you check to see if they have any LaCroix?”

In the end, my friend requested five things. After tuning in to her habit of responding, “No, I’m good,” I called back with a specific question. This helped her think through and verbalize what she needed.

4. Be a thoughtful visitor.

Don’t pop in. During treatment, your friend may feel weary and not particularly social or presentable. Call ahead, make sure it’s a good time, and specify how long you will stay. “I can visit for fifteen minutes tomorrow if you like. I’ll bring ice cream.”

Don’t linger. Be cognizant of how your friend is feeling when you arrive. She may not be up for the visit after all, or she may be feeling anxious and need the company. One friend explained that the fifteen- to twenty-minute visits from a friend with a listening ear and comfort food were the best.

Don’t react. Avoid: “This is just dreadful!”, “I can’t believe this is happening to you!”, or “This is a piece of cake! You can do it.” On the other hand, be open to and don’t sugarcoat the emotions your friend is feeling. Her fear and anxiety are part of her story. If she wants to share those, listen but don’t try to qualify them.

Don’t give medical advice. Well-intended advice is often annoying, even disturbing. If you have information that might be helpful, don’t discuss it. Simply share the website or the book. It’s not your place to prescribe or recommend treatments. Your friend will discuss those with her doctors.

Don’t vent or ramble about inconsequential events. This can be insulting to the friend you’ve come to visit. Sure, she may want to talk about something other than her cancer, but let the communication flow from your friend to you. If conversation stalls, ask about other things in her life. “How is Timmy doing in school?” “Is Olivia still playing soccer?” Or, just sit and allow the quiet presence of companionship.

5. Remember the primary caregivers.

Reach out to the primary caregiver. Although that spouse, sibling, or friend may have meals, errands, chores, and visitation perfectly coordinated, he or she may need some additional support. Check in to find out and offer specific things you can do.

6. Don’t try to own her cancer.

Respect the boundaries. Friends often rush in to help a sick friend. Don’t let that become a competition or complication. Coordinate your efforts, avoid squabbles and pettiness. What you do for your friend and your struggle to find the right things to say and do are valid, but that story is the sub-plot. This is her cancer story. It’s her cancer. Not yours. Quiet support is often the biggest expression of love.

Thanks to my friends who shared their cancer stories and whose thoughts helped me cobble together some guidelines. Specifically, thanks to these ladies.

lifting-up-jane-1

Jane with her dad and brother shortly after surgery

lifting-up-mim-1

Mim and her husband, both of whom faced cancer

lifting-up-patti

Patti with her two children

lifting-up-lisa-1

Lisa with her sister, who was with her every step of the way

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2015 by Pennie Nichols, All Rights Reserved.

Whose story is it anyway?

Your friend has a cancer story. Sharing can be caring.

distressful newsFour times in less than twelve months, I’ve received texts from friends that start something like this: “I have some distressful news . . . ” The bad news unfolded into stories of doctors, hospitals, and scary procedures. The stories belonged to my friends, not to me, but I shared the stories. Mostly to and with other friends, but sometimes I shared these stories that didn’t belong to me outside of my circle of friends. I think I shared the stories responsibly.

But how can I be sure?

Normally, I would not ask myself this question, but a couple of the most recent distressful-news stories were shared abusively. So I had to ask myself: “Am I oversharing?”

I don’t think I’m alone in this. We receive bad news from a friend (cancer, divorce, collapse, death, accidents, drug problems), and the wildfire of story sharing breaks out. Unlike yesteryear when stories moved slowly as they navigated landlines, rotary phones, and handwritten letters, today’s stories are fanned by cellphones and social media, and the wildfire engulfs everyone in an instant.

Most often, the sharing is genuine, a loving effort to let other friends and the community know so that the support network can kick in. In less elevated iterations, the sharing is simply gossip. In its most banal form, the sharing is derisive, a weapon to undermine those who are already suffering.

But what about that place between genuine sharing and gossip?  You were there if you ever asked yourself: “Why did I share this with them?” or “Would my friend be upset that I told them?”

My midlife throttle is wide open, and, unfortunately, distressful news is the new normal.

I created some guidelines for navigating those moments I feel compelled to share a friend’s story. Before I unveil them, a tiny confession:

  • Being the first to inform another friend about the news can be oddly satisfying. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.
  • Not telling a friend’s story can sometimes be less genuine than sharing it.

friends-bad-news

Remember the genuine vs. gossip, vs. weapon? Along those lines, I roughed out basic levels of sharing to use as a guideline.

  1. Sharing helps my friend. Does it help spread the news, set up a support network, and so on? If yes, share. If not, next question.
  2. Sharing helps me. Is it on my my mind, does it impact my performance or mood, am I expanding the prayer circle, can I share it without violating my friend’s trust or privacy? If yes, share. If not, next question.
  3. Sharing is part of a casual conversation outside of the circle that includes my friend. At this point, the only relevant question is: “Does it violate my friend’s trust or privacy?” If yes, don’t share.

For me, there are no more questions. If you made it this far and think there should be more, these are the definite don’ts:

  1. Sharing is just an anecdote. If it is just gossip, don’t share.
  2. Sharing is an excuse. If this is a way to get out of work or an obligation, an excuse to ask for money, do not share.
  3. Sharing is a weapon. Wow. You’re not a friend.

The golden rule applies. Your friend is distressed. He/She needs a good friend. Be good. Share responsibly.

Related post: I’m Lifting You Up.

Copyright © 2015 by Pennie Nichols, All Rights Reserved.