When I was ten, my friend Jeannie invited me to spend a whole week at her vacation home in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Jeannie had been a lovely surprise to her family; her older brothers were fifteen and twenty years older. Her parents took the two of us throughout the harbor and beyond in their fishing boat, and we spotted speckled seals all along that frigid Maine coast. The water sprayed our freckled faces as our hair flew back in the wind. The air was clean and the views stunning. We later did cannonball jumps off the end of their pier, and I noticed the water was as black as night; nothing like the beaches I was accustomed to. It was many years later that I learned the water was fifty feet deep off that pier! No wonder it was pitch black.

One morning, Jeannie’s mother shooed us out the back door with a sturdy basket each. Fill them up, and I will make pies for dinner. We were true New England girls, and we imagined the pages of “Blueberries for Sal” by Robert McCloskey. I held my breath hoping to see a bear and her cub as we picked wild blueberries in the woods of Maine. Every snap of a branch made us jump.

We ate as many wild blueberries as we picked, and our fingers and cheeks were darkly stained. When we returned to the house, Jeannie’s mother looked at us and laughed, her blue eyes dancing. Go wash up, she said, as she swatted us gently with her dish towel. She evidently understood ten year old girls, and she never complained when we left blueberry stains on her white towels and in her porcelain sink. We helped her roll the dough, and fashion the pies. She placed them carefully in the hot oven and we played a board game together before setting the dinner table.

Pie was served that evening with a scoop of Brigham’s vanilla ice cream and a dollop of kindness. I was feeling a bit homesick, and Jeannie’s mom knew it. She tucked Jeannie and me into side-by-side twin beds in the blue room each night, crisp sheets starched and cool beneath our sunburned skin. I whispered my own prayers when the lights were dimmed and fell fast asleep. Outdoor play and fresh sea air tired us to perfection. Sleep was solid and earned; our bodies exhausted with the goodness of exercise.

As I gaze back in time, I see with adult eyes the kindness of Jeannie’s mother, who was nearing sixty with a ten-year-old daughter. She cared for us tirelessly and made sure we had fun. She watched over us gently without stifling our play. She swept and hung out towels and bathing suits on the clothesline, cooked simple and delicious fare, and prepared picnic baskets of bologna and cheese sandwiches on white bread smoothed with mustard for our outdoor adventures. She smiled a lot.

We would not have been able to have such a time if we had access to a television or an iphone. We were accustomed to imaginative play, occasionally growing bored with each other and with make-believe. This was not such a bad thing. Boredom pushed us to creativity or to chores: both of which are essential to a well-lived life.

The decades have passed, but I remember Jeannie’s mother well. Kindness lives long and reaches far.

At the tender age of twelve, I packed a suitcase and a traincase (who else grew up calling a tiny suitcase filled with makeup. shampoo, deodorant, and a hair dryer a traincase?) for a week of Christian Camp in Western New York. This girls’ camp had been in existence since forever, and although I was happy to be with a few friends from church, I was nervous rather than excited.

It was exceptionally hot that July, and with cabins that were primitively dark, damp, and musty, we looked forward to swimming. As soon as our parents left, our camp counselor informed us that due to a lifeguard shortage, sixth graders would not be swimming on this particular week. Instead, we could take sailing lessons as long as we wore life preservers. This was going to be a long seven days.

As it turned out, we had one sailing lesson, because rain fell in torrents most afternoons that week. The girls from our cabin stuck together, and visited the camp store where we ate too much candy. At lunch and dinner we were told to drink our milk, which I could not do without gagging. I was accustomed to drinking mainly water, and simply could not choke down milk. My sweet friend switched cups with me, thus drinking two milks, while I started feeling funny from lack of hydration. In desperation, each night I would sneak out of my cabin and head to the showers, drinking water from a spicket outside the building. Not a good plan, and I was sick each morning.

I finally asked my counselor if I could please have water at mealtime, and she told me that camp was a time to grow up and toughen up. I nodded and pretty much decided I was not going to ask her for anything else.

One afternoon mid-week, when the sun poked out from behind the heavy clouds, our counselor reminded us of the importance of trusting in God. We had been having campfire discussions about this, so nothing new there. It was the way she said it though. I had a funny feeling that we were going to embark on a surprise lesson. I had had enough surprises that week (no swimming, upset stomach, musty cabins, only one sailboat lesson) and did not relish the idea of any more.

Follow me girls, she said. So we marched single file behind her for a short hike through the woods. Eventually we stumbled into a clearing. In front of us sat a log cabin with an old pickup parked outside. Form two lines at the bed of the truck, and grab hands with the girl across from you.

There were ten of us, so five one side, five the other. Palms up as you hold hands. We rotated our hands as our camp counselor jumped up into the bed of the truck.

Today, we are going to do trust falls. Just as we need to to trust God, so we can learn to trust others.

Oh no. This I could not do.

As the counselor turned her back to us, she crossed her arms over her chest, and reminded us that we could not bend our knees. This is a picture of trusting the Lord, girls.

She fell lightly and our arms swayed, but we caught her.

She picked the next girl, who waffled for a minute, then fell back but bent her knees a bit, and although we broke her fall, she landed with a thump in the dirt. She laughed and so did we. Kind of.

The next girl went, and was far more solid. She did not bend her knees, but her weight caused our damp hands to lose their grip and she landed more loudly and hurt her tailbone.

In hindsight, this would have been an excellent time to call it quits. But no. She tapped my shoulder. You are next, Kristin.

I climbed up in the bed of the truck and looked at the large maple tree above me. It was beautiful and I wished that I could be as anchored to the earth. This trust fall was something I would not do. And in my twelve year old heart, I also realized deep down that this had nothing to do with trusting in God. I loved God, and I did not trust these girls to catch me. We had already dropped a few campers, and I had no intention of adding a bruised tailbone to my growing list of bad things at camp. I also did not trust my counselor who refused to allow me to drink a lousy cup of water at meals.

At the same time, I was not the girl to buck a system, or to talk back, or to be publicly embarrassed. So I had to quickly choose: embarrassment or getting injured. Embarrassment won.

I cannot do this.

Oh yes you can. You trust God, don’t you?

Yes. But I won’t do this.

She shook her head and I jumped down, ashamed of what my friends might think.

As it turned out, they were real friends, and really did not care that I bowed out.

******

If we place our trust in people, we will live in a constant state of fear. Look about you. Our world is wringing their proverbial hands during this time of global pandemic. If we take a trust fall into the arms of worldly opinions, or CNN or local news, we are going to land with a hard thump. This is not what God asks of us.

God beckons us with Fear not. My heart is grieved to see fellow believers panicking. Nothing in this world happens without God’s knowledge. He sees our tears and anxiety and calls us to abide in Him. He is our shelter and our shield of protection.

Christ died for his bride, the church. He knows the hairs upon our head, and he catches all of our tears in his bottle. We have been given a specific amount of days on this earth, and we are to live them fully, not in fear, but in joy, serving and loving others.

My hero of the faith is Elisabeth Elliot. She faced many hardships during her life, and often shared about battling fear. Her first husband was killed by a tribe of people whom he was serving, and her second husband died after a raging battle with cancer. Acceptance is the key to peace in suffering, she taught women. And she lived those words. For the Christ-follower, suffering sands away our heart’s rough and calloused edges. Without suffering, we would remain cold and heartless.

Fear not should become our mantra. Bad things are happening, and will happen as long as we live on planet Earth. The Bible teaches this. But it also teaches us that faith is not born out of fear, but out of trust. Not in people or government or worldly goods, but in Christ alone.

As a little girl, I grew up in an expansive old New England farmhouse. The white house had been divided up into four apartment-type dwellings, and sat upon a beautiful piece of land. My brother and I had complete run of the yard, plus the field, gardens, and wooded area. Across the street was a pond and a small dam. We borrowed Mr. Golden’s tin rowboat and paddled all around, catching turtles, frogs, and small fish. We spent most of our play time outdoors in the fresh air. I loved that house and was sad when we eventually moved.

It was not difficult to know my boundaries at that house. Some of the vegetable gardens were staked off, other flower gardens we were told were off limits. Distinct property lines included an ancient stone wall. The neighbor’s field began after our woods, and I never stepped into it. Further down the street houses were divided by white picket fences, all whitewashed and pretty. They were not there for their beauty….they marked ownership and boundary lines. Those boundaries provided a source of safety and oddly enough, freedom.

Limits always produce freedom. Just watch children. It doesn’t take one hot minute to recognize which children are favored with boundaries that have been set and guarded. Most often the happiest children are the ones who understand that boundaries mean safety and the freedom to be themselves within those healthy limits.

Physically marked boundaries are obvious. Personal and emotional boundaries are often trickier. And if we do not build them, we will never be the whole person that the Lord desires us to be; his workmanship. We will be stunted and either frustrated, sad, or angry. Not to mention exhausted.

Recently, I have had to guard my heart with emotional boundaries. (Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it. Proverbs 4:23 NIV) This sometimes looks like sweeping a soft path away from a broken person who is inflicting pain, or other times looks like hammering a picket fence that allows the breeze to blow through, but definitively marks what will not be permitted to enter. We cannot change others, (that is the work of the Holy Spirit) but we may change what we allow to hurt our heart. If we do what we’ve always done, we will get what we always got.

One summer when I was perhaps ten, our family and extended family was vacationing on Cape Cod. Every day my grandparents would give us a handful of loose change to walk a half mile to buy penny candy at the corner store. This ended up being my brother, 2 cousins named Jim and Steve, and myself. Steve was harmless, but Jim was a sneaky and miserable kid. He caused problems wherever he landed.

We always raced from the candy store back to the cottage. Jim, who was bent on winning everything, would inevitably trip one of us to gain an advantage, or cheat with a head start. It was getting pretty annoying, but I did not say anything. I respected the boundaries of others, but had absolutely no boundary fence of my own. I had fashioned an idol out of peace-keeping, rather than being a good and objective truth-teller.

On the last day of vacation, we held our final race. This was it. I had had as much of my cheating cousin as I could take. I was determined to win this race. For the first bit Jim and I were neck and neck. Then I mustered up some determination and increased my speed. The cottage was in sight and I knew I could do this. My heart was racing and I was smiling. Just as I reached the foot of the cottage steps, I felt a pull on the bottom of my t-shirt, and suddenly I was falling backwards. I landed with a painful thump as Jim started of the steps.

“I won!” he gloated.

Something snapped inside of me, which up until this point in my life had never quite shown up. I flew up those steps, and as Jim reached for the screen door, I put my arm in front of his neck and pushed him. Hard. I flew into the cottage, and to the surprise of every adult announced loudly that I had had enough of Jim and his cheating ways.

Unknowingly, I had created a new boundary with my cousin that would remain. He continued to be a problem, but interestingly enough he left me alone. It had taken me at least five years of suffering to say enough.

Take it from me, it is better to trust in the God that created you and loves you. Your worth comes from Him. If you know this deep down in your bones, you will not be a people-pleaser and enabler, but a truth-teller. This does not mean pain will end; on the contrary. But you will have a clean and honest life before others and God.

Boundaries are not the same as walls. Walls block out everyone. Walls silence all conversation. Boundaries are fences that keep most toxicity out. One can gently converse over a fence, while maintaining a measure of safety and protection and limitation.

To be clear, some people do not like to be given limits, or boundaries. Pay attention. In my experience, every person who throws up their hands at healthy boundaries, are the very people from whom you must guard your heart.

Jesus was the ultimate boundary setter. He served, and then retreated to rest. He knew his purpose, and carried it out in an unhurried way. Often, if you read the gospels, Jesus did not do what everyone else wanted or expected him to do. He did not chase people down, but went steadily about the work that God had planned for him. He disappointed many, but it did not matter, because his focus was upon God alone.

I like the small side of life. Those little beauties that are often overlooked. Tiny things, when noticed and appreciated, create a thankful heart posture and a rich life.

Hand written notes sent by stamp, a newly fallen maple leaf in autumn, the sizzle of an outdoor grill, hoodies on a chilly day, a sparkling clean kitchen, freshly cut flowers on the dining room table, an “I’m just thinking about you” text, a magnificent book I cannot put down, handing cash to a homeless person, a long walk with a friend, a dog giving me her paw, family dinners, lavishing a gift upon someone just because, that one Bible verse leaping off of the page and suddenly making sense as the Holy Spirit nudges.

Our particular sphere of influence may be small, but I am remembering today that that specific sphere is also a gift from God. He plants us in different locations for seasons of life, and he gently calls us to be faithful wherever that may be. We do not know our own future, and that is as it should be. We are not God.

1 Corinthians 3: 6-7 (NASB) says: I planted, Apollos watered, but God was causing growth. So then neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but God who causes the growth.

Steady faithfulness shines brightly in the midst of division and anger and broken relationships. We do not cause anyone to grow spiritually. If we are humble and faithful, willing to be guided and corrected, the Lord God will bring about growth in His timing. It is not our work to save anyone; that is a work of God as we encourage and teach and pray. Those small kindnesses, and little acts of faithfulness are never wasted. God uses them all.

Many times, as we face hardship and pain, it is easy to forget the small joys and beauty that God has given us. Do, do, do. Always frantic, always working, joy-less. This always becomes self-focused, causing more harm; never gracious.

There is a beckoning; a better way if you choose to listen. Stop the striving, and serve with joy. Striving is working to earn a place of recognition, it is burdensome and weighed down and complaining and heavy. This is easy to spot in others, but difficult to call out in myself. Serving with joy is more like “my burden is easy and my yoke is light.” The doing is not frantic, but giving, peaceful, and happy. This serving will still be a sacrifice of time and perhaps money, but it is wrapped up beautifully with a bow of peace.

When I was small, I remember holding my grandfather’s hand somewhere in Downtown Boston one Sunday after church. We were making our way to Legal Sea Foods restaurant, where I always ordered my favorite clam chowder. My grandfather lavished his family with good gifts, and going out to fancy restaurants was one of them. I always felt important to him, mainly because he spoke my love language of gift-giving. And with each gift, he never once reminded me of what he had done for me in the past; and this, too, was another gift in itself. I felt honored, and cherished, and important.

That day, as we were walking, we passed a fountain. I looked over the edge, and noticed what seemed to be a million coins: pennies, nickels, dimes, and even quarters, covered in the fountain water. That is a wishing well. Make a wish and it might come true! My Grandpa handed me some loose change from his pocket, and I tossed it, making my wish.

Most adults were walking by, ignoring the wishing fountain, and the treasure that lay within arms reach. I think I am sometimes like that: the riches of God are within reach, and I am oft that foolish person, walking right by treasure that is mine for the taking. I would rather work things out on my own, ignoring the small joys of life, working, working to earn something that I have already been given.

So I am thankful for small things today. I am also thankful for God’s goodness, and forgiveness, and mercy. Those big things that He lavishes upon his children.

Fifteen years ago, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I settled onto our soft living room carpet, plucked Parade magazine from the bundled newspaper, and flipped to the back pages. With my husband and children napping, I looked forward to this simple weekly pleasure. Those were the days when Parade’s writing was mostly thoughtful.

On this Sunday, an editorial was written by a man whose wife had spent an inordinate amount of time and money on cold creams to stop the premature wrinkling of her skin.  It is one thing to spy crows’ feet at age thirty, but this woman had begun wrinkling in her twenties, and by the time the article was written, she was nearing fifty but looked far older. She was not a vain woman but nevertheless ached to give her husband a beautiful face to love.

I only wish that I had kept a copy of his writing. (I spent a few minutes searching, but so far nothing.) The author’s words pulsed with devotion and unconditional love for his wife. He wanted no part of lotions and creams. He told her every day that she was the most breathtaking woman he knew. I still remember how my heart swelled with the idea of such a devotion despite the world’s opinion. We all ache for such a human love.

John O’Donohue, the late philosopher, said that the world mistakes glamour for beauty. Yes. And the glamour is not even real. It is airbrushed and obsessive and restrictive in all of the wrong ways.

Which reminds me…

Two years ago, our neighbor died of a heart attack in her bed one January night. She was fifty-five years old. Within a week, her sister Brenda arrived to clean and sell all possessions before putting the little yellow house on the market.

Brenda was breathtakingly lovely. She was tall and large-boned and hugely overweight. Her hair had thinned down to wisps after enduring chemotherapy and surviving breast cancer. A large mole clung to the tip of her nose, her eyes were squinty, and her clothing was ill-fitting. She spoke kindly, expressed genuine appreciation for the smallest things, gave away quality belongings of her late sister to neighbors, and accepted all help graciously and without apology. She shared challenges in her own life with an authenticity that, for me, was unprecedented.  And despite her own recent trials, she listened well, laughed loudly, and loved big.

Imagine if we all were this beautiful.

Oh my goodness. I should have used a pencil.

For over thirty years I have measured and structured my days by keeping a day planner. The styles have varied, and have most recently landed in the month-at-a-glance type. Not too bulky, lays flat, and holds enough space to jot down birthdays and appointments. I simultaneously have an index card under a paperclip that holds the planner open to the proper month. 

On the index card is my daily to-do list. Using various color pens, I write things like, “buy coffee” or “plan next year’s history class” or “schedule eye doctor appointments.” I do not write normal daily things such as Pilates, take a walk, Bible reading, cleaning, cooking, laundry, etc. Those just happen because those just happen.

I am fond of writing things down, and it delivers inordinate pleasure if it looks pretty. Thus the colored pens, and neat index card and attractive planner. Bless the people who keep all appointments and plans in their phone. They are missing out on the beauty of a straight, clean line crossing through a finished task.

Back in college, I recall using a pencil to write in my planner. Things were prone to change quickly with assignments, social gatherings and the like. I learned quickly that unless I wanted to own stock in white-out, I had better use pencil. Years later, when our children were small, I still used a sharpened Ticonderoga. Our best made plans seemed to flounder weekly, as they are prone to do with little ones. Someone would come down with a fever, or the baby was teething, or I was too tired to attend.

Then our children grew up, and although the pace of life increased, I was no longer cancelling things. I could leave everyone home when I needed to get a cut and highlight, or pick up medication, or meet a friend for coffee. One day I started jotting things down in pretty pen colors in my planner. And life carried on.

Until 2020. Wow. I continue to think of Proverbs 16:9 (ESV):“The heart of a man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.” We had BIG things planned for this year, and most of them simply will not happen. It feels tangled and sad and uncomfortable. Yet God has allowed this pandemic and the cancellation of so much. 

My hero, Elisabeth Elliot, famously said, “With acceptance comes peace.” Yes. The posture of our heart will lead to hand-wringing, clenched fists, and anger, or….peace. Have your way, LORD. I love and trust you.

“Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit.” Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” (James 4:13-17 NASB)

In other words, write in pencil. Make plans and hold them loosely. God knows best.

I have been spending my words in other places lately and it has been good. This writing mentorship I am taking has required daily work, and I am sore from processing thoughts to words, and then refining again. I have always believed that the greatest and most honest writing is a holy work. A writer has the potential, through words alone, to bring folks along, sway, sadden, mislead, hurt, or heal.

Writing intensely during a pandemic is, for me, cathartic. Big feelings are happening in our home, (and nationwide) and none seem consistent. I have accepted that this is a grieving time, and people grieve differently. For me, the worst part of the pandemic is not knowing an end date. I can endure much if I know when it will end. A hurricane for example. Yes it rages, yes it destroys, yes it kills. But several days later the healing begins and people go back to work and life resumes its ebb and flow.

I read every night before I go to sleep. Since 2006, I have kept what I call a Life Book: a list of every book I read in any given year. I star the books that mark me; books that leave an indelible impression. There are not many. The books that mark me are the books where great suffering has taken place, and there is a struggle followed by survival and redemption. Little House on the Prairie, Caddie Woodlawn, Where the Red Fern Grows, Crow Lake, Educated, to name a few.

But Elisabeth Elliot is my hero. Digest any and all of her books, and your heart will be first undone, then strengthened, and secured in the truth of Jesus. I love stories where women are gently strong, submissive to God and servants of others.

Writer Christy Karras recently wrote, regarding the coronavirus pandemic, “Did you ever wonder how you would have acted if you had been caught up in one of those difficult times in history – the American Revolution, the flu of 1918? Do you hope you would have been one of the brave, helpful ones? Here’s your chance.”

Indeed!  What a perspective! We do not know how this will end. But I can be about the business of loving and serving. Writing holy words that till the soil of souls, and produce healing.

You would imagine that 47 trips around the sun would be enough time to learn that I cannot be all things to all people.  In fact, I cannot even be all things to myself.

This is what I pondered the other day while jogging around the pond.  I was crying a little bit, which isn’t typical for me.  I usually only cry a few times a year, but the last week has been a doozy, and the crying, though quiet, has been frequent.

Here’s the thing, though.  Through the ugly, the pain, and the trials, I feel God pruning away all of my props.  ALL of my props.  We all have them, don’t we?  And not all of the props are bad things.  They can be good:  family, community, church, work, hobbies, friends.  But none of these things are God.  

God is so good to prune me.  If he didn’t, then I would always be prone to wander, prone to leave the God I love.  He is so kind to draw me back to himself, and I am grateful.  

I remember 15 years ago, when our youngest was a tiny wisp of a baby, and we had been transplanted to another part of the country.  Every Friday, I would bundle up our four children for a trip to the library followed by lunch at Wendy’s.  It was a busy and lonely stretch, but the library was like an old friend to me.  (Reading is the best.) One day, at this library, I wandered to the spirituality aisle and browsed.  I was feeling parched, and something needed to change.  

Running my fingers over the books I paused at a title called “The Pleasures of God” by John Piper.  I flipped it open and read a page or two.  It looked solid, even though I did not know who this John Piper was.

Later that night, while my husband was at his seminary class, and all four children were fast asleep, I picked up my Bible and highlighter and “The Pleasures of God” and dug in.  My dried up heart was watered, and before I knew it, hours had passed.  

The next week was spent finishing the book, which led me to devouring my Bible, which led me to taking ownership of feeding my own soul.  It was a tough season of life, but it was also sweet.  I was never willing or fully able to articulate what this book did for my soul, but 15 years later I can see so clearly.

Lately, I have been feeling a bit parched again, and a little sad.  What do I need?  More time for me?  More time to serve myself?  A vacation?  More understanding?  A friend who “gets it?” Nope.

Just an open Bible, a quiet heart, and prayer. Hard times are promised for believers.  Tears will come after heartache.  But God is pruning, and tenderly caring for me.  

Autumn’s leaves blazing.

Hot coffee with cream.

That bygone feeling from decades ago, of one of our sleeping babies on my shoulder, soft and smelling of Johnson’s shampoo.

A crackling fireplace.

Living in a new and beautiful state.

That story I cannot put down.

A belly laugh.

Open doors and windows.

A long walk with a new friend.

Our dogs resting their golden heads in my lap.

Pumpkin bread.

Our family, together around the dinner table.

A deep sleep in chilly weather.

That one Bible verse, read again, with sudden and new understanding.

Praying friends.

Nearly a decade ago, when our four children were small, and my husband had begun a new pastorate, I found myself in the living room of one of our parishoners, Helen.  She was downsizing, and needed help packing up boxes of things to donate for our church yard sale, which was to benefit a missionary family overseas.

She was a young eighty-year old, and we made piles and laughed as she told me some of her life stories.  I taped and wrapped and labeled boxes, and she sorted then poured our coffee.

After a couple of hours she stared.

“You like work.”

I shrugged.  “I guess so.”

“Well I do too, and I recognize it in you.”  She stared a moment longer, and I have often wondered what she was about to say.  Her phone rang and we did not finish the conversation.

Her comment stuck with me over the years.  She has since died, but I have not forgotten.

With the years whipping by, I recognize that we all have holes that we attempt to fill.  Old habits die hard, and I bump up against my need to always be working to earn love or respect or worth or an unhealthy combination of all of these things.  It is ugly to see, but there it is.

I keep speaking these words to my children:  “I love you unconditionally.”

And I do.  In fact, it often feels like the purest form of love for me:  effortless… a mama bear who would step in front of any predator or train or person who would hurt one of the four of them.  As they grow older, I pray for them more now than I did when they were small.  But the most important thing for them to know is that I will always have their back; I will never turn against them, and my desire for them is to follow God wherever He may lead them.

So back to work.

Work is good, but to work for love is like digging a pit and crawling in while someone else is slowly filling the hole back in with dirt.  Sooner or later one will suffocate.  There is no thriving in the pit.  Crawl out and live in freedom.  Come into the sunlight and know that God is the only one to ever love perfectly.  I should never work for love.

Not everyone strives to earn love; others struggle with materialism or gossip or laziness or covetousness.  We all battle something.  Recognize it and own it and work it out.

And be gentle.  As they say, everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about.