The Urge To Fix Things Isnt Always Helpful

Sometimes, I think we all carry around this urge – a sort of internal engine that wants to fix things. Not big things, necessarily, like world hunger or political division. More often, it's the smaller hurts and frustrations in everyday life: a child struggling with a math problem, a friend dealing with a difficult boss, even just witnessing someone fumble a task at the grocery store. And our first impulse is to offer… something. Advice usually, though sometimes it’s just a solution sprung from somewhere deep inside us.

I realized this recently, after a luncheon with some friends from church. It was a lovely afternoon – good food, pleasant conversation. But afterward, one of the women confided in me about her granddaughter's struggles in school. She was bright enough, she said, but so easily discouraged. I listened patiently, nodding along as she recounted various incidents and teachers’ comments. Then, before I knew it, I found myself launching into a whole explanation of how to break down assignments, strategies for test-taking, even suggestions for talking to the guidance counselor.

Jerry, bless his heart, gave me that look. You know the one – the gentle but firm expression that says, “Honey, breathe.” He’s had it for forty years now; it’s become as familiar as the curve of my own hand. And he's usually right. Because what good did any of that do? She wasn't asking *how* to solve her granddaughter's problems; she was just… sharing. Venting, perhaps. Seeking a little bit of understanding.

It reminded me of when Marcus and Sarah were young. I’d try to offer the most practical advice – how to make sure their school projects weren’t left until the last minute, the best way to advocate for themselves at parent-teacher conferences. They'd smile politely, thank me graciously, and then proceed to do exactly what they intended to do in the first place. It wasn’t a lack of respect; it was a quiet insistence on learning their own lessons, finding their own ways.

I always believed in doing things the right way – efficiency, preparedness, problem-solving. Those were the values I instilled in my students for thirty years. And I thought that meant giving them the tools to succeed. But sometimes, what they really needed wasn’t a tool, but space. A safe place to fail and learn from it themselves.

There's an awful tenderness in watching someone struggle, wanting so desperately to ease their burden. I understand that impulse; it comes from a place of genuine caring. But often, the most loving thing we can do is simply offer our presence – a listening ear, a warm smile, and the quiet assurance that they are not alone. That reassurance holds more power than any neatly packaged plan or perfectly crafted suggestion.

I’ve learned a lot in retirement so far. It's quieter now; there aren't children needing to be chauffeured, papers graded, schedules managed. I spend my mornings making coffee and simply *being*, which is something I rarely allowed myself before. And I find that in the quiet, you begin to hear more clearly—not just the world around you, but the whispers of your own heart. It's there I see how important it is for people to feel capable of working through their challenges themselves. To be able to look back and say, “I figured this out.”

Jerry always says, “Sometimes, dear, all a person needs is someone to walk alongside them.” He’s right, as usual. And the truth is, he probably offered more advice in his life than I did; I just wasn't always aware of it. But now… well, now I try to listen a little longer, speak a little less, and remember that everyone has their own path to navigate. They don’t need me to pave it for them.