10
Reach Out

IT MIGHT JUST SAVE YOU

We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.

Winston Churchill

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.

Luke 6:38

I was too tired and selfish to help anyone else.

Once again I’m embarrassed by my blatant self-preservation, but hey-ho, we’re old friends now and I confess, I ran at the first whiff of somebody else’s neediness. I could barely hold my own fractured life together, so being the glue in somebody else’s shattered world was just too much.

Perhaps you feel the same. Maybe you flinched when you read this chapter title and muttered into your coffee, You’re kidding me! She wants me to do what? I’m already running on fumes. How can I help anyone else?

I get it. You’re loving yourself well, figuring out how to grab your broken and painfully beautiful life and squeeze the juice out of it, and now I’m asking you to give what little energy you have away? Pour out what’s taken you so long to fill up? I know it’s a bit of a bombshell, but hear me out.

Let me tell you about Vicki.

The Myth of Costly Kindness

As cancer took over my life, I felt like a shipwrecked sailor, rationing what little energy the disease hadn’t stolen into people-sized portions, praying my dwindling supplies would last and I wouldn’t have to eat anyone (just kidding). I carefully divided it between family and just a few close friends, always looking to replenish stocks whenever I could. You see, I’d bought into the myth of costly kindness, the belief that being there for others comes at a huge personal cost.

Then I met Vicki.

We sat in awkward silence in the women’s locker room of the radiation department, our hospital gowns gapping precariously round our knees and our cancer diagnoses sitting like two large elephants (also in matching, standard-issue green hospital gowns) squeezed between us.

Whatever cancer she was battling, Vicki was clearly having a rough ride. Her pink scalp glared through wisps of what remained of her hair, and she sucked desperately on a mint as her dry, cracked lips threatened to split and bleed.

On previous visits I’d politely exchanged pleasantries with fellow patients but had never ventured beyond the safety of the weather. There’d never been time; we were marshaled off to our various treatment rooms with military precision, and anything beyond that seemed too personal, too intrusive.

But here we sat, with only her mint sucking to fill the silence. Things were running behind and a dearth of the usual waiting room glossy magazines gave us a choice: make eye contact and say hi or continue in awkward silence. Extroverts don’t like silence; it makes us squirm. So I broke protocol.

Offering a dusty throat lozenge I’d scavenged from the depths of my bag, I smiled and said hello.

As I suspected, she was having a dreadful time. Mouth cancer had left her nauseous, with painful sores and a constantly parched mouth due to the destruction of her salivary glands. We chatted and shared our stories. Feeling totally helpless, I told her how sorry I was and gently laid my hand on her arm. I offered to pray; it was all I had.

Eventually I was called to get my butt zapped, so we hugged and exchanged a smile of solidarity and understanding. I never saw Vicki again, but I left our little encounter more alive than when I arrived. I learned that sharing someone’s burden, even for a moment, isn’t the drain we imagine but a tank-filling privilege and joy. I hadn’t offered a single piece of advice or practical support—I had none to offer. I just sat with her, listened, and agreed that yes, life really does stink sometimes.

I’d been wrong. Afraid of being sucked down by the undertow from someone else’s sinking life, I had secured my life vest and was focused solely on those in my lifeboat. In that waiting room I discovered that lifting someone up doesn’t need to bring us down. It doesn’t need to be some big all-singing, all-dancing act of chivalrous self-sacrifice that drains our precious reserves. And Jesus was right—as I gave I received and was filled up beyond the fraction I’d poured out (Luke 6:38).

Vicki showed me that when we turn our heart towards another and away from self-protection, small acts of kindness have the power to lighten their load and brighten our darkness without great cost to ourselves.

You Have Something Unique to Offer

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. As I write this, I’m about to turn the big five-oh, and despite writing this book I still wonder if I have anything to offer. I’m not a teacher, doctor, singer, or counselor, and I doubt whether multitasking, carpool-driving, teenage-drama-soothing, tea-drinking dog lover is really that unique. After my diagnosis I added poop-cleaning, ostomy-wearing, short-tempered cancer patient to that list of accolades and struggled even more to see anything unique I could offer the world. So I could relate to the servant of Naaman’s wife.

She was a nobody, an unnamed servant to an unnamed mistress, and had been kidnapped to a strange land far from home. She served in the household of Naaman, a highly regarded army commander for the king of Aram, who struggled with the pain and social stigma of being covered in leprosy.

Scripture dedicates just two short verses to this young woman who is kinder than I’ll be in a month of Sundays (2 Kings 5:2–3). And yet we’re given a glimpse not just into her world but into her heart, and we’re left asking, do we really have nothing to offer?

She might have been far from home but she carried her faith with her. Despite the grief and resentment she must have felt at being snatched from her family, she suggested to her mistress that Naaman seek healing from God through the prophet Elisha in Samaria. Desperate, Naaman jumps at the chance to be rid of his horrific sores, and after a series of events he’s healed of the disease that had plagued him for so long. All thanks to the young woman he’d taken into captivity and whose name he may have never even known.

I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d kept quiet. Teenage Niki would probably have smiled smugly, knowing her God could easily heal her master but stayed silent, too resentful and hurt to help. But not this teenager. She didn’t let her external hardship or internal turmoil stop her from giving the one thing she had that Naaman didn’t: the source of his healing. By seeing Naaman as God saw him, her one small act of kindness—a short sentence uttered to her mistress—gave him first hope and then healing.

How many times in my pain and resentment have I withheld love or kindness? How many times have I looked at a situation and seen something too big to impact from my worn-out corner of the world where I sit feeling empty-handed and sorry for myself? How many times have I failed to see someone as God sees them and walked right by, focused on my own hurt? But our hands aren’t empty, they are full, and God gives us eyes to see others. Even with broken hearts we can mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who need comforting because now more than ever we understand their pain. Now we can offer the gift of empathy and not just sympathy.

You have something unique and special to give that no one else can. You are important and needed even if you don’t feel like it. Look around you. What do you see? What seems so simple or obvious to you might be life-changing and beautiful to someone else. That dish you cook every week, the one your kids groan about because they’re sooooo bored of it? It’s perfect for the young mum a couple of doors down struggling to juggle her new baby and get food on the table. I’m sure she wouldn’t moan if you made it for her. You know how you love those Bible verses you have set to pop into your phone each morning? I bet if you sent one to your recently divorced hairdresser she’d feel loved and encouraged.

I wonder, as the Christmas carols suggest, whether the shepherd who brought his lamb to baby Jesus beat himself up, thinking, “I can’t believe I’m bringing this stupid sheep. You can’t move in Bethlehem for sheep; they’re everywhere. I wish I had something big and special to give.” But it was all he had and he went anyway, despite any fear he had nothing unique to bring.

It All Adds Up

Unlike me, Al isn’t phased by mountainous tasks. Twenty thousand photos in the cloud to be sorted and put into albums? No problem. He just chips away, sorting a hundred or so a couple of times a week until lickety-split, our photos are ordered and searchable. Me? I just need to catch a glimpse of the task towering above me and I lie down and roll over, defeated.

When this book—all forty-five thousand words of it—gets published, it will be a miracle spurred on by Al’s encouragement to chip away. Word by word, page by page, day by day.

The trouble is when we’re tired and hurting, helping others looms over us like Everest against a sunlit sky: imposing and unscalable. But we can love others, word by word, step by step, chipping away one small act of kindness at a time. I may not be able to move a mountain but I can pick up a pebble—and so can you, and that makes two. At the time it feels insignificant and hardly worth the effort, but I can assure you, having been on the receiving end of hundreds of small acts of love, that each encouraging text, each “hug in a casserole,” and each listening ear add up. They are like a cool sip of water in the midday sun.

My friend Todd is a genius at this. Despite living with chronic pain he seems to cultivate a chipping-away mentality to reaching out in his daily life. So much so, he actually sees his pain as a gift. A word of empathy here, a promise of hope there, a scattering of “you’re not alone” left in his wake.

This isn’t a man who has mild backache. Oh no. On good days he endures headaches that would send me to bed, cool cucumbers on my eyes and soothing whale songs playing in the background. On rough days he can’t leave the house and on terrible days he’s hospitalized. The pain’s never given him a day off and no one can tell him where it comes from, but he says since so many people deal with chronic pain, he has a unique opportunity to journey with them one step at a time.

We Can’t Out-Give the Giver Himself

Todd’s seen so many doctors he’s lost count, and as far as he knows his pain will never end, so he’s had to dig deep to uncover the full life he knows Jesus has for him, right there in the depths of his blinding pain. Todd is certain finding that abundance is tied to his call and purpose: to love his family and encourage others in chronic pain. It’s that simple.

The key, he says, is he can’t out-give Jesus. Each word of support he offers a fellow sufferer, each gift of hope he shares, each encouragement he gives to others in pain, telling them they are seen and understood, changes his perspective on life. It shifts his focus from himself and his pain and confirms what he’s always believed: God gave us gifts to encourage one another, we are to use them no matter how we feel, and we will always receive far more than we can ever give. Because the remarkable thing is, when Todd’s encouraging others or preaching sermons, he experiences absolutely no pain.

All I’d done for Vicki was smile, say hi, listen, and utter a short, rather awkward prayer. When we parted I wasn’t drained, desperate to refill my emotional and physical energy levels. Quite the opposite. I felt lighter, filled up, and I too felt seen and loved. God had been present in that one small moment, and my smile and lightness went with me into my day. Isn’t that what his fullness looks like?

When Jesus sent the disciples out into the world, he finished his instructions by telling them whoever loses their life will find it, and whoever welcomes them welcomes him and therefore God (Matt. 10:39–40). What if the same is true with loving others? What if, in a miraculous upside-down exchange, we find more of life as we give it out? When we welcome others by showing them they are seen and known, aren’t we welcoming Jesus? And if we welcome him, even tentatively, we welcome his Father and the full life he paid to give us. Can we give out of what little we have, confident we’ll be filled up more? Can we trust God enough to give what little we have and see our lives come into focus as we welcome Jesus—the very source of the abundance we so crave?

The world is quick to tell us we’ll find our purpose and live fully and abundantly when our pain is a memory and we have time and energy to spare, but that’s a load of baloney. God is the master storyteller, and like every writer who’s come after him, he knows the real adventure—the one where we come fully alive—happens between once upon a time and happily ever after, and it always involves our reaching out to others along the way.

How to Give When You Have Nothing to Offer

The idea of striking up a conversation with a woman you’ve never met while wearing nothing but a green hospital gown might be your idea of a nightmare, but never fear. There are oodles of ways to reach out and love someone without draining what little fuel reserves you have left in your tank.

I’m not the most creative bunny on the block, but here are some ways people loved me at little cost to them and that I’ve done for others in return.

Send an encouraging text. It’s not always easy to know what to say to someone having a really rough time, so an inspirational quote or encouraging Scripture is great. Adding “I’m thinking of you today” or “praying for you” makes it personal, and a short “no need to respond” takes away any pressure to get back to you. To make it super easy for you, I have some you can download for free at www.nikihardy.com/breatheagaingifts.

Post a funny card. Snail mail is such a delight, and a funny card helps us laugh when all we want to do is scream. One day I opened a card that read, “Laughter is the best medicine. Unless you have diarrhea. Then I’d recommend Imodium.” As you can imagine, it made my day. I like to keep a stash of cards at home so I can send them when I think of someone. And since American mail carriers collect from our doorstep, I don’t even need to leave home.

Give a restaurant gift card. If you’re out to dinner, add a gift card to your check so it’s ready to give someone who needs either a date night or an easy dinner. It’s a lovely treat to “have to” go out for dinner or get a free pass on cooking.

Take them a meal. I used to get my knickers in a twist about this, worrying that my Neanderthal cooking skills weren’t up to the task. But since being on the receiving end of many meals, I’ve come to see the true gift is in not having to shop, prep, cook, or even think about what on earth to cook. Love in a casserole dish is always gratefully received no matter how simple the food. When I take someone a meal, I simply cook double of what we’re having for dinner and put it in a disposable container so no one needs to worry about washing up or returning dishes. If I’m super busy I pick up a shop-bought meal with some fresh salad or fruit. Popping a card on top is a nice touch too.

Volunteer your children as sitters, dog walkers, and helpers. This one is a triple win. You get to love your friend, they get their dog walked, lawn mowed, or toddlers watched, and your kids get a lesson in loving others. Bingo!

Pray for them. I loved it when people asked me how they could pray for me—and then did! Any prayer is a good prayer, but asking someone what specific prayer requests they have shows them you care, you’re interested, and you believe God listens and acts.

Make them a playlist. When I went in for my first surgery a friend gave me her old iPod with nothing but worship music on it. It was such a gift—I played it in the quiet darkness of the hospital and it kept me sane and tethered to Jesus. If you want to share songs but don’t want to hand over a complete iPod, I made a Breathe Again playlist for you to enjoy yourself and share with a friend. You can find it at www.nikihardy.com/breatheagaingifts.

Run errands. If your tough season is taking an emotional toll rather than a physical one, you may still be able to help others whose physical needs are more limited. We can pick up groceries or prescriptions, or run to the post office. It’s easier when we tag these on to our own errands, and a simple text saying something like “I’m off to the supermarket this afternoon. Need anything while I’m out?” makes the person we’re helping feel less of a burden.

Listen well. Asking how someone’s doing today tells them you understand how up and down their journey can be and you care about how they are right this minute. Remembering their answer and checking back later lets them know you weren’t just being polite when you asked. Given my memory is rather sieve-like, I sometimes make notes to remind myself. It’s so important to allow someone to feel angry, negative, and worried without trying to solve everything. When we agree life stinks, expressing how sorry we are they are going through this, it’s not just loving—it shows deep empathy and tells someone their pain is valid. The added benefit is it takes away any pressure we feel to have answers or fix it. When friends sat in the brokenness with me, agreed it was a nightmare, and didn’t try to fix it, I felt so loved.

Hug and hold on. Not everyone is a hugger like me, but human touch can be the connection someone needs when they are already feeling alone and overwhelmed. Cancer isn’t contagious, nor is miscarriage or depression, and if your friend’s kid is on drugs, hugging her won’t turn your teenagers into addicts. To get over any awkwardness I simply smile, open my arms, and say, “I’m a hugger.” Then I step toward them, hug, hold on for that extra squeeze before releasing them and smiling again as I step back. Easy! Or simply lay a hand on someone’s shoulder as they tell you their story—it says, “I’m with you.”

Share what worked for you. When you’re unsure what to say, it’s easy to fill the space with either your own story or how Great-Uncle Bob had that or how your next-door neighbor’s cat’s grandmother once knew a woman who went through the same thing. But please, for the love of all things sane, don’t. If by any chance you’ve been through the same thing or something similar, sharing what worked for you (not what you think they should do—there’s a big difference) is way more loving. It’s both kind and helpful to say, “Oh gosh, that’s so hard. When x happened to me, I found y really helped. Maybe you could try that.”

Gandalf was right when he said, “It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay . . . small acts of kindness and love.”1 Kindness isn’t costly and adds up over time as we chip away at the darkness. Then, as we love—little and often—what we receive far exceeds what we can ever give out.

Love doesn’t always mean leaping into action; often it’s simply stepping toward someone in love. Today may not be the day to start a worldwide ministry or take in your neighbor’s ailing mother-in-law, but today will always be the day to hold out a hand and say, “Me too. I hate that you’re going through this.”

If you’ve focused on self-preservation in this difficult season, I get it. I was right there with you until Vicki and I met in our matching gowns. Please don’t beat yourself up. Instead, let me invite you to lift your eyes from your own swirling life to look around and see what you already have to give someone nearby who could use a small act of kindness.

When we reach out in love at little cost to ourselves, we offer something priceless while receiving something invaluable. Let’s see each other not as burdens with the potential to break us but as fellow travelers equally in need of love and encouragement. If we can do that, we not only chip away at each other’s darkness but lighten the way ahead for us both.

I am a Thriver.

I believe life doesn’t have to be pain-free to be full.

I reject the lies of the world about who and whose I am.

I embrace the truth that I am loved, seen, and enough, and that God loves me, isn’t mad, and will never leave.

I’ve got this because God’s got me, and together we can do more than I could ever do alone.

I choose brave, knowing it doesn’t need to be big, just intentional.

I trust God, even when I don’t want to and can’t sense his presence, because I’ve checked his credentials and can let go of everything I’ve been clinging to.

I lean into community because thriving is a team sport and no one wins alone.

I step into vulnerable spaces with God and others, aware that my strength can be my biggest weakness.

I embrace the good, the bad, and the ugly of my journey, knowing the only way out is through and there’s life and healing to be found along the way.

I practice gratitude in all things, confident that peace and well-being will follow.

I reach out in small acts of kindness, gaining far more than I could ever give.