We went to visit Uncle Rob in Albany this weekend, and one feature of Uncle Rob’s house is a large enclosed backyard — something I dream about when Noah and Jude mutually decide that the one small plastic Bluey figure is the ONE made-in-China ring to rule them all.

But, we don’t live in a don’t-come-home-until-the-street-lights-come-on kind of world anymore. (Or in my case growing up — “Don’t go farther than you can hear your daddy whistle.”)

It was a climatically confusing day in Albany featuring intense afternoon snow squalls, but the morning had some gorgeous blue skies with winter cumulus clouds, so we bundled up and headed out with two partially deflated footballs. (The American kind — I was explaining to Jude last night at bedtime that the US is the only country that calls football soccer.)

Both boys were proposing various iterations of backyard football-for-three rules and when I suggested maybe we just pass the oblong inflatable in a triangular fashion. I was met with immediate protest.

Free play it was, then.

3 minutes later, I looked from beside the fire pit toward one of the 4×4 hammock posts and saw Jude running full Heisman in its direction. His forehead made direct contact with its unforgiving right angle, and his little four-year-old butt spun onto the frozen flower bed.

Abject wailing ensued followed by a harsh pink vertical line over Jude’s left eye surrounded by an inflating purple bruise the shape of an American football.

If the eye of Sauron was a hematoma, it would’ve looked like this.

Melissa finally coaxed a cold compress on Jude’s head with the help of an Octonauts episode, and Noah and I headed back out.

For some reason, throwing a football back and forth became a good idea now. (I get it. Having a brother is tricky.) And Noah was doing a really good job catching the ball like he was saving a baby and letting it go right past his ear. That was the best little league instruction I had on hand.

I changed my throws to overhand, in the corner of the football went thonk right on Noah’s forehead.

“That’s okay, pick it up and let’s throw it some more!” I cheered.

But Noah had already passed through denial and anger and was actively processing the projectile betrayal he just experienced. A deep moan emerged from his 5-year-old belly, and he held his head and sobbed.

Oh no – football is already ruined for this child. Not that I’m going to encourage him specifically in that direction, but I don’t want him having to manage palpitations when they break out the flag football pinnies in PE.

But I remembered something I learned from Eli Harwood, the Attachment Nerd, on Instagram. I think it was Eli. She’s terrific.

She said trauma we hold in our bodies is not the result of going through adverse events. It’s having to endure and process these events alone.

If there’s someone to say, “I’m here” and to be there while you wail, it’s a very different outcome.

As Noah cried, I heard the voices of various grown men from 1986 in my brain: “You ain’t got time to hurt.” “It ain’t that bad.” “Rub some dirt on it.”

I had the presence of mind not to parrot any of those phrases. I walked over to Noah and put my hand on his shoulder. In about 37 seconds, his crying slowed down, and he was done.

Then I said, “Let’s try it again,” and he said, “Okay.”

A half hour later, we were still throwing the ball and playing the various tag iterations now popular on the Warren Elementary School playground. I opted out of zombie tag.

What I noticed, though, was that just like any injury, we need time for healing. Not time itself, but time and loving witness.

And the terrific thing is that you can serve as a loving witness to yourself when bumps, bruises, and abrasions inevitably occur.

Don’t get me wrong. If somebody is there to put their hand on your shoulder, that’s the stuff. And if you can phone a friend, I’m a staunch advocate.

But sometimes you’re sitting very alone, and you, the you who survived 100% of your shittiest days, you are there with you. And you can say, “I’m here.”

You know I’m a pray-er. I’ve noticed that many times when I’ve asked Jesus to come in and help me, I’ll get a nudge to breathe out and soften my own gaze toward me.

For so many years, the face of God in my imagination had an expression that said, “You could be doing better.”

So, to absorb a delightful smile from the Divine felt unfamiliar at one point and later healing and joyful. It’s also given me the skills to try a little tenderness with myself. It feels better, and I get more done.

So, when a 75% inflated mini American football hits you in the head or you forget to look up when you’re driving through an imaginary defensive line and you meet an unyielding nose guard in the form of a 4×4 hammock holder, remember it’s normal for that to hurt.

You might even be mad at the wood or your dad for a while.

But, remember, you only need to cry for a while. If someone is nearby to get the ice and the TV remote all the better. But, if you find yourself alone and hurting, try saying, “I’m here sweetie pie, I’m here.”

Make sure you’re letting air in and out, and maybe go take a bath. Let some of those heavier thoughts slide down the drain at the end.

And who knows? That pain might be a really tasty ingredient in a song one day.

Telling the story while opening your heart and saying, “I know what this is like, and you probably do, too,” is one of the greatest and most powerful ways to heal you and anyone who’s listening.

After all, there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much, Dan

PS I’ve been into the work of Dr Rangan Chatterjee lately. Here’s a terrific podcast about his simple journaling technique and the three questions he asks himself each morning and evening. I’ve been using these and noticing some wonderful clarity and differences. I also like this overview video he made for some tools for 2024.

PPS I’ve been thinking of writing in the trenches, how soldiers in the First World War wrote letters from anywhere they could and whenever they could. This article from the Imperial War Museum documenting letters to soldiers was fascinating. And this story about a father who drew pictures and wrote stories for his daughter moved me. When I feel resistance to writing I imagine a trench and remember storytelling can happen anywhere. This one, too with images of the Western Front. 

PPPS I recorded this little snippet of “Shed a Little Light” by James Taylor several years ago, and I just love this song. “Let us turn our thoughts today to Martin Luther King.”