The Chapters We Cannot Read

There is something I've been thinking about for quite some time.

As I've grown older, I've become less interested in being right and more interested in being kind.

Less interested in proving my story and more interested in understanding that every story has chapters I may never read.

I've discovered that humility sometimes begins with three of the hardest words we'll ever say.

"I don't know."

For much of my life, I believed understanding came from having answers.

Now I wonder if understanding begins somewhere entirely different.

Perhaps it begins with acknowledging how little we actually know.

We see moments.

God sees lifetimes.

We see conversations.

God sees hearts.

We see one chapter.

God holds the entire story.

That realization has changed the way I move through the world.

It has changed the way I meet strangers.

The way I listen to friends.

The way I think about people whose lives have taken turns I don't understand.

And perhaps most importantly...

It has changed the way I think about Grace.

I've learned that compassion begins where certainty ends.

When I'm certain I know someone's motives...

Compassion has very little room to breathe.

When I'm certain I understand another person's choices...

Curiosity quietly leaves the room.

But the moment I allow myself to say,

"I don't know what they've carried."

"I don't know what they've been told."

"I don't know what fears they're living with."

"I don't know what chapters I've never read."

Something remarkable happens.

Compassion enters.

Not because every choice suddenly makes sense.

Not because hurt disappears.

But because I've stopped pretending I know everything there is to know.

There is a quiet freedom in that.

It allows me to hold truth without letting go of kindness.

To acknowledge pain without surrendering compassion.

To disagree without forgetting someone's humanity.

One of the greatest gifts sourdough has given me has very little to do with bread.

It has taught me patience.

Not only with dough.

With people.

Fermentation cannot be rushed.

Neither can healing.

Neither can understanding.

There are stories that take years to unfold.

Perhaps our job isn't to rush toward conclusions.

Perhaps our job is simply to remain faithful while the next chapter is still being written.

I've stopped asking life to explain everything to me.

Instead, I've begun asking a different question.

How do I tell the truth in a way that serves the reader?

Not to convince.

Not to persuade.

Not to prove my point.

But to leave behind something that helps another human being feel a little less alone.

Maybe that's what kindness has always been.

Not having all the answers.

Simply leaving room for another person's story to continue unfolding.

Because every life is still being written.

Including mine.

Warmly,

Kathy
Art of The Crumb