Yesterday, while reading a novel set in the early 1970s, I was arrested by a passage describing a man driving his car with his child in the front passenger seat. The father was described as bringing the car to a sudden stop and putting out his right arm to hold his child in place. I, at once, had a vision of my father (in the days before seatbelts) throwing his arm across my body to hold me back each time he came to a stop sign or red light.* Would his arm have done any good in a crash? Of course, not. This was an automatic gesture of concern; it was him trying to keep me safe.
My father wasn't someone you would have called tender, but I choose to remember this as a gesture of tenderness. Look, my father wasn’t warm and fuzzy; in fact, he was angry much of the time. Yet, I remember that he was the one who would sit up with me at night when I had a stomach bug, bringing me warm water to sip and waiting for the nausea to pass. And, now, almost three decades after his death, now that my memories of his harshness are fading, it is these memories of his concern, of his tenderness that shine most brightly.
In the song from which I took the title of this post, Otis Redding is admonishing a man to “try a little tenderness” when his female partner is weary. But, really, tenderness is not reserved for romantic relationships.
Looking around, I find it everywhere.
I saw it when one of my twin toddler granddaughters ran into another room to fetch a stuffed animal for her crying sister. “Here you go, Charlie,” she said, placing the animal tenderly in her sister’s arms.
Or when Charlie asked her twin, with great solicitude, “How are you feeling now, Frankie?,” when Frankie was recovering from a meltdown.
Or a few weeks ago when I got up on our couch to hang a Christmas garland above a window, where our cats would (I hoped) be unable to reach it, and my other toddler granddaughter, Daisy, watching me, said, “Don’t worry, Mimi, I will keep an eye on you.”
Be still, my heart.
What is tenderness? Let’s call it kindness, concern, or thoughtfulness.
Here are some examples:
A friend buying me a book about trees, not for an occasion, but just because she thought I would like it.
The same friend helping her adult children to clean out her ex-husband’s house and take care of paperwork after his death. This wasn’t done so much for the ex-husband’s sake, as for the sake of her children. It was the work of a loving heart.
Two other friends who have stepped up to care for extended family members when no one else came forward.
A friend, digging a trench along a path next to a drop-off outside our house, and lining it with cinder blocks to create a level walking space. We could have hired someone, but she volunteered, because, you know, we’re friends, and she had the strength and know-how to do the job.
The friends who offered to, and did, take care of our dog while my husband was in the hospital two years ago.
A friend, not a close one – someone I had only spent time with at gatherings but never one-on-one, who left an orchid on my front doorstep after my mother died.
I am moved by each of these actions and gestures.
Still, there are those who find it difficult to accept kindness or offers of help. A friend told me recently that her husband was made uncomfortable by a neighbor bringing him a meal after he had injured himself. I know that this man would step forward to help a friend or neighbor. Can we be both generous and vulnerable?
We are living in an unsettled and unsettling time. We’re not going to navigate this time alone. So, let’s be there for one another on both the giving and receiving ends.
After all, as Ram Dass famously said, "We are all just walking each other home."
* Note to any younger folks reading this -- seatbelts weren't required to be standard in cars until 1968.
