What divorce and my friend Sarah taught me about reaching out,

even when it feels too late

My first marriage didn’t work out. It happens. Fortunately, we didn’t have kids or a house or business together, and despite the circumstances, I still cared about him. We split amicably and fairly easily. But the failure of my marriage, the loss of what I had, still hit me hard.

My friends rallied around me. They threw me a divorce party. They took me out for brunches and happy hours, sent emails and notes. They surrounded me with a crush of support and activity that pushed me through the immediate loss and disorientation.

But then months passed. The brunches, happy hours, calls, texts, all dwindled. Things went back to normal – only now, my normal often found me stalled out in a fog. The adrenaline of major life change wore off, and I was alone and unmoored. I had many moments where I wished for someone, anyone, to just reach out.

Eventually, I determined that I would be the one to reach out. If I wanted more people, more communication, and more joyful activity in my life, I would go find it. Once I made that decision, everything began moving forward again. But I still remember the crushing weight of those times when I felt the wishing for things to be different. Every kind word or thoughtful gesture from another person – no matter how long after the actual divorce – pushed me through each leaden moment.

A number of months ago, a former colleague of mine lost his grown child. At the time I learned of the tragedy, the right words escaped me. I even wondered whether my words were needed. I’m not on his “friend” list. He has no expectation of hearing from me. And I’m sure he was surrounded by a universe of support from people far dearer. Still, we are connected, and it weighed on me that I hadn’t written.

I mentioned it to my wise friend Sarah who also knows him and the circumstances. I told her I felt weird sending a note now. Too much time had passed.

“Send it anyway,” she said without hesitation. “It’s not too late. He’ll appreciate it.”

Suddenly, I remembered those low times, long after the loss of my first marriage, when I appreciated every outreach. How many low times must one have long after losing a child? Countless. Send it anyway. So I wrote my former colleague a letter from my heart. I asked God, “What would You have me say?” and I used the words that came to me. I stopped letting my silly worry about how I would be perceived stunt my actions.

How many other times has that fearful ego voice talked me out of things? “It’s too late. They’ll think you’re crazy. You’ll look like a fool.” Kind, loving actions done for others aren’t about me, my timing, or what I look like doing them. Such actions spring from the divine inertia we all feel to come together, to connect, to heal.

Whenever I take an action out of love, it is always the exact right time to do so. The perfect time to apologize and take responsibility for something I did ages ago, the time to thank my former boss for the mentorship he gave me or to bake a treat for a friend who may be struggling. It’s even the perfect time to go back to that tire store with Tiff’s Treats to uplift the spirits of the young clerk who asked me to pray for him.

Every time I follow my heart’s path, I know it’s never too late. I just need reminders sometimes. Because the time to do something kind or brave or generous, to act out of love, is always right … now.  

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