The Power of One Small Thing

I had a plan. A roadmap, even. And then last week—full of sorrow, rage, and helplessness—reminded me that sometimes we need stories more than strategies.

This week, I’m throwing out the carefully crafted plan—the detailed roadmap of Musings I had outlined to carry me from mid-November 2025 to June 2026. My spreadsheet of topics, ideas, and in many cases, previous writing that simply needed revision.

And then last week happened.

It was a disheartening swirl of national and international events, layered with the emotional weight of walking alongside two loved ones through difficult personal struggles.

Maybe it wasn’t just about last week. Maybe it was the culmination of many weeks, even years, of striving to maintain a hopeful outlook in the face of growing division, hatred, and uncertainty. But something broke open in me. I felt despair in a new and deeper way. I was tired. I was angry. I cried more than I laughed. Hope felt elusive.

And then, in the midst of that darkness, two memories surfaced—bright and vivid.

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The first was from college. I had undergone a medical procedure and was alone. My family was far away, and my friends were busy. I told myself, No problem. I can do this by myself.

But as I woke in the recovery room, I noticed I was the only one without someone at my bedside. All around me, others had loved ones—attentive, caring, present.

And then, something unexpected happened.

A middle-aged man—someone’s dad, I assume—walked quietly over to my gurney. He gently took my hand and asked if he could get me something to eat. I nodded. A few minutes later, he returned with two pieces of buttered toast.

There are many details I’ve forgotten about that day. But his small act of kindness? It remains etched in my memory. A stranger’s simple gesture reminded me how love and compassion—offered freely and without expectation—can make a profound difference.

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The second memory came from early in my marriage. Just ten months in, we lost everything (and we didn’t have much to begin with) in a fire. Within ten minutes, what little we owned was gone. We were in a new town, far from family and friends.

We focused on survival—finding a place to stay, scrounging enough clothing to get by, navigating insurance claims and work obligations.

Two days later, as we returned to the still-smoldering remains of our mobile home, a woman greeted us. A neighbor we had never met. She apologized for going through the ruins but explained she had salvaged a few things she thought might be saved. She had taken them home, scrubbed off the soot, and did her best to clean and restore them.

One of those items was a blue, hand-thrown pottery pitcher—something I had splurged on before our wedding, a little shower gift to myself. It was covered in soot and likely overlooked by most. But not by her.

I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember her name. But I remember her heart. Her willingness to step forward, unasked, and try to rescue what felt unsalvageable. That blue pitcher still sits proudly on my hutch—a quiet reminder of resilience, grace, and the power of one small, loving act.

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Last week reminded me why I write. Why I speak. Why I gather people into conversation.

Not because I have all the answers. But because I need reminding—and maybe you do too—that small acts of love, courage, and service matter deeply. That waiting for someone else to “save us” is a tempting distraction from the truth:

In a world that teaches us to chase big solutions and ignore the quiet, sacred acts of care—maybe it’s time to remember the power of the feminine: to restore, to tend, to begin again with one small thing.

We can make a difference. Even in the smallest ways.

Especially in the smallest ways.

So today, I invite you to consider this:

What is one small thing you can do?

Can you open your eyes to the opportunities that quietly present themselves each day—and muster the courage to reach out, even when it's inconvenient or unnoticed?

You may never know the impact your actions will have. But someone—years or decades from now—just might remember the way your compassion changed their world.

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With hope and love,

Kris

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