Just Do It: Someone Is Counting on What You Carry

A book titled My Brother Is Nuts, But I Love Him So Much was supposed to be written by my kids—specifically, my daughter.

I had envisioned them sharing the great love they have for their autistic brother, along with the humour, frustration and tenderness of growing up beside him.

They discussed it for years.

Then the conversation faded.

The idea waited.

And waited.

Meanwhile, I kept thinking about the siblings, parents and caregivers who might recognize themselves in such a book. I thought about the people who might laugh, cry or feel less alone because someone had finally put a familiar experience into words.

But nobody can benefit from a book that remains forever inside our intentions.

And I know something about picking up work that has stalled and helping it find its legs again.

The Choir Without a Conductor

When I was young, I belonged to our school choir.

We were preparing for a fierce competition involving twenty-three schools. Our choirmaster, Mr. Jumba, was determined that we would defeat St. Peter’s, the formidable choir everyone expected to win.

We had five weeks to prepare.

Then Mr. Jumba fell out with the school principal. The details remained between the two of them, but with only two weeks left, he flat-out declined to continue training us.

The principal was visibly disturbed.

The choir was stranded.

So I stepped forward.

I was a short student—shorter than the music stand—yet I took over and led the choir. I had ambition in generous scoops and the audacity to try things. Plus, faith to defy logic.

I could not read music if my life depended on it. But I had watched Mr. Jumba peck the air rhythmically with his baton and heard the choir respond in voices angelic.

Nobody told me I could not try.

So I did.

The baton seemed nearly half my height. I held it as though it had always belonged in my hand.

I hopped from side to side around the music stand, pecking the air and throwing my arms up with abandon—just like conductors did to invoke a choir’s response.

Except I did it in style, swinging this way and that to keep my umbrella skirt in perpetual twirls. Everything had to be interesting, ya know.

And sure enough, with each peck and swing came magical, coordinated sounds from the enthusiastic kids on the podium. There was a united answer to Mr. Jumba’s absence in those voices.

They fed my conductor’s energy, and I, the conductor, returned favour for favour.

Evidently, this choir was lit.

This choir? Fire!

We practised daily for the remaining two weeks. No team had ever seemed so united or so determined. Kids arrived on time every day and stayed late until forced to go home.

Eighth Place

Then competition day came, and we were royally transported to the venue. All twenty-three choirs were present, including St. Peter’s.

When our turn came, I did my thing. In my current language, I ten-X’d that performance—or so it felt.

Surely that kind of energy alone had landed us squarely at number one.

But because Mr. Jumba had skipped duty, we were willing to accept number two, just behind St. Peter’s.

Reluctantly so.

We placed eighth.

Our principal was elated. The school was ecstatic.

But we weren’t.

That was not the position we had signed up for. Those judges had conveniently yanked us out of number one at best and number two at worst.

We went home shrunk. With our tails between our legs. Speechless. Deflated.

Years later, I understood what we had missed.

A choir whose trained conductor had left, led by a child imitating movements she had observed and music she could not read, had outperformed fifteen conductor-led choirs.

It was a miracle that escaped celebration.

Now I know better.

Now I know to appreciate and celebrate a miracle.

The Work Still Waiting

Now, before anyone hands me another baton, my children’s book is not the choir.

Their stories belong to them. Mine is the mother’s view, the part I witnessed and lived.

By writing that part, I can help the work find its legs while leaving room for their voices, whenever they are ready.

Within The Bloom Umbrella™, the Tula Pause™ teaches us when to wait. But pausing is not abandoning, and discernment is not endless permission-seeking.

A book trapped inside good intentions helps no one.

Since writing this story, I have heard my children discussing the book again. Last week, they even began dividing the work.

I admit that my ears grew longer.

Perhaps I was never meant to take over their book—only to strike a needed match without forcing the flame.

We can begin our part without conducting everybody else’s.

We can raise the baton.

Gather the willing voices.

Move what has stalled.

Sure, my baton may peck the air wrongly. The choir may wander out of tune. My umbrella skirt may even twirl out of sync.

The venture may finish eighth.

But now I know that eighth place can still be a miracle.

Someone may be waiting for the encouragement, story, tool or act of service we keep postponing until conditions are perfect.

Sometimes, we must simply do it.