SEE IT AND SAY IT

Here’s the thing, your life—my life—has no map. No script. At least not one that’s available for us to see. That hasn’t stopped each of us from trying to make one. From about the age of eight on we start fielding the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And from that moment on, we begin to map out, to write out the script for what we hope our lives will be.

At six, our daughter, Evanjalyn, decided to get a jump start on this quest. If you asked her what she wanted to be, she’d recite a list of roughly ten things she’d like to be as an adult . . . not sequentially but simultaneously. It began with being a Macaroni Artist. This was a holdover from preschool, but her mother and I tried to keep that one alive. First, because it’s an occupation we believed she could rise to the top of fairly quickly. Second, in hard times she could always eat the art . . . which is more than most of us can say about our creative vocations. She also wanted to be a Rockstar (who writes songs—because that’s where the money is). She wanted to be a Teacher and an Astronaut. And on her days off, she wanted to work at Taco Mayo or the deli counter at our grocery store. Ironically, in Oklahoma, three of those last four jobs pay the same.

Recently my wife, Ann-Janette, and I got into this conversation, and she asked me if I remember when I discovered writing for the first time. I hadn’t thought about it much, but then it came to me.

I was in eighth grade. We were reading Animal Farm. I loved it.

As part of the lesson plan, we were tasked with writing an extensive summary of the George Orwell novel, a book report. I wasn’t a particularly good student, but I really wanted to do well—probably because I actually read the book this time. I gave it all my energy.

And then it happened.

We were sitting in balanced rows of matching desks. Sunlight gently streamed through the oblong mid-century windows strategically designed to reveal nothing of the outside world. There was the soft whisper of polyester-wrapped thighs rubbing against each other as Mrs. Henderson swayed down the canals of adolescent learners. With each pace, she laid our assignments facedown in front of us like secret love letters.

My heart was racing.

Without hesitation, I turned mine over.

There at the very top in teacher-red ink was a hand-scrawled letter grade. I got an “A” ! (That’s okay, you can applaud. It was a hundred years ago, but it’s still an accomplishment.) I paged through my assignment, finding various notes next to paragraphs, insights, corrections, and comments. Then on the very last page, I read the life-changing salutation she’d left me: “Either you write very well, or you use CliffsNotes very well.”

And that was my “first time.”

That was the first time I discovered I could write. And not only that, but I liked doing it. And not only that, but someone else thought I was good at it. Good enough to wonder if I had accomplished this feat on my own or plagiarized it.

Maybe this could be part of my future.

Most people have had a “first time” like that. Maybe you have a lot of experiences like that. You were four or forty or eighty when you realized or someone told you, “Wow, you’re really good at that,” and it transformed how you saw yourself. At that moment maybe you thought I want that to be part of my future life. It may have been painting or writing or baking or hosting or singing or gift giving or listening or being a friend or just collecting like-minded people to do good things.

If you pause right now, I bet you can remember one of those experiences. What’s the earliest memory you have of someone recognizing a talent or skill or virtue in you? 

Did someone see that you’re funny or trustworthy or mature for your age or fast or a good artist?

It doesn’t mean that thing became your vocation or earning mechanism, it just means someone saw the good in you and said it out loud and it impacted your self-perception. Those validations go a long way in shaping how we see ourselves.

Those experiences are invaluable. And even if we don’t fully appreciate their impact at the time, they can be life changing.

Now, here’s the really cool thing: If we have been transformed at some level by someone recognizing the good in us, then by proxy we have that same power to help transform others.

My father-in-law, Jason Elmore, calls this the See It and Say It Principle. When we see the good in others, regardless of their age, we should recognize it—out loud—with our mouths—so they can hear it.

How often do we think about how good someone is at something, and that’s as far as we go? Or maybe we tell those we’re with, but not the actual human. How does that help them? The reality is when we recognize the good in someone and tell them, the result is they go on to do more good.

We help grow the good.

You never hear someone say, “ . . And that’s when I discovered I was really, really good at quantum physics . . . and so I quit, because what’s the point.” No, they are encouraged, and they go on to do more physics-y stuff. And just the affirmation that comes from knowing we are good at “a” thing will often bring confidence and encourage us to endeavor to be good at other things. I’m good at this. What else might I be good at?

But that whole life-altering scenario starts when we See It and Say It. It will be awkward (but hopefully not creepy). It might be under-appreciated (but still considered). It will sometimes be doubted (but still effective). The power is there. We should use it.