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The house is finally quiet. There’s a soft thud from the hallway as little feet, which were supposed to be in bed ten minutes ago, make a final trip to the bathroom. A stack of colorful plastic cups sits beside the sink, waiting. I’m sitting here with a warm mug of tea, the weight of it heavy and grounding in my hands.
It’s in these quiet moments, when the day’s noise has settled, that my mind sometimes drifts to bigger things. And for some reason, tonight it drifted back to a football game from a while ago. It’s funny, because I’m not the biggest sports fanatic, but my husband is, so the sounds of the game often become the background music of our evenings.
But I remember one night when the music stopped. The usual roar of the crowd and the frantic energy of the announcers just… went silent. We all watched, holding our breath, as a player, Damar Hamlin, collapsed on the field. The world suddenly felt very fragile. It was that feeling you get as a parent, a deep, gut-level pang of fear for someone else’s child. You feel so utterly helpless.
In the hours and days that followed, there was a lot of noise. Analysis, speculation, updates. It’s the way we process things now, I guess—by talking, and talking, and talking. But one moment cut through all of it. On ESPN, in the middle of a panel of experts, one of them just paused. He looked into the camera, and you could feel he wasn't performing. The analyst, former quarterback **Dan Orlovsky**, simply said he felt called to do one thing: pray. And so he did, right there, on live television.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't a sermon. It was just… quiet. Human. A moment of shared vulnerability that seemed to say, “I don’t have the right words or the expert analysis for this, so I will just be still and offer this.”
It has stayed with me because it felt so much like parenting. There are so many moments when our children are hurting or scared, and we don't have a perfect solution or a clever answer. All we have to offer is our presence, a quiet hand on their back, a whispered hope in the dark. It’s not about having the answers. It’s about showing up inside the question.
That moment on television was a reminder that sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in the face of fear is to simply pause, breathe, and be human together. To let go of the need to be an expert and just be a person who cares. A soft thud in the middle of all the noise.
In a world of hot takes and endless analysis, what did it mean to you, seeing a moment of quiet, public stillness on a major sports network? 🧸
It’s in these quiet moments, when the day’s noise has settled, that my mind sometimes drifts to bigger things. And for some reason, tonight it drifted back to a football game from a while ago. It’s funny, because I’m not the biggest sports fanatic, but my husband is, so the sounds of the game often become the background music of our evenings.
But I remember one night when the music stopped. The usual roar of the crowd and the frantic energy of the announcers just… went silent. We all watched, holding our breath, as a player, Damar Hamlin, collapsed on the field. The world suddenly felt very fragile. It was that feeling you get as a parent, a deep, gut-level pang of fear for someone else’s child. You feel so utterly helpless.
In the hours and days that followed, there was a lot of noise. Analysis, speculation, updates. It’s the way we process things now, I guess—by talking, and talking, and talking. But one moment cut through all of it. On ESPN, in the middle of a panel of experts, one of them just paused. He looked into the camera, and you could feel he wasn't performing. The analyst, former quarterback **Dan Orlovsky**, simply said he felt called to do one thing: pray. And so he did, right there, on live television.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't a sermon. It was just… quiet. Human. A moment of shared vulnerability that seemed to say, “I don’t have the right words or the expert analysis for this, so I will just be still and offer this.”
It has stayed with me because it felt so much like parenting. There are so many moments when our children are hurting or scared, and we don't have a perfect solution or a clever answer. All we have to offer is our presence, a quiet hand on their back, a whispered hope in the dark. It’s not about having the answers. It’s about showing up inside the question.
That moment on television was a reminder that sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in the face of fear is to simply pause, breathe, and be human together. To let go of the need to be an expert and just be a person who cares. A soft thud in the middle of all the noise.
In a world of hot takes and endless analysis, what did it mean to you, seeing a moment of quiet, public stillness on a major sports network? 🧸
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