[Part 2 of 3] The true impact of "I can't"

If you missed Part 1 of this story, click here to read!

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If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times.


They ask: “Is it really that cold / dark / wild in the arctic?!”


Yes!


The next words out of most people’s mouths start with Oh, I could NEVER...


I smile and nod. I love to enlighten people with stories of the magical foam board that keeps your tush warm in the outhouse at -40F. Or telling them how liberating it is for women to learn to pee outside!

But my inner wordsmith can’t help but chide when they claim they could never do this or that: 


You actually can. You’re just choosing not to.


And sure... they’re just words. But I’d argue that words are everything. Words bring us together. Words tear us apart. And words have the power to help actualize the things we cannot imagine otherwise. So today, I’d like to tell you a story to support my assertion that we should all think twice before we say I can’t...


Meet my cousin, Jamie Jensen:

Jamie was diagnosed with cerebral palsy at birth, rendering him quadriplegic. Today, he’s a living miracle at over 40 years old. And while my memories of growing up with Jamie are limited to extended family gatherings and holidays, I always recount his intelligence, his sense of humor, and the fact that if he wasn’t steering his motorized chair from A to B with his two right fingers, one (or more!) of my aunts, uncles or cousins was moving him to where the crowd was... on a boat, in a van, at the table, or cozied up to the bar. He has always been just as much a part of our family as anyone. (Quite often, he’s the life of the party!)


Although I didn’t know much about Jamie’s life or his faith journey while we were growing up, he and I connect more often these days to check in and swap stories. And, I recently learned more of his origin story through a feature on the TV show, 60 Minutes, and also in chapter six of the book, “Everyday Miracles of Lourdes,” by Marlene Watkins. 

Hearing his story through the eyes of others was inspiring.


I learned Jamie’s turning point was about two decades ago, on his first trip to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, in Southern France — the site of 70 miracles recognized by the Catholic Church. His sister (my cousin, Francesca) pushed for him to visit, not necessarily with the hope to save his body — but rather, to save his heart from bitterness and resentment built up over time.


In short, his trip to Lourdes was profound. He felt his own miracle so deeply in his heart that he recommitted to his faith and has guided pilgrims as a Lourdes volunteer every year for the past 19 years. Jamie played an important role in revolutionizing the airline industry and how they tend to disabled guests, especially on international flights.

Out of his entire chapter in the book (which you’ll just have to read yourself!), what struck me most was Jamie’s answer to a simple question — if he could do anything, what would he wish for?


Watkins writes, “Jamie could have wished to move a limb for so many other reasons most of us take for granted in our mobile daily activities. Jamie could not scratch an itch, brush his teeth, open a door, wipe away a tear or sign his name. Yet if he could move his arm, only once, it would be to make the Sign of the Cross.”


The reality of Jamie’s heart-felt “I can’t” confession had a ripple effect that is still being felt throughout the international Lourdes community today, and beyond — all the way to my heart in the Alaskan arctic.


His “I can’t” serves as a sacred reminder to all of us who can to be grateful for what we can do. Not merely proclaiming “I’m grateful” ... but practicing gratefulness through our words and actions. Whether you, too, make a second Sign of the Cross in honor of those who cannot, or — if that gesture doesn’t resonate — choose to do the same with a different sacred ritual you have.


Or... perhaps you simply curb your instinct to say “I can’t,” when indeed, you can.


Reserving the words “I can’t” for when we truly mean it is a mindfulness practice, in and of itself.


My hope is that every one of us can find gratitude for the things we can do — and make peace with those we cannot.


Have a great holiday week — I’ll see you in your inbox on Sunday for the third and final story in this series. 


In light,
Mollie