You Say Love. I Hear Bacon.

Hey, it's Sunday Morning,

I love bacon.

I love my wife.

I love my putter.

And I love the poems of Pablo Neruda, a love quite different from my love for bacon.

The word stays the same. But the weight of it is always changing.

Funny, isn't it? The same word. Four different devotions.

We fill in the blanks. We assume meaning based on our own hungers, our own histories. It's efficient. Until it isn't. Until someone says "I need space" and you hear rejection. Until someone says "I'm fine" and you believe them.

I've spent my life watching faces change when I speak. They lean in, a slight tilt, a pause, the smile that doesn't quite match what I said. And sometimes, "I'm sorry?" People hear what they expect, not always what I mean. And it works both ways.

Often, people give me grace and fill in my gaps with generosity, assume I meant something smarter than what I said. Other times, they just assume that I don't understand. That I'm close, but not quite there.

Neither one is about what I actually said.

The loneliest thing isn't being misunderstood, it's never knowing if you were understood at all.

So here's what I've learned: when someone says something and you think you understand, pause. Don't assume you already know.

Ask three words: "Tell me more." Not as a technique, but as an offering.

Because understanding isn't knowing. It's discovering.

And when you ask, you might love what you learn.

Until next Sunday.