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This is the first Christmas in 6 years that all of my family will be in North America. The first Christmas my parents have bothered to get a tree to decorate, since it didn’t feel like much of a celebration with my brother held hostage in Russia. I’ve been reflecting on the many well-wishers I heard from over those years. It can be easy to sneer at “thoughts and prayers” but I’ve grown to appreciate kindness in whatever form it is given.
Immediately after his arrest, I received an email from one of my dearest friends. They have always been very religious. They have known me for decades and know that I am not religious, the total opposite. They said all the things you’d want a friend to say, and closed with a promise to keep me in their prayers, if I didn’t mind.
I didn’t mind, of course, and not just because it was from someone I cared about. Religious faith isn’t for me. There are people who get a great deal of joy from their religion, or comfort when they are experiencing uncertainty. It provides them with hope when they are going through a dark time. I have been able to find joy, solace, and hope in other ways. I don’t begrudge anyone their path.
I’m an atheist as the word is defined. My belief has nothing to do with anyone else’s belief, just like my choice to be a drinker of dark coffee. I don’t belong to a coffee drinker’s union and I don’t ascribe to the antagonism that some “movement” atheists engage in. I don’t care if anyone else likes dark coffee or agrees with me about theism. I would prefer a world full of variety that leaves people open to others’ differences.
As the years have gone by, I heard from many more people who kept our family in their prayers. Or who offered, almost like a prayer itself, “thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers” when I finished an interview with them. When they weren’t really sure what else to say. Words failed them.
There can be a frustration with a repetitive phrase, when we struggle against an injustice, a murder, a systemic failure. The phrase won’t make that right. But it doesn’t mean that, given the tools the person has, it isn’t a well-meant sentiment. Sometimes people give what they can, not what they wish they could.
I have found their good wishes to be touching, heart-warming. They were giving what they knew would have comforted them or given themselves hope had the roles been reversed. Do unto others as you would have done unto you.
We sometimes laugh when people say, “it’s the thought that counts.” But it really is true. People are not always sure what to say or do when someone else is experiencing something unfamiliar. My family’s situation was pretty out there, unless you’re a Cold War novelist, but we’re not unique in having experienced a trauma. Well-wishes, even inartfully phrased, are mostly well-intended.
The thing is, unlike my friend, I don’t know what beliefs motivate people to share their good wishes. And I don’t care. I worry sometimes that I might fall into that habit that I see others engage in, probing good intentions, looking for authenticity or disingenuous motives. One sees so much of that on social media that it can sometimes feel like that is a normal, healthy way to receive kindness.
My experience was probably pretty unusual, in that I often heard from people I’d never meet. They didn’t know me except for the persona I presented in media. They didn’t have any social obligation to consider my feelings. They were just kind people—even people whose politics or other beliefs I find repulsive—trying to do a kindness to someone else.
This will remain a source of light and comfort even as we experience dark times ahead. Kindness can just be. It doesn’t need to be inspected. I hope you will all accept my thoughts and prayers, that you have family and friends with whom to share your joys and grief and with whom to find comfort when you need it.