I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately, especially in moments like this

The other day I was driving out on a dirt road well beyond Cowley, heading to one of my favorite running spots. It’s the kind of place I go to be alone and reflect. Out there, the noise fades and things usually make a little more sense.

As I came around a bend, I saw a car creeping along awkwardly. The driver was practically hanging out the window trying to flag me down.

Flat tire. Middle of nowhere. No cell service. And when he went to fix it, he realized the jack was missing.

You could see it in his face. He wasn’t just inconvenienced. He was stuck, and he knew it. That quiet kind of panic that comes when you realize there’s no easy way out.

If I’m being honest, my first instinct wasn’t to help. It was to lecture.

To point out how risky it was to be out on a Wyoming back road without the basics. I could have walked him through every possible outcome. Storms rolling in. Temperatures dropping. A long walk that doesn’t end well. A ruined rim. Bigger problems waiting down the road.

And for a moment, I felt a little justified in thinking that way.

My car was fine. My phone worked. I had what I needed. I was moving forward, and he wasn’t. For just a second, I had the advantage.

It’s a subtle feeling, but a real one. That quiet sense that you could stand there and explain to someone exactly how they got it wrong.

And lately, it feels like that instinct shows up more often than it should.

We find ourselves in moments when things are going right for us and not for someone else. And instead of seeing that as a chance to help, it becomes a chance to explain. To analyze. To separate ourselves from the problem.

We tell ourselves we would have done it differently. That we planned better. That we worked harder. That we followed the rules.

And maybe sometimes that’s true.

But sometimes, it’s just timing.

Because the truth is, none of us are immune to finding ourselves on the side of the road.

I was raised by a mother who saw things differently. She looked for the good first. She never passed up a chance to help someone who needed it.

For a brief second, those two instincts pushed against each other.

Then I grabbed my jack and helped him put on his spare.

I didn’t need to tell him anything. He already understood the situation he was in.

And that’s what I keep coming back to.

We are living in a time when a lot of people are struggling. And too often, the instinct is not to help, but to explain. To tell people how they got where they are. To point out the missteps. To draw a quiet line between “us” and “them.”

Without a job. Without a home. Without insurance. Without a country. Without all the paperwork. Without the things they should have had.

It’s easy to make statements about how we did it right. How we followed the rules. How we made better choices.

But that way of thinking forgets something important.

Sooner or later, the road has a way of evening things out.

At some point, every one of us will find ourselves in a place where something breaks. Where we didn’t see it coming. Where we don’t have what we need.

And in that moment, we won’t need someone to explain it to us.

We’ll need someone to stop.

That’s part of what this season reminds us.

Spring has a quiet way of showing that things can begin again. That what looks worn out or broken isn’t always finished. That there is still room for growth, for change, for grace.

Easter carries that same idea. Not just of new life, but of how we see each other.

The Golden Rule isn’t just about helping others. It’s about remembering that one day, we may be the one who needs help.

So maybe the question isn’t whether people made mistakes to get where they are. Most of us have.

Maybe the question is what we do when we come around that bend and see someone else stuck.

Do we explain?

Or do we help?

I was lucky. I was raised by a mother who chose the better way every time. She didn’t go looking for faults. She looked for people. She drew close, listened to their stories, and instead of pointing out where they had fallen short, she helped them find their footing again and guided them back.

Like the shepherd who went looking for the one that was lost, not to scold it, but to carry it home.

Sometimes the best thing we can offer isn’t advice.

Sometimes it’s just a jack.