Recently, while I was sick, I was talking with myself about taking with God about my cold.

I was struggling with cough and congestion and not sleeping. And at the same time, people I care about were waiting to see what direction a hurricane would go. How close it would come to their house? And, at the same time, people I don’t know but still care about were living without electricity and potable water. And at the same time, people I don’t know were having fears and attacks I don’t know about.

I finally wrapped us all up in “God, keep watch with those who watch, or weep, or work.” I could not keep up with all the needs of all the people. Nor could I keep up with all the little fears incubating in my low-grade fever.

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We cannot keep up. With all the anxiety and drama, with all the things people share with great confidence and then strong reaction and little reflection. With all the everything about everything. We cannot respond to everything.

The other day, my friend shared a column about grief: “I’ve had two friends who recently lost someone very close. As people tried to comfort them, they’ve repeatedly heard the same phrase: ‘everything happens for a reason.’ This only makes them feel worse.”

In the middle of a political campaign, moms are losing babies. And, in Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month, are remembering those lives. In the middle of a dramatic coverage of hurricane damage and bombings and shootings, grandkids are losing grandparents. Kids are losing parents. Families are losing families.

And, of course, by losing I don’t mean losing the ability to have thoughtful conversations. By losing I mean that babies and parents and families are dying.

The flurry and swirl of adamantly expressed opinions may be keeping us, keeping me, from the individuals. From having the energy and time and attention to attend.

We could abandon the need to reshare anonymous platitudes. We could look at the tears in eyes and say, out loud, “are you okay?”

And then, rather than offering reasons, offer a hug.