Good Things Mail Club
The Unabridged Newsletter
This Month’s Theme: What Remains
On impermanence, grief, love, and showing up while we can.
“Love is being there for people—even when it is hard.”
This Month Feels Different
There are months when talking about “good things” is easy.
And then there are months when it is not.
My grandma died two weeks ago.
She was an amazing woman. She was someone who was always there for me when I needed her. When I was with her, she was actually with me. She listened enthusiastically to whatever I had to say. She wasn’t simply waiting for her turn to speak. She cared deeply about what was happening in my life.
Every time I called her, she answered the phone sounding delighted and surprised to hear from me—even when she already knew I was going to call.
There was nothing superficial about the way she loved me.
And losing her has made me think differently about what a “good thing” actually is.
Maybe good things aren’t always happy things.
Sometimes the good thing is having loved somebody enough that losing them hurts.
Sometimes it is the person who sits beside you when you’re hurting.
Sometimes it is a phone call.
Sometimes it is somebody listening.
And sometimes it is a plate of poached eggs.
The World’s Best Poached Eggs
When I was a kid, my mom, my brothers, one of my aunts, her kids, and I would make the two-day drive to visit my grandparents.
We’d spend about a week there before making the long trip home.
Of all the memories I could have carried with me, one of the strongest is breakfast.
My grandma made the world’s best poached eggs.
At least, that is what my brothers and I believed.
We would fight over them.
Her poached eggs became a big event.
And Grandma loved that we loved them. She was happy making them for us.
Years later, my cousin still remembers how much I loved Grandma’s poached eggs.
It sounds like such a small thing.
Eggs.
But maybe that is exactly the point.
My grandma’s love language with me was often acts of service. She showed love by doing things for people.
Those eggs weren’t valuable because of what they cost.
They were valuable because of who made them, who they were made for, and the joy that existed around that table.
I think she taught me something through moments like those without ever needing to explain it:
Love is being there for people—even when it is hard.
Impermanence
While my aunt was going through my grandma’s belongings in her care-home apartment, she said something that has stayed with me:
“You spend your whole life collecting all this, and your whole life can be dismantled in hours.”
I can’t stop thinking about that.
We spend decades building a life.
Furniture.
Clothes.
Photographs.
Dishes.
Decorations.
Books.
Things tucked into drawers because we might need them someday.
Then someone dies, and eventually another person has to begin sorting through it all.
Keep.
Donate.
Give this to someone.
Throw this away.
A lifetime can be packed into boxes remarkably quickly.
But there are things that don’t fit inside those boxes.
Nobody cleaning out my grandma’s apartment can pack away the feeling I had when she answered my phone call.
Nobody can put her enthusiasm for hearing about my life into a donation bag.
Nobody can dismantle the memory of those breakfasts.
And nobody can take away what being loved by her changed in me.
Maybe that is part of what remains.
The Things We Think Will Always Be There
I can easily fall into the belief that everything is going to stay basically the same.
The people I love will still be there.
There will be another phone call.
Another holiday.
Another visit.
Another chance to say what I should have said.
But life doesn’t promise us that.
My grandma’s death reinforced something I already knew intellectually but didn’t always live as though I understood:
Life is always changing.
Life is not all roses.
People die.
Relationships change.
Homes disappear.
Bodies get older.
Children grow up.
People move away.
Jobs end.
Communities change.
Impermanence can sound depressing.
But I am beginning to wonder whether impermanence is part of what makes things precious.
If there were an unlimited number of breakfasts with Grandma, would I remember those poached eggs so clearly?
If every conversation lasted forever, would we pay attention?
Knowing something cannot last doesn’t make it meaningless.
It may be the very reason we should be fully present for it while it is here.
Grief Isn’t a Straight Line
The last couple of weeks have been hard.
Grief can feel incredibly lonely.
But something else has happened alongside that loneliness.
When I call or text my aunt, she understands.
Other people around me have checked in.
Some give me space to talk.
Some simply sit with me in silence.
Their presence makes the grief feel a little less lonely.
I’m learning that you don’t always have to know what to say to someone who is grieving.
Sometimes there isn’t anything to say.
You can simply stay.
Listen.
Check in tomorrow.
Let somebody tell the same story again.
Sit quietly.
Be present.
In that way, grief has also reminded me of what Grandma taught me:
Love is being there for people even when it is hard.
Good News in a Hard World
This month, I didn’t want this newsletter to search the world for stories that pretend everything is wonderful.
It isn’t.
Instead, I went looking for something different:
What are people doing when something terrible happens?
Because sometimes the good news isn’t that nothing bad happened.
The good news is that when it did, somebody showed up.
Nine Days in the Dark
After catastrophic flooding struck Nepal, hydropower workers Kabir Maharjan and Sanjay Sah became trapped underground.
For nine days, they survived in darkness inside an air-filled section of a hydropower tunnel.
Sah prayed to keep up his courage.
Maharjan survived in part by drinking the muddy water surrounding him.
Above them, rescue crews fought unstable debris, repeated rain, collapsed passages, and mud and rock burying tunnel entrances.
The longer the search went on, the closer families throughout the disaster area were moving toward mourning.
Some families of people still missing had already begun traditional funeral rites using symbolic effigies when bodies could not be recovered. Hindu mourning rites associated with these funerals continue through the thirteenth day.
Sanjay Sah’s family had reached an especially painful point.
The day before he was rescued, his family agreed to provide a DNA sample in case a body was recovered and needed to be identified.
Their hope was fading.
And then something happened.
In the early hours of the tenth day, rescuers thought they heard a noise.
They shut down their machinery.
They listened.
They called into the darkness.
Again they listened.
Eventually they saw a hand.
Then, from inside the tunnel, came the words:
“We are here.”
Neither man could stand when rescuers finally reached them.
Sah was carried out on a rescuer’s back.
Maharjan left on a stretcher.
They had survived nine days underground.
There is something about this story that stays with me.
For nine days, people kept looking.
Even when hope became harder to justify.
Even when families elsewhere were beginning to mourn.
Sometimes caring about another human being means refusing to stop looking for them.
Sometimes Presence Is the Help
There is another story coming out of the Nepal floods that is much quieter.
In communities affected by the flooding, counselors have been working with children and families trying to cope with fear, grief, and uncertainty.
One of them is Sushila Paneru.
A mother staying at a school with her children was terrified another flood would come.
As she talked about that fear, she began crying.
Her four-year-old daughter saw her mother crying and began crying too.
Sushila sat with them.
And listened.
Sushila understood some of that fear herself. She had been near the river when the flood struck and had rushed from a building as rocks fell and the ground shook.
There was no dramatic rescue in this story.
No miracle cure.
Someone simply sat with another person in pain.
And that mattered.
UNICEF-supported teams are now providing group and individual psychological support in affected communities, helping children and adults talk about what happened and begin rebuilding a sense of safety.
That story struck me.
Because I have learned something similar during these past two weeks.
Sometimes presence is the help.
Rebuilding What Was Lost
After earthquakes damaged communities in Venezuela earlier this year, the work is beginning to shift from emergency response toward rebuilding.
UNICEF and Venezuelan authorities are preparing to rehabilitate two pieces of important water infrastructure in La Guaira: the Mamo pumping station and the Naiguatá water treatment plant.
The planned work could improve access to reliable water for as many as 250,000 people, including approximately 76,200 children.
There is something worth noticing about rebuilding.
After something breaks, we rarely get to put everything exactly the way it was.
Sometimes we have to build the next version.
That is true of communities.
I suspect it is also true of grief.
Helping Across Borders
Wildfires have burned tens of thousands of hectares across parts of Indonesia.
This month, Japan is sending three large CH-47 firefighting helicopters and roughly 180 crew members to Indonesia to help.
They are joining thousands of Indonesian personnel and an extensive air operation already fighting the fires.
Different country.
Different language.
Different borders.
Same basic idea:
You need help. We can help. So we’re coming.
Maybe the world could use more of that.
What Remains?
I don’t know exactly what happens to us after we die.
I like to believe my grandma’s spirit is still around me.
Sometimes, when I am lying in bed feeling sad, even the feeling of my sheets around me can remind me of the feeling of a hug.
Maybe that is memory.
Maybe it is something more.
I don’t know.
But I do know something survives.
Love survives in the people who received it.
When people who knew my grandma talk about her, the joy comes back.
So does the pain.
Sometimes I can physically feel it—a walnut-sized ball of pain in the back of my throat.
It hurts because she is gone.
And at the same time, I am grateful that I got to have someone in my life whose absence can hurt this much.
My grandma’s genuine caring for other people influenced me.
Her ability to be present with the person in front of her influenced me.
The deep love she gave me influenced me.
And if I can give even some of that to somebody else, then something she gave the world is still traveling through it.
Matched Member Postcard Starters: What Remains
Not sure what to write to your match this month?
You don’t have to write about grief or loss unless you want to.
Instead, think about the people, memories, and experiences that have stayed with you.
Who taught you something without realizing they were teaching you?
Tell your match who they were and what you learned from them.
What ordinary family memory has become surprisingly important to you?
Maybe it’s a meal, a road trip, a holiday tradition, a joke, or something that happened around the dinner table.
Who makes you feel genuinely listened to?
What do they do differently?
What is something you hope people remember about you?
Not an accomplishment or possession. Something about the way you treated people.
What is a memory that has become more valuable as you’ve gotten older?
Why does it matter more now?
What is something another person has done for you that you still carry with you?
They may not even remember doing it.
And remember: you don’t need to answer these questions like homework.
Start with the question and then tell a story.
Postcard Challenge
Don’t Wait
Your friend postcard this month has a simple purpose.
Think about someone you care deeply about.
Maybe it is someone you talk to every day.
Maybe it is someone you haven’t spoken with in years.
Maybe it is:
- A parent or grandparent.
- A sibling.
- An old friend.
- Someone who helped you through a difficult time.
- A teacher, coach, mentor, or coworker.
- Someone you owe an apology.
- Someone you have always appreciated but rarely told.
- Someone who might simply need to know they haven’t been forgotten.
Then send them something.
You could begin:
“I was thinking about you today and wanted you to know…”
Or:
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but…”
Or:
“One of my favorite memories with you is…”
Or simply:
“I’m glad you’re in my life.”
Don’t worry about making it profound.
Don’t wait until you find the perfect words.
The important part is that you send it.
The Good Things Challenge
Be Present for Someone
This month’s challenge isn’t about accomplishing something.
It’s about paying attention.
At least once this month, intentionally give another person your full presence.
Put your phone away.
Stop multitasking.
Listen without planning what you’re going to say next.
Ask another question.
Let the conversation run a little longer than you planned.
If they’re having a difficult time, resist the urge to immediately solve it.
Just be there.
You may never know how much that moment mattered to them.
My grandma gave me that kind of attention over and over again.
I’m realizing now what an extraordinary gift that was.
Something to Think About
Before you close this newsletter, think of one person.
Not five.
Just one.
Who would you be heartbroken to lose without having told them what they mean to you?
Now ask yourself another question:
What is stopping me from telling them?
Maybe this is the month to stop waiting.
Life Also Goes On
There is another side of grief that isn’t talked about enough.
The world doesn’t stop.
You still have to buy groceries.
You still have to answer emails.
You still go to work.
The laundry still needs doing.
There are appointments and traffic and dishes and bills.
You can be deeply sad in the cereal aisle.
You can laugh at something and then suddenly remember the person who died.
You can have a genuinely good day while still grieving.
None of those things cancel the others out.
Death is sad.
But death can also bring people closer together.
It can send us back into our memories looking for the joy.
It can remind us to reach for the people who are still here.
And eventually, somehow, we continue living.
Not because the person who died stopped mattering.
But because they mattered enough to have become part of the person who continues.
Behind the Mail
This month’s newsletter ended up being very different from what I originally imagined.
I didn’t start September intending to write about grief.
Then life changed.
That feels strangely appropriate for a newsletter about impermanence.
Good Things Mail Club isn’t supposed to be a place where difficult things are ignored.
I don’t think “good things” means convincing ourselves that everything is fine.
Sometimes it means noticing what people do when everything isn’t fine.
They make the call.
They bring dinner.
They search through the night.
They rebuild the water system.
They fly across borders to fight someone else’s fire.
They sit beside someone who is grieving.
They listen.
They stay.
Those are good things too.
Maybe some of the most important ones.
Share Something Good
Have a story about someone who showed up for you?
A memory of someone you miss?
A photograph, piece of artwork, poem, recipe, recommendation, good-news story, postcard experience, or simply something happening in your community that deserves more attention?
I’d love to see it.
Email it to support@goodthingsmail.com.
Submissions may be lightly edited for length and clarity and will never be published without your permission.
Over time, I want Good Things Mail Club to contain less of just what I have to say and more of what we have to share.
One Last Good Thing
My grandma taught me that love isn’t primarily about the gifts you buy or the money you spend.
It is time.
Connection.
Deep, authentic caring.
Listening when someone needs to talk.
Showing up when things become difficult.
Making the poached eggs because your grandkids love them.
Answering the phone as though hearing someone’s voice is the best surprise you’ve had all day.
Those are little things.
Until one day you discover they were never little at all.
Those are the things that remain.
My Hope for This Month
If someone reading this has recently lost somebody they love, I hope they come away knowing they aren’t alone in their grief.
I hope they remember some of the joy too.
And for everyone else, I hope this issue creates a little urgency—not fear, but urgency—to love people while they’re here.
Make the call.
Send the postcard.
Stay a few minutes longer.
Listen to the story again.
Say you’re sorry.
Say thank you.
Say I love you.
We can’t make the people and moments we love permanent.
But we can be present for them while they’re here.
And perhaps we can leave enough love behind that some of it keeps traveling long after we’re gone.