Cut to it: The next time you don’t have an answer, try using this sentence that can shape your little corner of the world: “I don’t know, but let’s figure it out together.” Practice courage and honesty by admitting your own smallness, inviting others into the discovery process, and lift masks of perfection so you can know and be known in your circles.
One of the 4th graders in the after-school classroom asked me to help with his homework. “I got you, bud,” I told him.My math might be a bit rusty, but surely I could manage well enough to complete an elementary assignment.
He pulled out the worksheet and my eyes scanned the page. I read the instructions, looked over the list of multi-digit problems covering the page, and reread the instructions. There were no directions for completing the problems.
I felt my student waiting for a response. I’m sure he anticipated assurance from me. Certainly he thought I knew what I was doing.
I’m sure he had this confidence in me because that’s how 4th grade Brianna’s brain worked too. All adults – and especially teachers – had all the answers, right?
But as adult Brianna stared at this elementary page, that idea was challenged. I searched the dustiest corners of my brain for the instructions on multi-digit multiplication, it became clear that I didn’t know how the heck to help this kid. When the multi-digit search in my brain came back void, two choices faced me:
- Lead this kid astray by guessing our way through it.
- Admit that I didn’t know how to do this page and re-learn it in real time.
The former hardly seemed like a good style of leadership. Holding onto my pride wasn’t a good reason to break this student’s trust in me. He was coming to me for help, and it was my job to provide it.
My heart spoke an unsettling sentence: You don’t have to know all the answers to be a good teacher.
Actually, what if the best teachers are willing to admit they don’t have all the answers?
Let this truth shape you: You don’t have to know all the answers.
I knew in that moment that knowing it all and teaching are not synonymous. I could still teach the guy, even if I didn’t know the material yet. Maybe the lesson to learn wasn’t in math, but a lesson in having the courage to admit our shortcomings and the humility to say it with grace.
I braced myself for impact and told him, “I don’t know how to do this, but let’s figure it out together.”
Instead of holding onto my pride and missing an opportunity to learn a new thing, I had to stoop low – low enough to admit that I couldn’t do this elementary homework page yet.
And you know what? He didn’t even flinch.
We pulled out my phone and watched a YouTube video that walked us through the different multi-digit scenarios. He pulled out his pencil and we worked through that page of homework. He had to ask clarifying questions and I had to refer to that video as I provided correction, but we did it.
We didn’t know what to do at first, but we figured it out together. By the end of it, we both knew how to do multi-digit multiplication again. Our relationship was a little tighter because of that.
“I don’t know, but let’s figure it out together.”
I began to carry this phrase with me into the classroom. It became a sentence that shaped the way I approached multi-digit multiplication or about Latin pre-fixes, just as much as mediating relationship challenges.
This sentence shaped my little corner of the world. And as it did, it seeped into my relationship circles out of the classroom. It began transforming the way I viewed my entire community.
What started as a response to my students’ questions in the classroom grew into a practice in my personal life as well. It grew into a practice of courage and humility, honesty and being known. As I heard myself practice it over and over, and observed the responses around me, I witnessed how this sentence shaped my little corner of the world.
It’s a sentence that admits my smallness.
This response unashamedly admits that I don’t have it all figured it out. And that’s okay. We’re not built to know it all. There’s room for us to grow.
I am not above admitting my smallness, especially if that level of honesty is an opportunity for someone else’s felt safety. If my student is asking a question, they might feel small for asking in the first place. The playing field is leveled when I lead with my smallness.
It’s a sentence that invites us to discover together.
Once the playing field is leveled, we can get to work together. Suddenly we have two brains working to figure this out, instead of one. We have two sets of stories, worldviews, ideas, knowledge, and emotion in the game. We’re a team. We’re equally empowered to participate.
And very good things happen when we’re on the same team. Everyone involved becomes free to learn together. There’s space for everyone to grow.
It’s a sentence that erases the power of perfectionism.
I hide behind the mask of perfectionism. When I allow that mask to cover me, I miss the blessing of being truly known and truly knowing others.
But this simple sentence lifts the mask away. It erases the false sense of power that perfectionism uses against me and others. It invites relationship and community.
This sentence shaped my little corner of the world by changing my posture so I could better stand alongside others.
I didn’t realize when I began saying this phrase in response to my students’ questions that it reflected a better posture that I could assume everywhere else in my life.
I wonder who could benefit from hearing your use this phrase. I wonder how you could continue growing because of this phrase.
Maybe the next time your staff ask you hard question in the team meeting?
Maybe in that home project you’re tackling with your husband?
Maybe when you’re in the grocery store and a fellow customer asks you where to find sun-dried tomatoes?
Maybe the next time someone stumps you with a theology question?
I bet you could give an honest answer and let grace pour from your lips. I bet your heart’s posture could bend to help meet the needs of another person and learn something new along the way. You could invite someone into the process with you, and it could be beautiful instead of threatening.
I bet you could shape your little corner of the world by saying with grace, “I don’t know, but let’s figure it out together.”