Eliz

Do you ever see a friend making a choice that you’re sure is a mistake, but you bite your tongue? You don’t want to offend, to step on toes, to be wrong. If you speak up, you might lose the friend. Yes, it’s risky. But what if your concern could be helpful, even a life-changer? Might the risk be worth it?

I learned about meddling from a master, my friend Matt, who spoke his mind with everyone, even people he barely knew. His example taught me two things: 1. Why to speak up and 2. How not to do it. Last things first.

Matt offended people left and right, sharing his unsolicited advice, oblivious to the shock and distress he provoked. “Why are you being so cheap?” he chided my friend Hal in an electronics store, when he saw the TV my friend was about to buy. “You can afford a better one!” Hal was furious (though, in truth, he did tend to hold back).

Before a dinner at our house, Matt accosted Ruth, a close friend of mine, who was going through a painful divorce she didn’t want to talk about. “Why so glum?” he boomed. “There’s life after divorce!” Matt was right (as Ruth’s later life proved), but the public intrusion horrified her. Matt offended so many of our friends that eventually none were willing to come for dinner if he and his wife would be there.

Of course, Matt had unwanted advice for us, too. One summer, when we invited him and his wife to arrive for an overnight on a Saturday, he volunteered, “I have a good idea. Why don’t you cook a big pot of stew in advance and freeze it in portions? That way you’ll have an easy meal for Friday nights, so guests can come for the whole weekend!” Did I mention that he used to grade the meals I served? “That was a B+,” he might say. “Not bad!” Ohhh, he could make me so angry!

So, why did we put up with him? Because the same exuberance that led to his unfiltered comments also fed an irresistible joie de vivre. We accepted him as a difficult “uncle” and saw the generous spirit behind his intrusions. When my husband and I were young and developing an interest in wine–one of Matt’s many passions—I complained about my father’s insistence that the whole business was a con, that no one blindfolded could tell a red from a white. Matt threw himself into the debate and invited my parents for a wine tutorial. If my father was persuaded, he was too crusty to admit it. (The two men had a lot in common!)

When Matt died, several years ago, I regretted not having told him how much of an impact he’d had on my life. I sent his wife a list of all the good ideas I’d taken from them: planting a sour cherry tree so that we could make cherry pies like hers; renting houses abroad for family holidays; collecting corkscrews; being over-generous to our children, more generous than I might otherwise have been. The list was 14 items long. And I wasn’t the only grateful friend.

At Matt’s funeral, a long line of people stood up to speak. Almost everyone acknowledged, with rolling eyes, what a difficult person he’d been. But each told how he’d changed their life. Matt had taken one person under his wing, when she’d been most insecure. He’d needled another into changing his career. Two had adopted passions of Matt’s that he’d badgered them into pursuing; one took up tennis, the other the cello. One person had married the woman Matt had insisted he date. Even the officiant had a story about Matt, who’d arrived to teach at the same New England college a few years before him. Matt was the only person to introduce him around and help him get settled, but, early on, he’d blurted to the new arrival in the cafeteria, when he saw his tray, “What are you eating?! You need to lose weight!” “If only Matt could see me now!” the officiant said. “I’ve slimmed down. He’d be so pleased!”

We all sensed that behind Matt’s meddling was a wish to be close to us and to change our lives for the better. He persuaded us to enlarge our interests, to take chances, to confront our conflicts, to not settle, to not give up. Often what he told us was just what we didn’t want to hear, but we took his words to heart.

The stories told at the funeral made me see speaking up as an opportunity to make a difference. The stories pushed me to be more pushy, though hopefully in a less offputting way. I, too, don’t avoid touchy topics and offer unsolicited advice; but I try to diminish the arrogance of presuming to know better with admissions of my many mistakes and regrets. I cross the line, talking to warring couples about one another or to estranged children about their disappointing parents, who I know did the best they could, like the rest of us. In the interests of a friend, I’ve even gone behind the scenes and done sneaky things (that I can’t talk about)!

Does it help? If what I say rings true, it may. It’s even possible that Matt’s words encouraged Hal to be less restrained, gave Ruth hope, and persuaded my father to have more respect for our new hobby.

For sure, not all my efforts pay off. I’ve prodded several friends into online dating, with some successes but several disasters. So far, no one has held my efforts against me, but then I also haven’t given up, so it could still happen. If you want to be safe, you can always ask, “Do you want to know what I really think?” The bottom line is that I offer the words I’d want to hear, if the tables were turned.

Because, truly, I feel I need all the help I can get. Friends have pointed out things in my life to which I was blind, and their words made a difference. When my child was five, one friend helped me see the all-too-human vulnerability that underlay a fierceness I struggled with. When I closed my architectural office and was dithering about what to do next, one friend told me, “I’ve heard you use this same excuse three times!” The next day I signed up for a computer course, the first step towards my wonderful writing life.

I rely on the wisdom of friends who can see the bigger picture, trusting they want my happiness, as I want theirs. Life is too challenging to go it alone.