It was a weird moment. I was at a conference with one of my staff members and a local pastor. The pastor wanted to debate an issue, but I was hesitant. I remembered another debate with a fellow seminarian, which he ended with, “Anyone who has thought about this would agree.” So… I obviously hadn’t thought about it.

I entered the debate, and soon my staff member blurted out, “You always think you’re right.” 

This was absolutely a mindset issue for me. 

Should you debate from any other position than thinking that you’re right? Is this a statement that I am often wrong? Had she and the pastor lost the debate and started resorting to personal attacks? 

After some reflection, I realized that the problem was not that I was wrong. The problem was that being right had become my posture. 

Conversations do not usually break down because we lack communication techniques. They break down because we run out of room. 

My certainty takes up all the room in my head. 

My pain takes up all the room in my heart. 

My hurry takes up all the room in my life. 

Conversations are one of the ordinary ways God changes us. Not every conversation is transformational, but most transformations begin with one. 

My certainty takes up all the room in my head.

My friend Lance spends more time than most trying to understand other people’s beliefs. How did they get to that position? What’s true in their life that makes this belief resonate? What need is this belief meeting in their life? Lance favors understanding over presiding, which is helpful because Lance presides over a large organization.

My biggest mindset shift since becoming a coach: It is not my job to be right. 

There are times when I am responsible for naming what I believe is true. But even then, being right is an ineffective tool for moving people forward. People do not come to your conclusion without process. They need to think it through, on their own terms, not being led by the nose. 

And when they do think it through, there is almost always greater clarity. When I am only trying to prove my point, I may win the argument and lose the opportunity to understand the person.

My pain takes up all the room in my heart. 

When my feelings are hurt, anxiety rises like the tide rushing in. I can literally feel panic submerging my body and threatening to take my next breath. My brain’s energy channels toward the core, leaving my cortex to flail. I’m unable to be fully present. I’m unable to contribute. My intelligence, of which I take pride, goes out the door.

Sometimes I think someone has hurt my feelings, when what really happened is that they touched an old wound. They may have said something careless, but my reaction is larger than the moment because the moment carries history. 

When I cannot tell the difference between the present conversation and the old wound it awakened, I am no longer free to listen. I am defending myself from something the other person may not even know exists. 

When old pain takes over, the person in front of me becomes responsible for more than they actually caused.

My hurry takes up all the room in my life. 

In the 2000s, I made ten trips to Haiti. I did not like going. Don’t get me wrong. It was important work with important people. But it took a lot of energy in a surprising way. Everything slowed down to a snail’s pace. No one was in a hurry. There was time for walks, coffee hour, and long conversations. 

Some people loved it. I found it difficult. Hurry is not just about speed. Hurry is about what we value. 

On those trips, I often thought the work was the point. But the longer I went, the more I realized the relationships were not an interruption to the work. They were the work.

Hurry is a great separator. It keeps us efficient, but unavailable. It allows us to accomplish things without being changed by people.

When I am rushed, people become obstacles to my agenda rather than gifts entrusted to my care.

Conclusion

I used to think good conversations depended mostly on saying the right thing. I now think they depend more on becoming the kind of person who can make room.

Room for another perspective.
Room for another person’s pain.
Room in my schedule for something slower than efficiency.

Good conversations are not easy because people are not easy. I am not easy. But conversations are one of the ways God keeps forming us. They help us see what certainty has hidden, what pain has protected, and what hurry has caused us to miss.

So maybe the question is not simply, “How do I have better conversations?”

The better question is, “What is taking up so much room in me that I have none left for you?”