The Rubber Band Between Us

I couldn't help but notice the rubber band sitting on my desk.

It was small, ordinary. At rest, it wasn't stretched at all — just a soft loop.

But I started thinking about what a rubber band is for.

A rubber band at rest doesn't do much. Its whole purpose is to stretch. To hold things together — a bundle of papers, a rolled-up newspaper, a stack of cards. It works precisely because it can flex, absorb tension, and pull things close.

It made me think of how as parents we often need to stretch to hold things together. We might prefer to remain the soft loop on the table, but the reality is that our families require us to stretch frequently, if not daily.

Being inactive doesn't hold a family together. It's the stretching — the caring, the concern, the reaching toward each other — that binds us. Love stretches. Gratitude stretches. Even worry, when it's rooted in care, is a kind of stretching toward someone.

We stretch when we make dinner after a full day of work, when we would rather sit down and let the evening pass without us.

We stretch when we answer one more question from a curious four-year-old — the same question, the fourteenth time — with patience we had to reach for.

We stretch when we choose kindness even though we are tired.

We stretch when we have needs of our own yet we show up for someone else anyway.

That kind of stretching is beautiful.

But rubber bands can also be used differently.

Remember doing this as a kid?

You'd loop a rubber band over your thumb, pull it back between your fingers, and aim. Maybe at a friend. Maybe at a sibling. Maybe just across the room to see where it would land.

The rubber band that was meant to hold things together suddenly became something we could aim at someone else.

And don't we sometimes do the same thing with the tension we carry?

The same tension that can hold a family together can also snap toward someone we love. The pointed remark. The sharp response that could have been softer.

Sometimes that can happen in our interactions each day, within our families or otherwise. When we feel hurt, we can share the hurt gently — or we can weaponize it. When we feel tired, we can ask for space — or we can snap at the nearest person.

Same feeling. Different aim.

There's another thing about rubber bands worth noticing.

When we pull them back and let them go, they don't just hit the target. They also snap against our own hand.

The sharpness we aim outward often stings us too. The words we choose to wound — they echo in us long after they've been said.

The rubber band is still sitting on my desk.

It hasn't done anything harmful today. It hasn't done anything at all — because I haven't picked it up.

Sometimes that's the whole practice. Noticing what we're holding. Choosing what to do with it.