The Common Thread Theory

As many of you know, either from reading previous posts or from attending speaking events, I maintain the counterintuitive notion that pain brings us together.

In fact, I believe pain is the greatest unifying force in existence, surpassing joy and even love. When we suffer together, an unspoken and unshakable empathy is established, thereby forging an unbreakable (and often unintentional) bond.

Pain binds us unlike anything else. I’ve even gone so far as to define love as “hurting the same way,” or “understanding one another’s pain.”

The reason this ideology seems counterintuitive, or even irrational, is because it’s inherently countercultural. In our society and our world, pain is divisive; it separates us into socioeconomic classes, political parties, and even armies.

It pits us against one another, inciting discord, hatred, and violence. In turn, it self-perpetuates – the pain just keeps on growing.

And the cycle repeats.

Don’t believe me? Find your remote and turn on the news.

The easiest way I’ve found to explain this phenomenon is by using what I call The Common Thread Theory.

The theory is predicated on one simple principle: We’re all characters in the same story.

To borrow from an old adage, “everyone has a story.” Despite being somewhat hackneyed, there is substantial truth in that phrase.

We’re all living, breathing narratives, subplots of the larger tale being told.

God is, without question, a master storyteller. In fact, He’s the storyteller. Which is why many of the all-time greats, such as Lewis and Tolkien, and more contemporarily, JK Rowling, seek to mimic God’s creative style.

He created the narrative arc, and we’ve all just been trying to emulate it ever since.

Ever wondered why we’re so captivated by stories? Movies, books, and television shows dominate the entertainment industry, generating billions of dollars in revenue every year. Though they take different forms, these entertainment modalities are, at their core, just glorified stories.

And we love them.

We love stories because we are stories. Books, movies, and shows are just an opportunity to experience someone else’s edition, a fleeting glimpse into a fellow subplot.

And there it is – the common thread: Story.

Everyone has a story (or is a story), sure, but far more importantly, we’re all part of a greater narrative arc, a subplot of something grander.

That simple realization is the key to harnessing the power of the common thread.

If we’re all strands of the same cord, elements of the same arc, destined for the same conclusion, we become mutual agents of change; division dissolves and unity flourishes.

For reasons beyond our limited earthly comprehension, the master storyteller has chosen to make pain a prevailing theme in our narrative. It’s what writers call the “inciting incident”; it actuates the characters and drives the plot forward. And though often unbeknownst to us, it brings characters together in the most unlikely of ways.

It’s happened in my life.

And if you’re paying attention, you’ll see it happen in yours, too.

A great example of this actually occurred earlier this week.

I was on my way back from a book signing in Birmingham, Alabama, trudging north along I-65, when I suddenly came into a thick cluster of traffic. The cars seemed to materialize out of nowhere; I was in the farmland of northern Alabama – not exactly a populous area – but in a matter of seconds, without explanation, the open interstate became a hornet’s nest of bumper-to-bumper vehicles and honking horns.

Naturally, so as to avoid being run over, I accelerated into the flow of traffic. There was an F-150 on my tailgate, its driver not-so-kindly motioning for me to get out of his way, while the driver of the Camaro in front of me was offering similar gestures, asking me to back off.

It was a fun time. Instantly made better by the Alabama state trooper we passed in the slow lane.

I made the incredibly poor decision of looking over at him. And in the split-second of eye contact we shared, he saw fit to flip on his blue lights and direct me to the shoulder.

The F-150 and the Camaro were probably pleased by my unfortunate (and slightly unfair) twist of fate.

Nonetheless, the officer approached my truck, I offered the usual pleading and futile justifications, all of which he completely ignored, and asked for my license and registration.

I was annoyed, and seeing as I was getting a ticket anyway, sincerely considered providing him with the same gesture the F-150 driver had provided me.

But in that single fleeting moment, as he took my license, I saw it. Right there, emblazoned on his tired eyes, written plainly in the deep lines of his face.

Pain.

As the officer sat in his state-issued Tahoe and wrote my ticket, I tried to argue with God.

Come on. Not now. This guy’s a jerk. I didn’t deserve this. Also, if you get a second, maybe direct that F-150 guy into a pothole.

But as He often does, God refused to move.

The inciting incident had been written; it was my time to act.

When the officer returned, handing me my license, registration, and an official court date, I accepted them with a smile.

I then offered him a signed copy of my book.

I didn’t realize until I was driving away that the sudden explosion of traffic, the untimely passing of the state trooper, and the supremely ill-advised eye contact, were all part of my story. And they were part of his, too.

Subplots of the same arc.

Now, though my ticket is still pending and I’m awaiting the assignment of what is sure to be an exorbitant fee, maybe just maybe that officer’s healing is pending, too. Maybe my book will be the inciting incident that changes the entire course of his story, leading him to a much better conclusion.

Maybe. Maybe not. But if I hadn’t surrendered to my role in the story, to my strand in the cord, to the fabric of the common thread, we’d never know.

In that moment, on the side of I-65, our stories intertwined, and in that brief connectedness, pain produced unity.

My gratitude for that gift outweighs the pain of the ticket.

Mostly.

I’ve been on the road this week conducting a mini book tour, and I’m honored to report that EVEN IF YOU DON’T has spread all across the United States (from California to New York), and has already made its way across the Atlantic (Poland, Scotland, and likely others).

Click here to get your copy! Read EVEN IF YOU DON’T

I’m also excited to officially announce I’ve begun the preliminary work for my next book, which I hope will publish either late this year or early 2019! For book updates, blog deliveries, and a lot more, sign up for my monthly email list using the form below: