You’re Welcome

Then he waited a little longer.

A photograph of Lassie appeared on the screen behind him.

For those too young to remember, he explained, Lassie was a collie with an extraordinary ability to know when somebody was in trouble.

A child was lost.

A man was injured.

Timmy had fallen down a well.

Lassie would race back, bark urgently, and somehow persuade the nearest available adult to follow her.

She identified the problem.

She pointed people toward it.

Then she allowed them to take over.

“Lassie,” the speaker said, pausing to let the significance settle across the auditorium, “may have been one of the most powerful examples of communication, leadership and personal restraint ever presented on television.”

A new slide appeared behind him.

Bark. Point. Lie down.

“Three simple actions,” he said.

He raised one finger.

“Bark. Say what needs to be said.”

A second.

“Point. Help people see where the problem lies.”

A third.

“Then lie down. Trust them to decide what happens next.”

Several people wrote this in their notebooks.

The speaker explained that Lassie did not climb down the well herself.

She did not rescue Timmy, provide counselling about why he had fallen into the well, and develop a comprehensive well-avoidance strategy for the remainder of his childhood.

She knew her role.

“She did not need to be the hero,” he said. “She simply did what was useful and withdrew.”

The audience nodded.

It was a powerful lesson.

The speaker spent the next forty minutes explaining it.

The talk had been scheduled for eighteen.

There were diagrams.

There were case studies.

There was a short section on the correct interpretation of the word bark, followed by a considerably longer clarification about what precisely constituted pointing.

At one stage, he warned the audience against becoming too attached to their own insights.

Several slides contained quotations from the speaker himself, although he had modestly left his name off them.

Each was credited simply:

A concerned observer.

At the bottom of the slide, in tastefully restrained lettering, appeared:

Merchandise available in the foyer.

The speaker apologised for the commercial interruption.

“I normally prefer my work to speak for itself,” he said, “but several people have asked how they might carry the message into their everyday lives.”

Available items included:

• A Concerned Observer · Classic T-shirt
• Not the Hero · Premium hoodie
• Quietly Doing Work of Enormous Importance · Limited-edition crewneck
• My Job Is Done Here · Ceramic mug
• You’re Welcome · Signed presentation socks

All sales were cash only and kept off the books.

“Not for tax reasons,” he clarified. “I simply don’t want the generosity to become about me.”

Proceeds would quietly support the continuation of his important work.

“I’m not saying I have the answers,” he said.

He then resumed giving them.

He spoke movingly about listening.

He explained why people should do more of it.

He reminded everyone that caring about somebody did not make you responsible for bringing them to your conclusion.

Sometimes, he said, you simply had to put an idea into the room and leave it there.

He put the idea into the room several more times.

Eventually, a small red light began flashing near the stage.

The speaker noticed immediately.

“I can see that we are approaching the end,” he said, demonstrating once again his unusual powers of perception.

He returned to the image of Lassie.

“Bark. Point. Lie down.”

The words appeared once more behind him.

The audience applauded.

He raised one hand.

“Thank you. I would take a bow, but my modesty does not permit it.”

The audience rose.

“Only half-mast, please. I can’t be seen to be too important.”

They lowered themselves awkwardly into a half-standing position.

“Bend at the knees, not the back,” he added.

Such was his concern for their wellbeing.

He looked across the auditorium at the hundreds of people now suspended in a shallow squat, uncertain whether they were honouring him correctly.

“Thank you, everyone. I must lie down now.”

Then, true to the lesson he had so generously given them, he lowered himself gently onto the red circle.

A hush fell across the room.

“Does this man have any limits to his modesty?” someone whispered.

“No,” came the reverent reply. “And that is what makes him so important.”

Then, quietly, softly, and with the deep satisfaction of a man who had once again improved everyone present, he whispered:

“My job is done here.”

The audience remained half-standing, knees bent, backs straight, unsure whether to applaud, leave, or fetch help.

Several minutes passed.

Then came the snoring.

Later that evening, some audience members were seen holding their knees. Others rubbed their backs.

“I’m pretty sure his snoring was the cue that the talk was over,” one said.

“No,” another replied. “I think it was part of the message.”

“You’re welcome,” others imagined him saying.

Nobody had thanked him.

This only made the gesture more generous.