The skies were open, the trees still, and I was in a reverent state of inner reflection. I was thinking of one of our clients at Mentora, H-E-B. “Hitendra,” I told myself, “H-E-B is such an inspiring organization! Its people are thoughtful, grounded, and attentive. What a joy it is to serve them.”
And that much is true. H-E-B, a 120-year-old, family-run business, is a beacon of servant leadership. It’s built not just on operational excellence, but on love. Love for its customers, its communities, and its partners (their word for employees).
“But you,” I chided myself, “you’re not half as thoughtful. You let your mind drift, get caught in your inner world, and sometimes miss what the Universe is placing right in front of you.”
No sooner had I thought this than the Universe complied. A white ball dropped down on the grass next to me.
I was almost ignoring it—deep in thought, after all. But then, I caught myself.
“Hitendra, pay attention! Be present. Be useful. That’s what it means to live soul-outward. Pick up that ball, find the people who are playing with it in this park, and return it to them so they don’t have to take the trouble of coming all this way! That’s what you would want from them, if you and your friends were playing tennis or baseball and the ball was hit so far away from the playing arena.”
So, I picked up the ball and scanned the park. A small group in the distance caught my eye. They were looking at me and waving their arms.
My heart swelled. Ah, how lovely—they’re acknowledging my kindness. I felt the joy of knowing that I’m giving them joy.
Rather than risk a wild throw, I decided to walk the ball over to them. It would just be a small digression from my path, I figured.
As I took my first few steps, their waving grew wilder, even a bit frenetic. By now I could see their faces more clearly. They were not smiling. They appeared to be alarmed.
And suddenly, it hit me.
This wasn’t a tennis ball.
It wasn’t a baseball.
It was a golf ball.
I was at a resort for a retreat, you see. And this resort had a golf course on it.
Oh no!
I was destroying their game!
“They aren’t waving you over, you fool,” I told myself. “They are trying to wave you off!”
Horrified, I hurried back to the spot where the ball had originally landed and gently returned it to its rightful place. Then I turned and gave them a sheepish wave. They looked so relieved.
As I resumed my walk, I couldn’t help but smile at the silliness of what I’d done. In trying to be thoughtful, I’d been entirely thoughtless. In trying to be attentive, I’d been oblivious.
Why, oh why, I asked myself.
Because I was following a mental script: “If a ball gets hit and drops close to you in a park, find its owner and return it.” It’s a good script. A helpful one—in most cases, but not in all cases.
And so, you see, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Not because good intentions are bad. Because they can lull us into premature action. Into assuming we understand when we don’t. Into playing the hero in a play we haven’t even read the script for.
The soul doesn’t operate on autopilot.
It asks for something deeper—presence, discernment, humility.
To pause.
To observe.
To receive the full picture before we respond.
Only then can our actions be not just well-meaning, but well-aligned—with truth, with context, with purpose.
So, the next time you pick up a ball—literal or metaphorical—take a moment.
Is this a gift to return?
Or a game you’re not meant to be a part of?
Because sometimes, the most helpful thing you can do is to let the ball be and go your merry way.
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