Some of my favorite emails begin with two simple words.
As promised.
Those words tell me something before I read another sentence.
They tell me someone remembered.
They tell me our conversation mattered enough that they came back to finish it.
Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate those two words more than I ever expected.
As a pharmacist, I learned that keeping a promise wasn’t simply good customer service. It was one of the quietest ways we show another person they matter. A returned phone call. The information we promised to research. A question we said we’d answer tomorrow.
Each one quietly says, I didn’t forget you.
Years later, in pharmaceutical and biomedical sales, I discovered something similar. More than once, I earned the business not because I gave the best presentation, but because I did exactly what I said I would do. If I promised additional information, I sent it. If I said I would call on Tuesday, I called on Tuesday.
People remembered who followed through.
Recently, I attended a writers conference where three people reminded me of that lesson once again. One promised to send information about professional editing organizations — two others promised recordings of their presentations and information about submitting a manuscript.
Both followed through.
Both quietly said the same thing.
As promised.
As grateful as I was for those emails, they reminded me of another promise I made many years ago.
Mary Singer worked as a cashier in the pharmacy where I practiced. She was one of those dependable people every workplace treasures — quiet, kind, and faithful.
Life had not always been easy for Mary. From what I understood, her husband could be difficult. Now he was dying of cancer, and with death drawing near, fear had replaced much of his anger.
One day I told Mary I would stop by the hospital to see him.
I didn’t want to go.
I went because I had told Mary I would.
I think she wanted to believe me.
I also think life had disappointed her often enough that she quietly wondered whether I really would.
A few days later, I walked into his hospital room.
The room was quiet.
Mary sat beside her husband’s bed.
He looked at me with relief, tears welling in his eyes.
For reasons I still can’t fully explain, my presence seemed to bring him comfort and peace.
As I prepared to leave, Mary looked at me and quietly said,
“Thank you for coming, Brad.”
She seemed surprised.
Not because I had done something extraordinary.
Because I had done what I said I would do.
As I drove home from the hospital that day, I felt something I hadn’t expected.
I had gone because I wanted to support Mary.
I hoped my visit might bring a little comfort to her husband.
I never imagined how much the visit would change me.
For days afterward, I found myself thinking about that quiet hospital room.
About Mary’s gratitude.
About the tears in her husband’s eyes.
About how a simple promise had become something much larger.
Looking nearly forty-five years later, I realize I wasn’t simply keeping my word.
I was discovering that the promises we keep are rarely about calendars or appointments.
They’re about people.
They’re about showing another person they matter.
Looking back, I’ve also come to believe that the promises which shape us most are often the ones we almost didn’t keep.
I thought I was going to the hospital to bring a little peace to Mary and her husband.
I never imagined I would come home carrying some of that peace myself.
That may be why two simple words still catch my attention whenever they appear at the beginning of an email.
As promised.
They remind me that every promise we keep quietly tells another person,
You mattered enough for me to come.
