In 2018, I was a guest of Sen. Marsha Blackburn (R-Tenn.) at the State of the Union. The place was electric — political theater at its finest. Members of Congress, guests, and press were packed into a room that felt more like a pressure cooker than a chamber. And whoever designed those gallery seats clearly had smaller people in mind.

We had to be there early, which meant a lot of sitting. I struck up a conversation with the man seated just behind me to my left. It turned out to be Bill Nye. He was cordial. My kids had watched him on TV. We talked briefly, just two people passing time.

A serious person is obligated to be even-handed, even when he doesn't like someone or disagrees with him.

After the speech by Donald Trump, as the room began to empty, I stuck my hand out to Bill, and his only response was, “He didn’t talk about space.”

It wasn’t a big comment. But it was revealing. We had just witnessed something few people ever experience in person. And that was his takeaway.

A lot has happened with America’s space program since then.

I looked and have yet to see where Bill Nye said, “I don’t agree with the man, but something good happened here.”

I did see he was at a No Kings rally last month.

Which raises a simple question: Are we willing to acknowledge what is true, even when we don’t like who it’s attached to?

We hear a lot about following the science. Fine. Then follow it.

Because if you start with the premise that a person is irredeemable, then everything he does must be dismissed. At that point, you’re not evaluating evidence. You’re protecting a conclusion you’ve already chosen.

We’ve seen this before. A man once stood face to face with truth and asked, “What is truth?” Not because the answer wasn’t there, but because he had already decided what he was willing to accept and what it might cost him.

Truth is not hard to find, but it’s hard to accept when it costs us something.

Sometimes you see people model a better way.

I encountered one of those moments when my wife, Gracie, sang at the inauguration of the governor of Tennessee.

At the time, Harold Ford Jr. was a young congressman who was present at the event. After Gracie performed, there were a lot of people on that platform. Important people. People far more connected than we were.

But Harold made a point to come straight to us.

Not a quick handshake and move on. He engaged. Asked questions. Took genuine interest.

A few days later, we found ourselves on the same flight to Washington. Gracie was headed to Walter Reed to sing for wounded warriors. Once again, Harold made a beeline for us.

Same posture. Same curiosity. Same kindness.

We’ve not crossed paths since, but I still watch him when he’s on "The Five." Not because I agree with everything he says. I don’t. I watch because he is measured. He gives credit where it’s due. He asks questions. He looks for common ground. He treats people as individuals, not categories.

That stayed with me.

I saw something recently that would have been unthinkable not long ago.

Mark Levin had Sen. John Fetterman (D-Penn.) on his show. If talk radio were music, I always considered Rush Limbaugh a virtuoso and Mark Levin heavy metal.

Levin and Fetterman engaged. Asked real questions. Gave thoughtful answers. No rush to score points.

Just two men doing something we used to call normal. And that’s when it hit me. Why does that feel unusual?

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For 40 years, I’ve lived in a world where I don’t get to choose who walks into the room to care for my wife. Nurses. Surgeons. Specialists. People from every background and belief system.

I’ve seen medical professionals wearing pronouns on their badges. While I inwardly sighed and questioned the scientific judgment of someone who touts that, Gracie still needed care.

And in that moment, my irritation didn’t get a vote. So I did what caregivers learn to do.

I stuck out my hand and engaged. I listened, observed, and learned to separate what I felt about a person from what I could clearly see in front of me.

A serious person is obligated to be even-handed, even when he doesn't like someone or disagrees with him.

The next time you hear something good about someone you can’t stand, ask yourself a simple question: Could this be objectively true, even though I don’t like this person?

You don’t have to change your vote or your convictions, but you do have to decide whether you’re going to follow the facts or protect a script.

In the real world, where people actually depend on you, clinging to a preferred script isn’t just lazy, it can be very costly.

If you’re willing to set that script aside, even for a moment, you might find something better than being right.

You might find clarity. And in a world this loud, that’s no small thing.