It's Not About Me!
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When my wife, Linda, was scheduled for surgery, notice of the operation appeared in our Sunday church bulletin. It is read by ten thousand each week. On the Sunday it was printed, some caring people spoke to me about her challenge. It was a way they could show up. All that most said was, “I see Linda is having surgery.” Little more. It is sufficient to show thoughtfulness and concern.
90% is showing up
“Thank you so much for the message you left on my answering machine,” she gushed. “It really carried me through a difficult weekend.” It wasn’t the first time I heard that kind of appreciation. Always, I am mildly stunned. Such a small contribution—such a a big reaction to a recorded message!
People are thankful for acts of kindness, no matter how little. Usually there is minimal recall of the substance of the contact. The woman who so much appreciated my recorded greeting will not forget that I called but what I said will slip quickly away.
It is easy
It is easy to make a phone call to a hurting person. But the average man or woman neglects the kind act of making such a call. As greatly as such touches are appreciated, as elementary as the procedure of doing it is, the calls are done rarely. Too rarely. When we reach out to a struggling friend or relative, or even a neighbor or stranger, with a word, touch, card or call, we give them a shot in the arm. It works like a dose of good medicine. It is good medicine. A lot of healing flows from simple acts of Care and Kindness.
I called a friend to inquire about his well-being during his course of chemotherapy. His wife answered and said, “Thank you for having the courage to call.” Courage?? Is that what it takes? Apparently. Why else would kind folks put off these spirit-lifting contacts? It must be fear—or lack of courage.
Needless fears
When I ask people what they fear, they always say, “I’m afraid I will say the wrong thing.” They fear hurting the person with inane or inappropriate comments, trite reflections or bad advice. They do not realize that they cause greater harm to the struggling soul when they stay away, when they leave the person alone. It is easier to forget a poor choice of words than to forget a friend’s absence.
Happily, most of the time, the hurting person overlooks inadequate words and flawed ideas that are uttered in trying to make them feel better. Brilliant remarks aren’t needed. Saying “hello” is.
When you make contact with anyone recovering from, or in the middle of, a trying challenge, “hello” may be the main thing. After that, listening takes over as the one called on—who needs to talk—jumps at the opportunity afforded by your contact. Nothing to fear. Talk flows spontaneously from most distressed souls when they are given a chance to share how it is with them.
It’s not about you
This incident, related by Marilyn Duff, illustrates how her daughter, Ann, discovered for herself that, 90% of helping IS INDEED just showing up. Not only did she show up, but she managed to keep the focus off herself as she made herself available for each of those who needed someone to lean on.
Ann R., a young mother of two, had seldom been exposed to others’ grief. She’d avoided funerals and wakes with excuses of not wanting to intrude or not knowing what to say. But when, early one morning, she heard that the mother of her best friend had died after a lengthy battle with cancer, she knew something was expected of her. So she picked up the phone and called the house. Her friend answered the phone and said that she and her three sisters and father were alone. Her voice was full of tears as she related how her mother had died peacefully—hadn’t seemed to suffer. “We’re waiting for the funeral home to come and get Mother.” Ann was filled with pain and sorrow as she listened—not only for the death of a mother who had laughed and joked with teenage girls and whose life was now over, but also for the family she had grown up knowing: the strong father who was now so devastated, and this friend who was usually the first one to diffuse a situation with a joke. There was no laughter in her voice now. “What can I do?” said Ann. “Just come over. Please. Come over.” So she went, dreading what she would see. Dreading the tears and pain. Dreading the sight of a father in grief. Dreading seeing the mother, still on her deathbed. Afraid of her own reactions. As she pulled into the driveway, her heart was pounding, but she told herself, “This isn’t about you.” At the door, the stricken family embraced her, and, as she held her and cried, she felt her friend’s shaking body. Tears filled her own eyes, too. She wiped them away with her hands as they led her into the bedroom, and Ann saw that the mother looked peaceful and free of pain—for the first time in a long while. Then they went into the living room and settled onto the sofa. What was she supposed to say now? But then she heard her own words again, “This is not about me.” The family talked of the long night and the relief they felt for their mother. Ann listened, not sure of what to say, so she just murmured or shook her head. The doorbell rang. An uncle arrived, looking nervous and ill at ease. The dad introduced him, then took him away to see the mother. “Oh, thank you for coming,” said her friend, squeezing her hand. The three sisters thanked her, as well. Their gratitude for her presence surprised her.
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She had expected to be in the way, but nothing seemed to be further from the truth. They seemed genuinely glad to have her there. She sat with them as they talked. The father returned with Uncle Bob, who looked ashen. The uncle tried to change the subject to traffic on the freeway, but his voice was a little too loud, and his hoarse laughter was met only with polite and subdued smiles from the sisters. Every now and then, one of them would sob and bury her face in a tissue. The doorbell rang again; the hearse had arrived. As the family rose to go to the door, Ann sensed that it would be the hardest time for the family. She also sensed that her own presence in that room at that moment was not necessary, so she got up and went to the kitchen. She leaned on the sink and took a deep breath. “Why am I here?” she wondered. “What am I supposed to do now? Should I stay? Should I go?” Suddenly she noticed that the sink was full of dirty dishes. There were over-flowing wastebaskets, pans on the stove with the remnants of past meals. Almost without thinking, she ran hot sudsy water, and began scraping and loading dishes into the dishwasher. The noise of running water almost blocked the sound of painful wails and wrenching sobs in the background. The body was being removed from the bed, transferred onto a litter and carried to the waiting hearse. Ann plunged her hands into the sudsy water. She checked the clock; it was past noon. She went to the refrigerator, removed lettuce, lunchmeat, and bread; arranged platters and baskets; put water on the stove for tea; filled the coffee maker; and got out ice and glasses. She unwrapped a plate of chocolate chip cookies, with a card from a neighbor attached, and set it on the table, too. In a little while, the family returned to the house. When they saw the impromptu buffet awaiting them, they exclaimed their gratitude, and as they went through the motions of filling their plates, they calmed, seeming to breathe a bit easier, to forget their pain for the moment, in the simple routine of eating. “Maybe this is why I am here,” Ann thought, following along in the lunch line. “To hold people and let them cry, to be a listener for people who need to talk, to put a little order to chaos. In any grieving household, there would always be people like Uncle Bob, who simply needed some place to escape to. It had not been so difficult after all. In fact, her heart had never felt so full. “Maybe it was a little about me, too,” she realized. |
Most excuses cover the fact that we do not want to become uncomfortable; we avoid that which we are too anxious about and uncertain of. Ann was a worthy Ambassador of Kindness as she did what was needed, even though she was uncomfortable and uncertain.
