I hadn't seen her for months. Her appearance, aside from a few cosmetic changes such as hair color and style, seemed pretty much the same. However, I'd heard some of her story through the grapevine, and although I didn't quite know what to say to her, I knew that this was a connection I needed to make.
She invited me to sit down.
The conversation was brief - perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes - but as I expressed my condolences for the loss of her husband several months previous, she began to share some of her memories and experiences of his last few months, of his passing, and of how she coped with those first few months of living life without him.
She talked about how she had wanted to keep her job, how she knew that life would be unbearably hard but that it would be even harder without a steady source of income ... and him gone. She described how she had to sell her home and make fundamental lifestyle changes - all while she was going through the grieving process. Occasionally a tear would well up and trickle from her eye. When it reached her cheek, she'd reach up and brush it aside, as if it was something of a bother.
As she spoke, I was struck by how incredibly vulnerable she was, and how very brave in the midst of her vulnerability. I have a very dear friend who lost her husband a few years ago, and so I wanted to acknowledge how much she had suffered and was still suffering. I glanced down. Somehow my hand had reached across the table and hers was grasping it. The gesture made my throat feel thick, tight.
I pointed to her identification tag, her access to the workplace. "That's your red badge of courage," I told her. "It is a symbol of the bravery you show every single moment as you put one foot in front of the other and go through your day." She smiled - a peculiar expression mixed into it - and said that not many people realize how much a part of every day that pain is.
"I have a close friend who lost her husband a few years ago. She still misses him so much."
She wiped away another tear. We talked a little bit about how she still felt his presence, relied on his strength, even now. I couldn't - dared not - imagine how I would have managed in her situation. I'm sure I would have lost my mind.
As I got to my feet, she got to hers... and hugged me ... one of those heart-felt hugs you can sense isn't based on expectations. "Thank you. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
I'm not exactly sure what exact "thing" she meant, and I don't need to know. All I know is that at that moment, deep inside, I was keenly aware that I had been at the right place at the right time for the right person ... and somehow, said the right thing.
It was so humbling to be a part of that.
She invited me to sit down.
The conversation was brief - perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes - but as I expressed my condolences for the loss of her husband several months previous, she began to share some of her memories and experiences of his last few months, of his passing, and of how she coped with those first few months of living life without him.
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| "Lonely Woman On The Beach" photo courtesy of Sira Anamwong at www.freedigitalphotos.net |
She talked about how she had wanted to keep her job, how she knew that life would be unbearably hard but that it would be even harder without a steady source of income ... and him gone. She described how she had to sell her home and make fundamental lifestyle changes - all while she was going through the grieving process. Occasionally a tear would well up and trickle from her eye. When it reached her cheek, she'd reach up and brush it aside, as if it was something of a bother.
As she spoke, I was struck by how incredibly vulnerable she was, and how very brave in the midst of her vulnerability. I have a very dear friend who lost her husband a few years ago, and so I wanted to acknowledge how much she had suffered and was still suffering. I glanced down. Somehow my hand had reached across the table and hers was grasping it. The gesture made my throat feel thick, tight.
I pointed to her identification tag, her access to the workplace. "That's your red badge of courage," I told her. "It is a symbol of the bravery you show every single moment as you put one foot in front of the other and go through your day." She smiled - a peculiar expression mixed into it - and said that not many people realize how much a part of every day that pain is.
"I have a close friend who lost her husband a few years ago. She still misses him so much."
She wiped away another tear. We talked a little bit about how she still felt his presence, relied on his strength, even now. I couldn't - dared not - imagine how I would have managed in her situation. I'm sure I would have lost my mind.
As I got to my feet, she got to hers... and hugged me ... one of those heart-felt hugs you can sense isn't based on expectations. "Thank you. That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
I'm not exactly sure what exact "thing" she meant, and I don't need to know. All I know is that at that moment, deep inside, I was keenly aware that I had been at the right place at the right time for the right person ... and somehow, said the right thing.
It was so humbling to be a part of that.
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