Dear Friends,
20-something years ago, we went on a two-week family vacation out west. We spent the first week with my large extended family, then flew to Seattle, rented a van, and embarked on a 7-day drive around Washington state. It was a rare time for just the five of us to be together, and Buddy and I were excited.
Not 30 minutes on the highway outside of Seattle, though, something put Ben, then a 6th-grader, over the edge. Loudly, from the backseat of the van came, I can’t spend a week in this car with just you! I miss my friends! I need to talk to them! I have a slow-motion memory of catching Buddy’s eye (he was remarkably focused on driving, I recall) as I turned around to look at Ben. He was genuinely distressed—bordering on panic. It was a real cry for help.
Miraculously, up from my Mumma-bear heart came words straight from Grace: “What do you miss talking about the most?” Without hesitation he answered music. My music. I said, “Well, I’m not your best friend Zack, but what if you give me a lesson for an hour every day this week? Pick a few bands. I’d love to learn. We can start now.” And in yet further evidence of Grace, he said “Okay.” I unclicked my seat belt, crawled to the back and began—with the help of a portable CD player—to learn pretty much everything I would ever know about Pink Floyd, Metallica, and Nine Inch Nails.
We did have a wonderful week, a transforming week, where we saw new wildflowers growing along the hillside of Mount St. Helen (20 years after the eruption), hiked the rain forest, and discovered Powell Books. Of course, there were lots of moments of bickering, but the powerful gifts of Ben being willing to share what was so personally meaningful, him being heard, and my being present to his deeply passionate interest are what have remained.
As we continue to hurtle down the highway of life in a pandemic, I’m thinking about all of the exhausted people who just don’t think they can do this anymore, who need to be heard and seen, known, and loved. It’s been a really long haul, and there is no clear sense of the destination or E.T.A. Some of us need to blurt out from the backseat, “I can’t do this!” And some of us need to ask, “What do you miss? What do you wish you could tell someone? What do you love?” We don’t have to know the answers, be wise, or fix anything. Just listen—to our neighbors, our relatives, and people we don’t even know who are looking for a five-minute conversation at the grocery store or on the nature trail. Too many people felt disconnected and left-out before the pandemic—it’s so much worse now.
Listening for the Divine, for a glimpse of that of God in another person—with no other agenda than to receive the gift of that presence and gently mirror it back—is ministry. It can remind the other person that they are sacred, that they have worth. After a full year separated from loved ones, physical touch, our faith communities, gatherings to sing or dance, and opportunities to feel useful or be part of something bigger—those things we have all leaned on in the past—it’s clearly urgent for those of us who are able, to do it. To be a mirror of Light, of Hope, of Compassion. It may require briefly unclipping a seatbelt. But Friends, we have deep practices and wisdom around listening that can help others remember that they belong, that they have worth. We’ve learned this year just how much these messages are needed by all of us.
And dear ones, if you’re feeling like Ben, please, please give a holler. You are loved. You belong. And if you’re not sure you believe that, trust me to hold that belief until you do again, yourself.
Sending you much love from the highway,
Gretchen