When Six Turns Out to be Nine

In the deep south of the East Coast, I grew up like many. Fishing when cows feed, football games in sweltering humidity, a movie date, and church made for the every day. I don’t remember anything extraordinary.

Both my brothers left this life much too early. My daddy died after a decade of battling cancer, and my husband’s parents died after arduous battles with the same disease. All families have their sad times; even mine is not extraordinary in that respect.

Somehow though, sad times have brought definition to my ordinary life even though my life is hardly sad.

In the fall of my forty-second year, I, once again, became a student. Returning to school in mid-life is not extraordinary or even unusual. But, I’d always hated school. They made me do math.

Unlike the few letters of the alphabet that I could arrange to express thought, numbers had no end. They would not stay in order. They brought on more sick headaches than hormones. Yet, I stayed quiet about my struggle--nobody else seemed to have problems doing math.

Besides, at every turn, I found sad people.

Years after the death of singer and guitarist Jimi Hendrix, people still talked about his music. I’m an acoustic string kinda girl. Yet, the lyrics about a six turning out to be a nine rang true for me. Jimi probably wasn’t singing about math. But, the singer helped me understand there were bigger problems in life than my inability to cope with numbers.

So I earned my high school diploma with a scarce B minus and never stepped my size sevens into a college or university.  It’s not strange, then, that my family raved with applause at my decision to return to a classroom. And, while the course offered training--no college credits--I just smiled. With all the fuss, one would think I’d been accepted to an ivy-covered institution.

So for a period of six months, I gathered into a classroom with nine other students, two teachers and a pastor. We were schooled in a program of study* that teaches lay persons how to provide meaningful one-to-one care for sad and hurting people.

We learned that to give meaningful care, it is essential to listen without offering opinion or rendering judgment. Providing a safe atmosphere to express difficult feelings can bring tremendous freedom to those who are hurting. In that vein, we were coached continually that the details shared from someone in our care must be kept confidential.

Someone once said that I’m a true product of the south. The remark was off-handed--I probably deserved it, too. We southerners, me--in particular, do talk a lot about praying. All that talk can be tiresome; even trite.

Indeed, I do hold prayer in high-esteem. And, it is a sign of my upbringing as well as my faith.   Yet, we Southerners don’t carry the monopoly on prayer; fried chicken, sweet tea, church-going, even being particular about when to wear white, maybe, but not prayer. Where ever hurting people are gathered with an inkling that there is a caring God, there will be prayer. It has no geographical boundaries.

Yet in that classroom, prayer for the sad and hurting struck a deeper chord.

I learned to pray for them more often in my alone time. But, to pray with them only when asked.We learned that being assertive when showing care, is not the same as being aggressive in the practice of praying with a person. Many find comfort when others pray with them. Others find it intimidating; some may resent the intrusion. For a girl who always thought she had to pray with somebody, it has been a lesson well learned.

We were coached, too, on taking precautions in our manner of care. Sometimes it is easy to over identify with those who are in pain. Wanting to fix the problem quickly is a common response. Yet, it rarely produces a positive result for either party. Setting and maintaining boundaries are especially important.

There were so many lessons taught and learned. Chiefly--God is the author and ultimate source of all comfort and healing. The mending of a broken life comes in the timing of eternity. There are no deadlines. My job, simply put, is to show care. Freedom is found in that lesson–tremendous freedom.

In that classroom, I began to understand my own uniqueness.

As a child, I came to know and love God. Even as a teenager, pleasing God ranked high. Yet, I had always struggled in my quest to help others; often feeling inadequate. In my mind’s eye, the hurt and sad clamored together in a handbasket tilted over a cliff. They were of all shapes, sizes and colors; their faces obscured. There is no memory of when I first had that image. It started as a child and long stayed with me. The sad times of my own family forged it.

Not wanting to appear too sensitive or strange, I stayed quiet about my struggle. I had a good life: my husband knew how to make me laugh, our daughters were happy, and my boss never asked me to do his bookkeeping. It seemed selfish to dwell on the things I couldn't figure out or lacked.

Yet in my forty-second year, things began to change. I became a student--a scholar, actually. No numbers were required. Learning ways to give meaningful care, not just within the walls of a church, but in all the spots that make up my corner of the world, has made for an important find. A true treasure.

Now, that’s extraordinary and the applause of my own heart rings pretty clear.



*Log onto  www.stephenministries.org to learn more about a complete system for laity training to care for those experiencing loss.