I remember the first time I saw my mom as a person with hopes and longings of her own. I didn’t care for it. Not one little bit.

I was probably about eleven or twelve years old.

I remember being at a round table at a reception-type event with Mom and some of her friends. They were talking and laughing—overlapping as women often do. One story flowed into another, with each speaker more animated than the one before. I watched my mom. Her eyes darted from one friend’s face to the next as she listened avidly. Her lips moved, silently forming the words along with each speaker.

I felt sorry for her. They were excluding her. Not noticing her. Not letting her speak. I just knew she must feel so left out.

As an awkward preteen with a lot of words, I thought every person’s strongest desire was to be at the scintillating center of a conversation. I felt that unfulfilled longing on my mother’s behalf that day.

I hadn’t yet discovered what a gift someone like my mom was. I hadn’t yet realized the joy it gave her to listen and reflect.

A new old friend

My mom is now approaching ninety and suffers from dementia. She has one of the sweetest friendships I’ve ever seen with her neighbor in her skilled nursing facility.

I’ve never heard her say Lela’s name—I don’t think she knows it. She only has names for friends she’s known forever, her sister, and her daughters. But when she says “My Friend,” she expects I’ll know exactly who she means.

Most people Mom didn’t know in her previous life come and go quickly from her memory. She frequently tells me someone is “new here” when they’ve been sharing a table in the dining room for months.

But not Lela. She quickly claimed a permanent place in Mom’s heart and her mind.

They often wheel up next to one another, lean in, and touch their foreheads together. It seems to give them both comfort and strength. They hold hands a lot.

A Listening Friend

Lela possesses the same quality I saw in my mom at that reception all those years ago. That quality I couldn’t understand. Empathy.

I get it now. Mom mouthed those women’s words, not because she was on the outside, but because she was so much in the middle of their stories with them, she could have been telling them herself. She shared their pain. She shared their joy.

When I told my mom about my triumphs and failures or my joys and sorrows, I saw myself in the reflection of her eyes. Somehow that reflection was always a little brighter, a little stronger, a little worthier of forgiveness or patience than what I could see on my own.

I have a feeling the young readers who came to her library may have experienced something similar. She loved nothing more than to help a student or a grandchild find the books they were interested in. As a mother and grandmother, she developed an avid interest in anything her kids loved—whether it was Mickey Mouse, clowns, dinosaurs, or a sport. If she loved you, she loved what you loved.

But God has combined the [whole] body, giving greater honor to that part which lacks it, so that there would be no division or discord in the body [that is, lack of adaptation of the parts to each other], but that the parts may have the same concern for one another. And if one member suffers, all the parts share the suffering; if one member is honored, all rejoice with it.

1 Corinthians 12:24b-26 (AMP)

Empathy is such a gift in the body of Christ, and not just when it comes to suffering and rejoicing. Empathy is important for all the “one anothers” of community. We learn and grow up together when we are willing to listen and reflect.

You know those Bible study workbooks that ask open-ended, thought-provoking questions about Scripture? I was surprised when I looked through some of my mom’s old studies and saw how empty the pages were. She’d spoken of those studies with insight, often sharing the truths she’d learned from them. She was a good, but reluctant, Bible study teacher. Why were her written answers succinct to the point of non-existence?

Because so much of what she learned from studying the Word with others came from listening to what God was teaching them.

That doesn’t come naturally to me. I seldom hear a lesson or sermon in its entirety, because my mind goes off checking, cross-referencing, or adding to what the teacher has said. I miss out on a lot that way. I have to work hard to listen all the way to the end of anything. I’m learning to apologize and ask for a repetition, because when my mind runs off and started writing its own conclusion to a story, I miss out.

I think Mom and Lela are drawn to each other because they were both great listeners in other seasons of life.

I guess that makes them seasoned listeners.

Now, each is content to sit quietly with someone content to sit quietly with her. They reflect each other, and both are brighter for it.

I have a lot to learn from Mom and Lela.

Come Alongside

Who has been content to reflect your joy and make you shine brighter in the process? Who has brought you peace or comfort by reflecting your sorrow? Is there someone who needs you to sit with quietly with her today as she tells her story? Is there someone who needs to see himself reflected in your eyes a little brighter than he sees himself?

I’d love to hear about it in the comments. I promise to listen all the way to the end of your story, if you’d like to share!

Traveling in Grace,

Christi