the gift of presence

At every writers' conference I have attended, successful authors have noted the connection between being an avid reader and becoming an accomplished writer, so I have recently recommitted myself to reading regularly and ravenously. My goal is to read a book a week, and so far I'm on track. I'm currently reading two books - The Soloist by Steve Lopez and Here If You Need Me by Kate Braestrup. 

I first learned about The Soloist: A Lost Dream, and Unlikely Friendship, and the Redemptive Power of Music in April when I heard Dave Davies's interview with Lopez on NPR's Fresh Air. This account of an L.A. Times columnist's relationship a homeless violinist strikes an emotional chord in the reader and is both hopeful and haunting. 

My mother gave me Braestrup's book when I stopped by her house yesterday to wish her and my dad a happy 47th anniversary. I was not familiar with this book, which was released last year, but I subsequently learned that it had received the Barnes & Noble Discover Award for best nonfiction book of the year. Braestrup is a self-described "plucky widow" who decided to enroll in Bangor Theological Seminary after her husband - a Maine state trooper - died in the line of duty in an accident. This mother of four eventually became one of the first chaplains appointed to serve the Maine Warden Service, which is a steward of Maine's fish and wildlife resources.

I have been struck by two stories in particular as I'm progressing through Braestrup's book. In one passage, after a warden has completed the sad duty of informing a woman that her husband's body has been recovered, he remarks to the chaplain, "It's like standing right on the hinge of someone's life. You know? Right there on the hinge, while the whole world swings around, and that widow, or that mother or dad's life is suddenly different. Permanently different. I've been a game warden for thirty-two years. I can't think how many people I've had to tell about a death, how many people have that memory of me standing there, saying those words. It's really something, to be on the hinge of so many stories." As I read those words, I thought about several friends who are chaplains - individuals who have been the hinges of so many stories themselves. 

The other story that has jumped out at me is Braestrup's description of a visit from a neighbor less than an hour after her own hinge moment, when she was just beginning to realize that the narrative of her life had been irrevocably altered. An elderly woman appeared on her doorstep, eyes brimming with tears, clutching a pan of freshly baked brownies. Braestrup memorably described this food offering as the "leading edge of a wave that did not recede for many months." At the moment, Braestrup had no idea how her family and friends would rally around her and her children in the days and months to come, comforting them with tangible acts of service that gave them the strength to soldier on. At that moment, though, Braestrup recalls, "All I knew was that my neighbor was standing on the front stoop with her brownies and her tears: she was the Good News."

Both of these books remind me of the importance of presence. Sometimes simply being with someone and acknowledging their pain is the greatest gift you can offer.