Our priest back at St. Mary’s in Old Town, Alexandria, Virginia began nearly every homily with, “A story is told…” Passive voice aside, it was one of those small-t traditions that helped to bracket the weeks and ensure that all was right in the world.
I probably think of that line every time I write one of these. Catch me on the street and ask me, “Hey, got any stories?” and I’ll probably tell you I’m dry. “I got nuthin’.” But every day, usually while my hands are busy with something or other, I’ll remember that one time the thing happened and it always made me think of this, and look at that, there’s a lesson in there…
You know who has lots of stories? Old folks. I get them on the phone in my soul-killing bank job all day long. Men and women. People who, my screen tells me, were born long enough ago that they likely had family members who were missing limbs because some Hungarian archduke was assassinated. Some of them had parents born before the 20th century.
They talk. They conclude their business with me, which was probably a pretense to just get another human being on the phone anyway, and then they tell me about their day, their kids, their spouses. It was annoying at first—I had metrics to maintain—but after thousands of these calls one thing is crystal clear: they need to be heard. They need to be known.
It struck me not long ago that they never, and I mean never, talk about the historical events of their lives. I regularly talk to men born in the 20s. I want to ask them if they remember anything particular about that time. “What was the Great Depression like? Did you like Art Deco?”
If they’re born in the 30s, I want to ask them if anyone had a sense of the rise of Hitler.
If they lived through the 40s, I want to know what it was like when the world shifted from black & white to color. (No, not really. But…kinda.)
None of that matters in their ninth decade. It’s all about their loved ones.
I don’t know when it first struck me, this story-driven life, but now whenever I get one of our elders on the phone who just wants to talk, I let them. I’m supposed to keep every conversation to 7.5 minutes or less, but these calls frequently go on for an hour or more. They want to tell me about the meaningful connections they’ve had in their lives. Death has severed most of these connections. These calls, whether they know it consciously or not, are attempts to reach beyond the Veil.
To hell with my Average Call Time metric. Even if I was eligible for a bonus, it would arrive in my paycheck in maybe three months. It would be something like $250. Losing it so Edna can tell me about her amazing sister is worth it.
We have one client who moved to an island in Washington State (my ancestral home). She always calls to ask about her checking account balance. At this point I know her pretty well. We have probably more than 50,000 clients, but I always get “Hattie.” She recognizes my voice. I recognize hers. I settle in to listen to stories about her son. I’ve heard them all before, and I have to say she’s right to be proud—the man is well-accomplished. But sometimes she tells me what new things he’s been up to. I can hear her heart.
I get adopted frequently. (I don’t have the heart to tell my network of octogenarians that I’m taken. I imagine I’ll have to figure out complicated holiday plans soon.) One woman, “Betty,” let’s say, has become a pen pal. She did what a lot of them do, particularly down here in the buckle of the Bible Belt. She wanted to give me a blessing or tell me that Jesus loved me. I told her I knew and that, in fact, I live in a monastery to learn more about Him.
Oh man. You’d think that I’d become Jesus. We’re pen pals now.
The men are more emotional when they “connect” with you. Bigger barriers, higher walls, more raw emotion. It’s almost too raw to take. For a lot of these old warriors, a kind voice who takes them seriously is like finding a desert oasis after they’d long since given up hope of rescue.
I know the feeling.
Their tears are the hardest to take. They try to keep them out of their voices, but I can hear. They say goodbye so, so many times. “Thank you, young man. Thank you. Goodbye now. Okay. Good talking to you. You did great. Ok, goodbye…” And then we talk for another fifteen minutes or so.
I have no idea what, if anything, God is doing in my life right now. Nothing makes sense. But there’s something to this role I’m in. This godforsaken, hellish, corporate-metric-driven work camp for failed entrepreneurs. If I can hope for any Meaning in it, it’s that I can be a kind and unexpected connection for one of these storied people who long ago lost track of the timeline and would kill for any signal from it.
This is important. Maybe the most important thing.
People whose lives have spanned a century, or nearly so, people who have seen the rise and fall of movements, nations, or tyranny, don’t want to talk about any of that. They want to talk about the people they have loved.
One last note. I’ve picked up an old habit of mine: bringing a book wherever I go. This weekend I went downtown to try to hock some leather goods again (another total fail), and I brought this amazing book, “Big in Heaven.” It’s a collection of short stories a priest tells about his tiny parish in…New Jersey, I think.
I’d raided the monastery library for anything about history, particularly stories about heroic martyrdom. I figured I should probably pick up some theology, too, because I am without doubt the most ignorant convert when it comes to the actual theology of Orthodoxy. (Go ahead, Catholic friends, pounce. I’ll let you. But in return you have to go to Divine Liturgy for a month. Then we’ll see what happens.)
The library had loads of theology and “lives of the saints,” of course. I picked up this book. St. Unpronouncios is cool and all, but the book filled with gritty, raw, hilarious and heartbreaking real life? It’s not even close…
I got through Chapter 3 this past Saturday, sitting there on the edge of a fountain in downtown OKC, and could barely keep it together. I’ll try to remember to share it—I’m out of space to do it justice today—but it (“An Ordinary Sunday”) was about kindness making a connection between two discarded people.
If you’re looking for stories about the real world outside-of-the-real-world, I highly recommend it.
This, and other writing projects, are what I do now. If you like what you’re reading and would like more of it—with editiing—please consider a paid subscription. A like and a share is almost as good though.
Thanks for reading!
What is God doing in your life? He’s speaking through you. To me. And, I’d bet, to others. You’re His voice. He is in every one of those conversations, listening and speaking and acting in you. To paraphrase St. Teresa of Avila, we are His voice, His hands, His presence in the world. As a priest once said, “It’s the incarnation with a small ‘i’.
You're doing God's work talking to all these elders who need an ear to listen. I think it's wonderful!