I will be a new kind of listener.

I will be a new kind of listener.

Meredith Haider, Participant 2022-23

I’m sitting in a waiting room when an acquaintance plops down next to me. “I know you’re dealing with a lot of medical issues,” she says. “Do you mind my asking what’s wrong with you?”

I want to turn to her and brightly say, “Not at all, but you go first!” Instead, I swallow my sarcasm and succinctly explain some of the chronic illnesses listed in my medical charts. I’ve learned that sharing anything more than a sound bite means people lose interest. I make sure to end on a positive note in a preemptive effort to ease this woman’s discomfort with my reality.

“Hmm…” she says after a second. “That sounds difficult. Even if it is karma, it’s still tough, huh?”

I emit a non-committal grunt and nod with a fake half smile, feeling stunned. Karma? I don’t know why her words surprise me. I’m frequently greeted with thoughtless questions and comments. Perhaps it’s the fact that my acquaintance’s message is filled with even more assumptions than most.

Later, I will mention the encounter to several friends who can relate. They each live with chronic illnesses. We’ll repeat the common refrain, “You don’t get it ‘til you get it.” Then we’ll shake our heads and wryly laugh at how tactless people can be.

I am 8 years old, 12 years old, 16, 18, 21, 30. I am a listener. My friends say to me, “You’re the only person I can trust with this.” They shower me with praise for the depth of my listening. I pride myself on being the keeper of secrets while rarely sharing my own. Then I am 50. I have hidden behind the role of confidant for so long that I’ve forgotten who I am. I choose to acknowledge the validity of my own thoughts, feelings, and experiences and to be vulnerable by sharing them with others. I begin to seek out active leadership roles in new arenas. In these positions, I value listening and speaking. I long not only to know others, but also to be known.

Eager to discern my next steps as a lay leader, I jump into Loving the Questions, the first encounter I have with group spiritual direction. I trust that I’ll be accompanied by others willing to hear God’s call. I am not disappointed. In the heartfelt sharing and deep listening, I find spaciousness. Each of us inwardly agrees, over and over, to let go of our egos, our judgements, our worries, and our sage advice. We choose instead, to connect to God’s presence, to open our hearts to God’s wishes, to join with God in prayer for one another, and to share only that which we discern through God’s Spirit.

No one person dominates the conversations, at least not all the time. No one hides themselves, at least not fully. Those prone to advice-giving check themselves. Those prone to oversharing are gently redirected. Those who sit on the sidelines are bathed in loving attention. We are all striving to be intentionally present to one another through God. I know this is right.

I discern a possible path for myself as a lay leader. I want to sit with those who suffer. I want to listen. I will be a new kind of listener, though. I will invite God to accompany me, to hold me and those to whom I listen. It will not be my job to take care of them or for them to take care of me, because God will do both. Instead, I will open my heart to God’s wishes, joining with God in prayer for the other, and sharing only that which I discern through God’s Spirit. I will bring the gifts of group spiritual direction with me.

If I can do this, I wonder how such a spacious, affirming practice might spread. What would it look like in the home, the workplace, or the supermarket? What might it have looked like in the waiting room, when my acquaintance sat next to me? What could it look like in the wider Church? I continue to ponder this.

It’s some months later. I participate in a training for facilitators of group spiritual direction. It’s the last day of an intensive three-day learning process. I am tired and in pain. I recite a quote from a book that means a great deal to me, but I can’t recall the title of the publication. I want to share it, but I need extra processing time. I’m about to explain that this is a result of my health issues. I’m about to ask for a moment of silence. I stop myself. I don’t need to do that here. This space is sacred, and no one is rushing me. I take a moment. No one tries to read my mind or fill in the silence with guesses. No one looks at the clock. No one assures me that the title doesn’t matter, really. Everyone in this small group simply waits.

Like a flash, the title pops into my mind. I share it, smile inwardly, and silently say a prayer of gratitude. ♦