the gift of presence

I retold a story tonight that made me cry.

It was the story of my Nicaraguan friend Felix (pictured left), who invited me to spend Christmas with him and his family this past year. "You are part of us," he told me after I had been attending his church for several months, "and I want you to be with us for el 24." The 24th is of course the big celebration night, when churches have their big cultos and families cook up the biggest spread of the year. That evening (actually more like 2am), after all the songs had been sung, the gallina rellena enjoyed, and a little wine poured, Felix asked me if I wanted to go home or if I wanted to spend the night in their spare room. I thought about it for a minute before replying.

"I think I'd like to stay," I told him. "My house will be empty tomorrow morning, and it would be nice to wake up and share at least part of the 25th with people." And so his mom put new sheets on the bed, and I went to sleep.

The next morning Felix and I were sitting at his table at 10am eating leftovers, and he asked me what I would be doing if I were at home. I started to answer, but I choked up. Through my tears, I told him, "I am so sorry I am sad today." He looked at me, took my hand, and said, "It's okay. I would rather you be sad here with me than alone at your house."

Felix did not try to stop me from crying. He just sat with me in that moment and gave me his compassionate love and attention.

Tonight when I retold the story and the tears fell, my friend Jenny likewise did not try to "fix" me or my emotions. She simply listened, with empathy.

I like to call this the gift of presence. Lately when I have found myself in an emotional place, the very best thing is just someone who listens with their heart, who isn't interested in changing me, but rather just wants to walk alongside me, wherever I am.

Today I realized that this same gift of presence is really the only thing I had to offer in Nicaragua. There were so many things I saw that I could never fix, so many people's lives that I could do nothing to improve. But, you know, I never felt that they expected me to. So I learned their language, shared their stories, cried with them, ate tortillas, sat on their rocking chairs, played with their children, laughed at their jokes, danced to their music, held their hands, prayed with them....I lived with them. And I loved them.

And that, it seems, was more than enough.