Day 14

My mom had died two hours earlier, after a fierce seventeen-month fight against oral melanoma.  I was 14.  

It was about 5pm. People were starting to come and go. Food was beginning to flow into the house. 

I had already been out in the driveway shooting baskets. That was my typical method of dealing with things: stress, anger, excitement, indecision, sadness, you name it. Now I had moved my party of awkward grief inside to the piano, my next favorite outlet.

I had been sitting there ten, maybe fifteen minutes.  Playing a little, then just staring blankly through the lines of music.  Playing some more, then staring.  I heard someone walk up behind me.

It was Richard, my youth minister.  He didn’t say anything.  He just sat down beside me on the piano bench, put his arm around me, and stayed there.  I honestly don’t remember how long we sat there.  It was quite a while.  I do remember that neither of us spoke a single word.  There were tears and sniffles.  At some point, he hugged me, told me he loved me, and left.

The gift of presence.  It made all the difference in my world that day.