Fall is hard for my friend Mallory*, as it was during this season that she buried her child. One day he was a college freshman in the Midwest, energized by classroom demands and delighted to have met like-minded peers. A smart, introspective kid, he told his mother he felt at home in his new surroundings, and he knew he had chosen the right school for his temperament and interests. Two months after Mallory waved goodbye to her son, he called to complain of a severe headache. A week after that he was back in Nashville, preparing for surgery. The operation would be tricky, the recovery slow, but the doctors said Mallory’s boy should be fine.

Although I have as many idiosyncrasies as the next middle-aged, Southern woman (OK, maybe I have a few more!), I don’t usually hear voices telling me what to do. But several days after the young man’s surgery, intuition — dare I call the nudging “God” — directed me to the hospital. “Go.”

I’ve spent my fair share of time in hospital waiting rooms, and this one was no different: littered with food wrappers and soda bottles, tissues and newspapers ... the detritus of people who have been holed up for days waiting to learn the fates of their loved ones. Sometimes the outcome is positive, and your friend or family member is patched up and returned to the world. Other times not. Sometimes you can tell yourself it’s the natural order of things, like when an elderly person crosses the bar after a long, full life. Other times not. I didn’t see Mallory in the waiting room, so I asked the receptionist if I might leave my friend a note.

“Wait here,” she said, looking me straight in the eye before walking toward a door marked

“Do Not Enter.” She returned a few minutes later. “Do you have her phone number?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Call her.” The woman grabbed one of my hands, just for an instant, before turning away to tend another concerned visitor.

I understand that the receptionist could not reveal personal information, yet the directness of her gaze told me what I needed to know. She didn’t have to speak for me to get the message. After crying in the chapel and plying God with whatever prayers I could, I went home and told my husband that Mallory’s child was dying.

The next week, as I approached the church for the funeral, I noticed a group of teenagers huddled together in the parking lot. The boys were tugging at their suit coats, the girls shifting in their high heels. It was windy, so they were shielding themselves and, I can only surmise, trying to make some sense of what had happened to their friend. The sight of those kids gathered to mourn one of their own almost did me in.

Inside the church were bulletin boards covered with highlights of the young man’s life: awards won, trips taken, smiles captured. During the service, Mallory’s son was remembered and honored and loved. Leaving the church, I wondered what I might do for my friend. Send a memorial to the scholarship fund? Yes. Make her feel any better? Probably not. Deep down, I guess I knew that all I could do was listen.

After my father died, I learned a lot about listening, because my friends were kind enough to let me talk. And talk. I drew sustaining comfort from talking about Daddy to anyone who would stand still (only a slight exaggeration). If you had a minute, I had a story.

During my time of grief, I came to appreciate that listening involves more than shutting up and waiting your turn. Soulful listening requires attention and compassion. You must be willing to let go of your own stories long enough to create sacred space for the utterances of another.

When next I saw Mallory, I asked her how she was doing. “Getting by,” she said. “You learn to cope better, but the pain has not lessened.”

After a pause, she asked me if I had a minute. She went on to tell me stories about her son. My friend spoke with her heart, and I listened with mine.
*Name has been changed