She said that she felt, “down”.
Then she put her head on her desk.
I have no remedy for “down” so I sat and listened. She talked for about twenty minutes while she worked and I sat in a chair nearby and leaned against the filing cabinet. She said
that she was not living up to her dreams as I threw out the occasional “sage” insight here and there just to keep me from sounding like a dolt.
Once, neither of us talked for about twenty seconds. I felt empty on one hand, but on the other I heard another voice talking to her in our silence. This voice had no volume, but it was weighty, it spoke no discernable language though it was precisely eloquent.
She talked and the voice answered her while I sat back and “felt’ something going on that I could not sense.
Could it be that we chaplains aren’t ministers, rather we are the reporters of what happens in the lives of those in need? Really, I have nothing to offer, but a treasure trove to observe.
I am all out of tricks, bromides, sparkling wit, and techniques and that
is a very, very good thing.
I stood to leave and told her if anything brilliant came to mind I would give her a call.
So far, I haven’t had to make that call.