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The Empty Chair
A couple of weeks ago, I learned that a fellow Rotarian had died. The news surprised me. I hadn’t known he was battling leukemia. I found myself trying to remember the last time I had seen him. I think he had continued attending Rotary until fairly recently, but when had we last talked? In a room of eighty to a hundred people, I don’t notice who is there and who isn’t every week. I tend to sit at the same table and visit with mostly the same people. Whenever I saw this man, I made a point of going over to give him a hug. I’m sad that someone I care about can stop showing up without my realizing how long they’ve been gone.
Seth Godin once made a statement that really resonates with me. He said, “Do you know what people want more than anything? They want to be missed.” I’m not sure I’d say being missed is what people want more than anything, but I think he’s on to something. Years ago, when people asked why I had joined Rotary, I sometimes joked that I lived alone and worked in real estate, where no one expected to see me every morning. I wanted to be part of a community where people would miss me if I didn’t show up. Rotary gives me that—a place where I belong. Maslow identified belonging as one of our fundamental human needs. Maybe being missed is simply one way we know that we belong.
Godin’s comment made me think again about my friend. Over the years, he had often stopped me after a Rotary meeting or written to comment on something I had written or ask me a question about it. Our conversations weren’t long, but they mattered to me. I felt he paid attention. I discovered that he had opened my most recent Cuppa Joy just a day before he died. That touched me. I will miss his kind words. I knew so little about him. I knew the person who showed up at Rotary and that his wife had passed not long ago, but there was so much about his life I never got to know.
A couple of months ago, another fellow Rotarian I was fond of died, but that experience was very different. He let us all know that he was dealing with mesothelioma and didn’t have much time left. Each week he seemed a little thinner, a little more fragile, but he kept showing up. Because I knew what was happening, I took a few opportunities to talk with him below the surface of our usual Rotary conversations. He loved to hug and I’m a hugger, so I always made sure to collect mine.
At his celebration of life, I discovered so much more about him. I heard stories about how much he loved being a father and grandfather and about his devotion to family and traditions. Friends spoke about his loyalty, his golf game and how it sometimes got his temper riled up. I learned about his successful law practice and the integrity and generosity with which he operated. I knew he was a dedicated Rotarian but didn’t realize how many other organizations had benefited from his years of service. I also realized that he might have known my mother through her service to the Symphony and Philharmonic League. That made me smile. Even as he was preparing to leave his life, he made sure the roles he filled in Rotary would be passed along seamlessly. I walked away from his celebration feeling that I knew him better than I had while he was alive and wishing I could have spent more time with him.
That reminded me of something much more personal. At my son Michael’s celebration of life, I discovered things about him I hadn’t known either. That seems almost impossible. Michael lived with me. We were very close. He shared his worries and talked with me about things that mattered deeply to him. I knew my son about as well as I could imagine knowing another person. Yet, as people stood and told their stories, I met parts of him I had never known.
I heard about Michael as a little boy at school, as a friend, and as a man who had touched other people’s lives in ways I hadn’t witnessed. These weren’t secrets he had kept from me. They were pieces of his life that belonged to other relationships. His friends and classmates knew sides of Michael I couldn’t know because I wasn’t part of those friendships. Others had experienced his kindness, humor or presence in moments that never became part of the stories he told me at home. It seems impossible, but seeing Michael through the eyes of others made me love him even more.
Henry David Thoreau once asked, “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?” At Michael’s celebration of life, I had been given that miracle.
Maybe no one person ever gets to know all of another human being. Each of us shows up differently in different relationships. I am a mother, grandmother, sister and friend. I’m the same person sitting in Rotary meetings who also sits around a table playing cards with my girlfriends, yet I’m sure different parts of me show up. The people who know me in one corner of my life may have no idea who I am in another. How much do we really know about the people sitting right beside us?
Not long ago, at a Rotary mixer, I saw a friend whom I hadn’t seen in perhaps a year. We spent some time catching up, and he shared some sad news about his daughter and some good news about a personal win. A few weeks later, I saw him at one of our regular meetings and asked how he was doing. He told me he was still struggling with his daughter’s serious illness. I had forgotten. I was embarrassed and told him so.
I had remembered his win—that he had completed emergency medical training and become a certified EMT after the age of sixty—an accomplishment I thought was remarkable. But I had forgotten the much more painful news. It wasn’t that I hadn’t cared. I had cared very much in that moment. I can listen deeply, be completely present and genuinely care about what someone is telling me and then forget the details afterward.
Sometimes that ability to let go is useful. Other times, as in this case, I wish I had held on. Feeling guilty about what I don’t remember or the people I haven’t taken time to know better won’t serve me. I can’t know everyone deeply or remember every detail. What I can do is become a little more curious. I can occasionally sit at a different table and remember that the person across from me has an entire life I know almost nothing about.
Celebrations of life give us remarkable opportunities to hear those stories. People tell us who someone was to them, and so often I find myself thinking, “I never knew that.” I’m especially grateful for the stories people told me about Michael. Why do we often wait until a celebration of life to discover more about those we care about?
I realize there will always be more to learn about the people around me. Even the people I’m closest to and love the most will have stories and experiences in their lives I’m unaware of. But I can pay a little more attention to the people whose lives intersect mine while they’re still here. I can ask another question and listen to another story. I can notice the empty chair—and perhaps, more importantly, I can notice the person while the chair is still occupied.
And in those moments of sharing, we connect. Even if the details fade from memory, the connection still matters.