Tough Lesson Learned

I have recently had the opportunity to meditate upon a tough lesson I learned a few months ago, and I thought it appropriate to share this lesson with ... well, with whomever happens to read this blog. The lesson, one in good pastoring, was not pre-meditated. I did not seek an opportunity to learn. To the contrary, this particular opportunity sort of jumped up and bit me in the face (or some other body part) ... as is so often the case with the good lessons in life.

On this particular occasion, my wife, my infant son, and I met a dear friend (I'll call her Kathy) for dinner. This is one of those life-long friends who is close to both myself and my wife, one of those friends for whom you always want the best, one who is so close that any pain he/she experiences affects you as if it were happening directly to you. Kathy is one of those once-in-a-lifetime friends -- I am blessed with several of them.

In this particular conversation, the normally-jovial conversation quickly took on a deep, contemplative air with some extremely serious connotations attached. In fact, I believe I recall tears from several people at the table (including my infant son who suddenly decided that the rest of the restaurant should hear his rather loud, ear-piercing screams!). In the midst of the conversation, Kathy mentioned a continuing struggle to determine her current role in life. This particular struggle (a struggle that is not foreign to many people, I should think) had risen to near-debilitating status for Kathy -- a fact which could not only be seen in her tears but could also be heard in the extremely clear desperation in her voice.

In the midst of this conversation, this vivid recounting of Kathy's emotionally charged immediate past, Kathy noted that he had sought advice from all of her "mentors." One particularly influential mentor noted Kathy's now year-long emotional roller coaster ride and mentioned the possibility of some chemical issues needing a professional diagnosis. Given my history with several individuals who suffer from psychological diseases and my undergraduate psychology degree, I thought Kathy would be well-served to heed the advice and at least seek some professional help. What I thought was good advice, however, was not taken as such by Kathy. In fact, the advice (that I could imagine myself giving and that I had already verbally concurred with) completely alienated Kathy and simply made her feel completely pushed aside -- as if her struggles in life were not real, simply a product of some malfunction in her body.

I sat at the table listening to Kathy's explanation of her feelings (trying hard to hear through my normally happy son's now very loud, almost ear-piercing screams). To be honest, I was completely confused by her reaction to what I thought was very sensible advice. My mind started racing through all of the reasons this advice made sense ... Kathy's age, the events of her recent past, her family history. As Kathy's tears started to flow again, I realized two things: 1. my wife was also crying ... she somehow understood Kathy's predicament; she felt her pain. 2. I wasn't crying; I didn't really understand her pain ... no matter how hard I tried. Whether it was my maleness or my sometimes dangerous reliance on ration, something inherent to who I am prevented me from really "getting it." I couldn't understand it. Here I was ... a seminary-educated pastor completely at a loss when one of my closest friends needed pastoral "counseling."

And that's when I learned the lesson: sometimes the best pastoral counseling is simply to leave the person alone, to allow someone else to step in. That can be an extremely difficult realization for me ... that someone else may be better in a given situation than I am. Luckily for Kathy, I left, taking my very tired son with me, and I allowed my wife to sympathize with Kathy in a way that would never have been possible for me. I allowed Kathy to avoid my overly-logical reactions, and to simply have a friend walk alongside her in her life struggles. That was precisely what Kathy needed, and that was precisely what I wasn't able to give at that point.

Later that night, I emailed Kathy with an apology ... for originally reacting out of logic rather than feeling, for being too much of a guy, for not simply being there. I apologized to her, and I thanked her ... for a tough lesson well taught.

Imagine that, sometimes the best thing for me to do is simply to leave. I'm sure there are plenty of other people who wish I had learned that lesson a long time ago. My apologies to you all.