Both my dad and step dad died 14 years ago, only half a year apart, and because that time period in my life is so blurry, I don’t remember a ton about the experience. However, what I do remember, the things I will never forget, were the people: what they said, how they made me feel, and how they acted. I remember a lot of the faces and actions of people who made me uncomfortable. I remember the people who made me angry. And I’ll never forget the people who were just there for me. Who created space for me but didn’t treat me like a weak, wounded animal. The people who gave me a space to love and be loved, a space that would have existed, even if I didn’t suddenly have dead parents.
The first person that comes to mind in regard to this concept of powerful human presence will always be my middle school guidance counselor. I know it was part of her job to care for me and teach me coping skills, but she was my friend. She understood me. On days when I wanted to talk about how much I missed my dad, we talked about that. On days when I just needed to giggle about cute boys or gossip about petty girl drama, she was right there in it with me.
I truly believe that if I hadn’t experienced such tragic loss so soon and so quickly, that woman would have loved me the same. She would have acknowledged my feelings and the hard things I’d endured, but then we would keep moving forward at the pace I needed. While our friendship really began because I desperately needed mental health help, that really didn’t influence who she became when I was around. She was constant, steady. Her presence in my life was a transformational gift.
The power of presence is something I was reminded of many times just this last week. It all came to mind as a friend sat in my office with me, spilling her guts for nearly an hour without interruption. I kept wondering what I could possibly say to make any of it better as she shared traumas from her childhood that most people would never begin to imagine as someone’s reality. We met for 2 full hours, and I didn’t say much. Most of what I did was just sit and listen. Sure, as a church staff person, I did my best to share relevant scripture and make sure we prayed together, but my mind kept going back to what meant the most to me when I was grieving or struggling.
In the midst of pain, what meant the most to was never how many times strangers said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “Your dad really loved you girls.” What meant the most was the friends who I called the day after my stepdad died who let me cry on the phone and reminded me they loved me. What meant the most was the neighbors who brought a warm meal over, ate with us, and let us just be. What meant the most was watching my sister’s 5th grade teacher walk through the doors of the funeral home on the day of my step dad’s service and hug our family. That day he treated us no differently than if we had just walked through the doors of the elementary school on any normal day.
While both male figures’ funerals were dramatically different, what always stuck with me was the way people made me feel in my grief. Honestly, most of the feelings were yucky, uncomfortable ones. At my step dad's funeral, because he and my mom weren’t married, and he had separated himself from his family while starting his life with us, we were a forgotten piece of the programming. We weren’t in any photos. We weren’t featured in the stories that were shared. We were shoved in a corner, several rows behind other immediate family members. I’ll never forget the way that felt. It didn’t have to be that way, but whether positive or negative, the presence others offered was powerful that day.
I had a really opposite experience at my dad’s funeral six months later. I was still very uncomfortable, not including the normal pain of attending the funeral of your father at 13. I was uncomfortable because everyone’s eyes were on me. I didn’t understand why something so awful and painful had to also be so public and why people had to be so weird about it. That room was packed with people, and I was sitting right at the front, and in all of the videos, and all of the pictures. Everyone wanted to say something to my sister and I. Everyone wanted to hug us. So many people I had never met. Everyone wanted to say how proud dad would have been of us. In hindsight, I should have been grateful for this, but I was still in shock, and thinking about that day makes me want to punch things out of anxiety.
Thinking about that day reminds me of how grateful I was for my choir teacher, who the week my dad died asked if I was okay only because I brought it up, and then she just treated me like any other choir student. She was stable and consistent. She was the choir teacher who changed my life for good, and she would have been that if I’d been a trauma survivor or not. It was her presence that was powerful.
Presence is powerful in any human life, but it’s especially meaningful to kids. Having adults around you who show you what real love and respect looks like, sounds like, and feels like makes a world of difference, especially to those kids who have never or rarely had it modeled appropriately to them. While I did have some adults in my life who cared for me well growing up, there were also some important ones who took advantage of me. What I needed were those consistent, steadfast voices who were going to reinforce that I had been through difficult things but I didn’t need to become those things. I needed adults willing to love me in a way that didn’t treat me like a wilted rose, but rather a human kid who needed kindness and space to be a kid. Thank God I had some of those people around me.
I think often about how the adults in my life responded to hearing about my sexual trauma. It happened when I was 3, and I came forward after I turned 4. Some adults accused me of lying. Some were in complete denial. Some backed away from me completely, fearing they would reopen a wound or hurt me unintentionally. I remember the names and faces associated with each of those responses. I don't remember much more about being that age, but I'll never forget how people I trusted made me feel. Now, I know that kind of thing is unprecedented, and no one can ever adequately prepare for that, and no one is going to get it right all of the time. What I’m saying here is that presence is powerful. A lack of presence or a change in it can be extremely powerful in a negative direction. A presence that loves, consistently shows up, and treats others like the amazing people they are as opposed to things that have happened to them has the power to change everything for the better.
I’ve watched presence powerfully change my life over and over again. In all kinds of ways. I could could go on and on with stories about this, and I probably will. That's why I run a blog.
The power of presence isn't only relevant to the events of my week, but it's why I desire so deeply to care for hurt kids. It's why I have a heart that bleeds in support for organizations like local child advocacy centers. Having voices, actions, and presence that shows kids that they are valued, valid, and safe in moments when they and their families feel like a lot, if not all, hope has been lost, changes lives forever.
I'll never remember their names, but I remember the story my mom told about the strength and trust she had to have in the officers as my preschool age fingers wrapped around their hands that led me to the forensic interviewing space and she was left in a lobby without me. I imagine that if those officers had been anything but generous, patient, kind, and gentle, I would remember that.
Instead, the memory I have is of how happy I was to take home the giant stuffed bunny they gave me. I don't remember needing to tell my story again. I don't remember be re-traumatized because I wasn't. As I sit where I am now, a 27 year old, who has been exposed to much more trauma since then, I can't explain how grateful I am for the adults that fearlessly loved me as best as they could through something so dark and so difficult for all of us. My current life is better and brighter because of their presence.
This week, the Isabella County Child Advocacy Center is up for a $10,000 matching grant. This means there could potentially be $20,000 gifted to an organization that is on the front lines, being present in some of the most important, fragile, and pivotal moments in the lives of families. If you read this post, and it spoke to you, it would mean the world to me if you gave what you are able right here: igfn.us/form/9nmLrg
The question I'll leave with you this week are these; What does your presence bring into the room with it? Is there someone in your life who needs more of it? Is there someone who needs you to just be with them and not say anything? Is there a child in your life who needs you? You never know, my friend. Asking those questions and then doing something about them, may powerfully impact someone’s world.
You are truly and deeply loved.
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