Empty

What I’ve learned this week about the ministry of presence

Today I wandered over to my next door neighbor’s front porch with my empty coffee mug in hand. The boxer, stretched out on the lawn, gave a single “brff” of acknowledgement through her lips as I approached. My neighbor is 70 years old and is almost always sitting in one of the two rocking chairs on the porch, smoking a cigarette or doing a crossword puzzle. 

Just a few weeks ago, his wife of 50 years died suddenly in her sleep. He’s devastated. They used to do everything together. She was a good listener, a counselor to her family, and a constant companion on the porch. Now the chair next to him is always empty. 

“Do you have any coffee?” I asked as he looked up from his newspaper. 

He perked up and asked me how strong I like it. Then he scooted off inside the house to make some, and I played tug-of-war with the boxer for a few minutes. 

The young mom who lives across the street pulled into her driveway and started unloading kids from the car. She looked up and called over to me, “Are you dog sitting?” 

“No,” I shouted back. “I’m waiting for my coffee.” She laughed and took the kids inside. 

My neighbor came back out with my mug full and steaming. I know he likes to serve people coffee because he offers it to me every time I go over to his house. Last week Erik and I were over there talking with him and he made us both coffee unbidden. It was 5:30 PM, and we drank it for the sake of the conversation, even though neither of us can handle caffeine that late in the day. That night we lay awake in bed for a long time, giggling about nothing, before we were able to wind down enough to sleep. 

But this time I was prepared. I knew I could use the extra caffeine surge because I will be picking up a friend from the airport late tonight. She’s coming to stay with me because she’s been wanting to visit for a long time, and Erik is out of town for work. It’s amazing how quiet and lonely the house feels in the evenings. I think about how my neighbor must feel, knowing his wife is gone forever. My husband might be far away, warped into another time zone, but at least I know he’s coming back. His side of the bed won’t be empty for long. And tomorrow morning I’ll have a friend in my kitchen drinking my coffee. It’s such a comfort, serving people coffee. 

My friend, the one who is coming, is no stranger to the emptiness herself. She lost her husband a few years ago and she tells me the worst part now is not having anyone to chat with about the little things–  when it’s not a big enough conversation topic to phone a friend, but you just want to babble about the things you saw that day or what you’ve read. 

That’s what I hope to do for my neighbor. It means so much to me when I can just have a small conversation with someone I know during the day. I can tell he feels the same way. 

On Sunday after church I was home alone, so I took my lunch (a leftover sandwich from a restaurant) to his porch and sat down to eat it beside him. He was feeling sad and visibly choking back tears. 

“I’m sorry; I’m not trying to ignore you,” he said. “It’s just that I can hardly talk.” 

“Oh, that’s OK,” I said. “I didn’t come over here so you would talk to me. I just came to sit here and eat my sandwich.” 

He half smiled and we sat in the silence, no longer quite so empty.