“Three strikes and you’re out!” That’s my rule and I tell myself all the time, “don’t be a patsy; hold people accountable.” It’s not like I’m a pushover because I’m in the helping business anyway, is it? For cryin out loud, just because someone wants to volunteer, doesn’t mean I have to bend over backwards for them, right?
Well, ok, there I said it. Sounds good on paper. At least it did until I had a call about two weeks ago from a college student named Justus. He left a garbled message for me about his fraternity doing volunteer work, and so I called him back and left him a super happy sounding reply. “Hi there, this is Meridian and I am so excited and can’t wait for you to volunteer with us!” Ok, no, my return messages don’t really sound like a used car salesman, but sometimes I wonder if there is too much desperation in my voice.
On my desk I’ve always kept a yellow legal pad that chronicles the phone calls I receive and make. It is full of graffiti from color highlighters, shorthand and initials, like LM for left message, WCB for will call back, MA for made appointment. I can flip back and see anything that has languished a bit by the highlighted portions. When done, I line through them. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s better than all the post it notes I used to have stuck to everything (including my skirt as I walk away).
For days I went on about my business and then when flipping back over my legal pad, I found Justus’ number with the LM indication. Hmm, he did not call me back so I called him again. This time he picked up and I introduced myself and reminded him that I had left a message. “Oh, right,” he said and hesitated so I added, “You called about volunteering with your fraternity.”
“Yes, yes,” he said,”I got your information off the internet and would like to talk to you about our group doing some volunteering.”
“Ok,” I said, “why don’t we meet? I can come up to your school when it is convenient for you.” There, see, I made it easy for him to get involved. I mentally patted myself on the back and recorded our appointment on my calendar. Done, good.
Our meeting day arrived and I drove up to college and walked to the library where I plunked myself in the first set of easy chairs. I felt ancient, what with all the skinny jeans walking by, but I was “official” so I belonged there, kinda like the mom who polices the slumber party. I looked around at all the students and wafted back to my college days. Library, study, no difference except for all the devices. 9am became 9:15 then 9:30. Hmmm. I pulled out my phone and the slip of paper with Justus’ number on it and texted him. “Am in library, are you here?” At 9:45, I gritted my teeth and left, driving all the way back to the office, thinking of the work that had just piled up because I went on a wild goose chase for some college kid. Drat those irresponsible college types that don’t yet know how unforgiving the real world is!
The next day I had a message from Justus. “I’m so sorry, something came up, can you call me?” “Grrr,” I sputtered as I dialed his number. He picked up and cavalierly apologized and asked to meet. “Well,” I said, “can you come here?” He agreed that he could make the drive and we set a time, 2:00pm, for that Thursday.
Thursday at 2:00? You guessed it, no Justus. At 2:30 I got to serious work and forgot that I was stood up again. But he called at about 3 and said that something came up and could he meet me at 4:30 on Friday. 4:30 on a Friday? Oh, this will be a disaster, I told myself. Normally, I leave at 5:00 if I’m lucky and besides, every Friday at 3:00 I just literally lose all capability for rational thought. But, sighing, I agreed, while internally chastising myself for putting up with such youthful irresponsibility.
Friday was tough, busy, full of problems and issues and at 3:00 exactly, the brain stopped functioning properly. I checked my calendar and groaned. Instead of winding down, I had to gear up for Justus, that is if he actually showed. At 4:20, I walked to the front lobby to see if he was dutifully waiting there, but it was empty. I returned to my desk and finished up. At 4:50, I got a call from the front desk volunteer, Jan. Justus was there to see me. “Thanks, Jan,” I sighed. “Send him back, please,” Since it’s hard to literally kick oneself, I punched myself in the arm for agreeing to the time.
He came back and I waved to the small conference table near my office. “Nice to meet you ” I said, offered my hand and added, “you’ve got ten minutes.” He looked at me, saw my obvious annoyance and sat down.
Justus folded his hands and without prompting, began to tell me about his childhood in Africa and his family’s emigration to America when he was twelve. He talked about the expectations his parents placed upon him and their unwavering commitment to serving whatever community they lived in. He explained how, when he was in high school, he started his own food drive to feed local families in need. He said that he was studying sociology and foreign affairs and hoped to be an ambassador some day. He had earned a full ride scholarship to college and was elected the first Junior year president of his fraternity. His tenure, he told me, would be about serving the community. He had three semesters to make it happen. “I want my fraternity brothers to work hard, to sacrifice. to appreciate all they have when others have so little or nothing. I want them to learn what my parents taught me.”
I looked at the clock. 5:25. I wasn’t interested in going anywhere anymore. I was mesmerized by this young man. (and not in a creepy cougar way, so don’t even go there) At one point, I looked at him and said, “Who are you?” (no, really, I did say that and I got a smile) Clearly, I need to hear more. Mentally I made note that a whole lotta work was coming my way, but hey, how could I pass up this intriguing individual and the fraternity he is guiding?
We shook hands and agreed that I would come out and talk to his group in two weeks. I’ll show up on time and forget about our shaky start. I’m past that silly book cover and having read chapter one, can’t wait to read more.
-Meridian
Tag: finding inspiration
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The Book and Its Misleading Cover
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My Buy One Get One
Yesterday we did some impromptu volunteer caroling after a holiday party. One volunteer, Clara tagged along and I watched her tentatively sing with the group. I thought she might be, like me, a lousy singer. We did some rousing renditions of “Let It Snow” and “White Christmas” and as we broke up to head home, Clara came up to me and said, “this did me more good than it did patients and families. I haven’t felt like participating in anything relating to Christmas for many years but somehow this felt right. I can’t tell you what a big deal this was for me.” I didn’t ask about her experiences that lead to her reluctance to enjoy the season, but she continued, “I felt like this group understood my emotions, which have always been mixed at best.”
Clara’s experience was something I did not expect. But then, we get “gifts” like this all the time, those moments when, while trying to do a good deed, we end up with an unexpected side good deed. Now that’s the ultimate buy one get one!
How satisfying that volunteers not only help our clients, but each other and us as well.
Have a joyous and meaningful Christmas and a very wonderful new year.
-Meridian -
It’s a Wonderful Volunteer Manager Life ( Part 2)
Georgia stared at the monitor. “Why is she, I mean why am I crying?” she asked Clarise.
“My dear,” Clarise clucked, “we’ll come back to that in a moment. Let’s look at what happened because you never had the opportunity to work here.” She pointed at the screen and it changed. An elderly lady had a handkerchief to her eyes, her hair matted to her cheek by tears.
“That’s Helen Greene! She’s our volunteer Debra’s favorite lady. Debra told me all sorts of stories about Helen Greene.”
Clarise shook her head. “Miss Helen never got the chance to have Debra as a volunteer. She never had a volunteer at all. She spent most of her time alone and lonely.”
“What difference did it make that I wasn’t here?” Georgia pleaded. “Debra would have loved Mrs. Greene no matter what!”
“That’s true my dear, but when Debra came to volunteer, you weren’t here to greet her. You weren’t here to spend that important time with her in the beginning, when she was so unsure of herself. Do you remember that?”
Georgia thought back to the intense time she spent encouraging Debra. “I do,” she whispered.
“Debra never did volunteer. All the people she would have helped never had her care. They went without.”
Clarise pointed at the screen and a face came into focus.
“That’s Jerry!” Georgia said excitedly. “He’s one of our best volunteers.” Georgia squinted at the images. Jerry was laying in a hospital bed. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s had a heart attack dear. Remember the day you were talking with Jerry and he was having chest pains and you insisted he go to the Emergency room? You accompanied him until his wife could be with him. You weren’t there to help him and he had a major heart attack.”
Georgia watched as Jerry’s wife came into the room and sat by his bed. She tenderly put a hand on his and laid her head on his arm.
“Is he going to die?” Georgia asked.
“I don’t know, my dear.” Clarise patted Georgia’s hand. Georgia’s eyes welled up with tears. “Jerry,” she murmured as the image dissolved into that of a woman staring blankly into space. “That’s Grace Tyne. The lady that suffered so much abuse that Doris is seeing.”
“Doris is not seeing her,” Clarise said.
“But Doris broke through to her,” Georgia interjected, “she was the only one who did.”
“No one broke through to her, Georgia.”
“But Grace was so hurt, so withdrawn.”
“She is still. No one has been able to break through to her. You weren’t here to realize that Doris was the one volunteer who had the capability to do so. Doris doesn’t know Grace exists.”
Georgia covered her face with her hands. Then she looked to see a man sitting in his small room. “Chad?” Georgia barely recognized him. He was disheveled and as he stared at the small television, his hands shook. “What’s happened to Chad?”
“You were not here to see the possibilities in Chad, my dear Georgia. He was laid off and someone advised him to volunteer while he was looking for a job. The temporary person here took one look at his tattoos and dismissed him. He never got that chance to be valued.”
Clarise stroked Georgia’s hair. She waved her hand over the screen and Georgia peeked to see all the volunteers she had recruited and trained and all the programs she had created from music to crafts to students and everything in between. Slowly the images of clients receiving services reversed and ran backwards and volunteers faded away, leaving clients without the benefit of volunteer help.
“Isn’t there another volunteer manager that took my place?” Georgia asked.
“There were many. No one took this position very seriously and they all quit, one after the other. The last person was Dale. He was an elderly man, sick and frail. No one had your passion nor your commitment dear. No one saw what you could see. This program did very little to actually help anyone.”
The images fluttered and stalled. Then Georgia saw the first image of herself at the cubicle desk. She was crying as she spoke into her cell phone. “I want to try to work it out,” she was saying. “I don’t know if it will work. I know you have given up, but maybe,” her voice caught, “maybe we can try again.”
Clarise looked into Georgia’s alarmed eyes. “You see, my dear, this may be the biggest tragedy of all. You chose to pursue a career that involved money and climbing ahead. Your heart told you to help people but you did not listen. You chose a life without the joy of helping others. You became obsessed with moving ahead. You became unhappy, driven, and you grew apart from your husband. You are successful, but not in the way that fills your soul. You see, dear, you’re in the same spot now, overworked, under appreciated and tired. But all you have to cling to is that next step ahead, that elusive better job. You have numbers and statistics and reports, but really, you’re not a numbers and reports person, are you?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Georgia sighed. She was unable to look away. She watched as the her image sobbed, alone in an impersonal cubicle. She felt the crushing consequence of living a life that had little meaning. The sadness and desperation of being untrue to herself flooded her being and in that moment, she knew real failure.
“No!” Georgia cried and buried her head in her hands. “I don’t want that life, I want mine!” She looked up, tears streaming. Clarisse was gone. Her office was just as she had left it the day before, the day she decided to quit. Her old computer, her notes and papers tacked all over the office were there again. She touched the worn spot on her desk and started to laugh. As she hugged her stapler, there was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal one of her volunteers, Julia peering in. At the sight of Georgia simultaneously laughing and crying, Julia asked with concern, “Is everything all right?”
Georgia ripped up the resignation letter and dropped the pieces in her wastebasket. “It is now, Julia. It is definitely all right. Now, let’s concentrate on you. What can I do for you?”During this season of peace and joy. take care of yourselves and reflect on the ripples you create, the lives you touch and the volunteers who need your guidance.
-Meridian -
It’s a Wonderful Volunteer Manager Life (Part 1)
Snow was falling in Bedford. Big heavy flakes muffled Georgia’s footsteps as she pulled open the front doors of her organization. Sighing, she entered the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. Clutched in her hand was her resignation letter.
Heading for the CEO’s office, she ran her fingers over the paintings on the hallway walls. I’m going to miss this place, she thought. And I can’t even think about how much I’m going to miss the volunteers.
The hallway was deserted. All the better to sneak the resignation under the executive’s door. She could slip it under and then head downstairs to sit at her desk and try to keep up with the overwhelming workload. She paused and thought about some of her favorite volunteers and how she knew she was letting them down. “It would be better for the volunteers if I just quit. I’m tired of trying. I’m not helping them at all,” she mouthed to the empty hall. As she stood staring at the Executive Director’s oak door, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Looking around, she saw a frail woman dressed in an old fashioned lace dress staring at her from down the hall. For a moment Georgia shivered and then a sense of calm came over her. “Can I help you?” she asked. The woman walked towards her, clear eyes sparkling in a time worn face. “I’m Clarise” she said, “your guardian angel.”
Georgia caught her breath. Was she up here alone with this crazy woman?
Clarise smiled a smile of the ages. “You’re thinking of quitting, is that correct my dear?” She pointed at the rolled up resignation in Georgia’s hand.
“How did you know?” Georgia whispered. She clutched the paper to her as her eyes welled up with tears and her frustration spilled over. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t do this. There’s just so much work, so many requests, and I can’t get to them all. I shouldn’t be here and I never should have started working here in the first place. I’m a failure.”
“You think that would have been the right choice?” Clarise prodded gently. “I think we should make that happen, yes, I do declare, that is such a good idea,” and she waved her hand. ” There. You don’t work here. You never did.” She touched Georgia’s arm. Her fingers were electric. “Come, my dear, let’s take a walk.”
In shock, Georgia followed the odd stranger down the hallway towards the elevator. Am I dreaming? she thought. They stepped out of the elevator just as the staff was filtering in for the day. Georgia nodded to the mingling staff members who looked at her with strangers’ eyes. No one said hello. “Come,” Clarise motioned for Georgia to follow. She brought Georgia to her office and opened the door. Georgia gasped at the sight of her bare office. Her computer and phone sat on an empty desk. The walls were devoid of notes, pictures, trinkets and tacked up letters. “Who stole my things?” Georgia cried as she opened drawers and touched empty shelves.
“You don’t work here, remember?”
Georgia whirled around. “What did you do?” She crumpled down on the corner of the desk. “Who are you?”
“I told you, dear. I’m your guardian angel and I’m here to show you what life is like because you do not work here. Do you want to see?”
Before Georgia could protest, there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Georgia called eagerly. The door opened and a tall man with short hair and glasses peered in.
“Charles!” Georgia exclaimed. “Please, come in. I don’t know what happened here, but this woman,” she pointed at Clarise, “this woman took all my things. And she’s talking crazy talk. I think she cast a spell on me or something.”
Charles looked nervously from one woman to the other. “How do you know me? And what are you doing in Dale’s office? Do you have no shame? The man died. I was coming down to see if everything had been removed.”
Georgia’s voice trembled, “Charles, don’t you know me?”
Charles frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave. I can call security if I need to.”
Clarise stepped forward and put a hand on Charles’ arm. “That won’t be necessary, Charles. We’ll be out of your way in just a few minutes.” She looked up at him and for a moment he seemed to lapse into a trance. Then he snapped out of it and muttered, “fine, ok, just lock the door when you leave.”
As Charles left, Clarise turned towards Georgia. “Well, it looks like we have some undisturbed time, dear. Now, let’s you and I look at your life since you don’t work here. Do you want to see?”
Georgia’s shoulders drooped. “yes,” she said, resigned,”if it will make this nightmare go away.”
“Good, come sit down.” Clarise patted the desk chair. She turned on the computer. It glowed, flickered and sputtered to life. Images flashed at rapid speed and then as they slowed, Georgia saw glimpses of her childhood, then school, then marriage and the parade of images slowed to show her getting a job in a large office. She saw herself sitting in a cubicle. She was crying.
(to be continued….) -
A Tale of Two Speeches
Last week I attended one day of a community forum hosted by a state organization that is a clearinghouse for non-profits. Featured were non-profit gurus with varying credentials and backgrounds, covering topics ranging from increasing donations to taking care of donors so that you will increase donations. (just kidding, there was a topic on staff burnout-presumably from trying to increase donations, I guess). I was able to attend two presentations; the first one by the vice president of marketing for a consulting firm. The topic was “Reaching Out Through Messaging”. The other presentation was by a volunteer, who had just won a state award for exceptional volunteerism. His topic was “Doing and Believing.”As I stepped over the crowd to find a seat in the first presentation, I knocked several handouts to the floor. The room was packed. Our speaker, dressed impeccably in pinstripes, told us of the power of messaging, especially when knocking on the doors of potential donors. On screen, he showed examples of pictures that tell compelling stories about the good work our organizations are doing. Slide after slide showed grinning people with perfect teeth helping people who looked just enough down on their luck. Not dirty or disgusting, the pictured recipients had appropriate gratitude angled just right for the camera. All in all, I got the messages from the pictures. Donating money=nice scenes like this going on. Evidently, these pictures work, because he gave some pretty impressive statistics. Within a moment, the subconscious mind of the donor is invaded with good feelings. Nicely done, I thought. He did say that messaging would apply to recruiting volunteers as well. Paint the picture, tell the story. He showed one picture of volunteers. They were gathered together, arms around one another, smiling for the camera. They looked pretty happy. They weren’t sweating, so I’m guessing this was a before and not an after picture. I did notice they all had perfect teeth. Hmmm, maybe they all went to the same dentist.
I pretty much could sit anywhere I wanted to in the next presentation. I guess most of the attendees elected to go to the concurrent session, “Bridging the Donor Gap”. I looked around at my fellow seat mates and nodded. You can pick out the volunteer managers at symposium. We all pretty much get out our steno pads and wait expectantly.
The award-winning volunteer, Gabe, walked up to the front of the room and turned to look at us. He was tall, with raven hair and craggy features. His smile was impish, as if he had just sneaked into his father’s cocktail party. He thanked us for coming and then proceeded to tell us his story. A youth minister, Gabe began his ministry ten years ago. He had watched with concern the growing number of homeless folks in his area and so he began to collect basic essentials to give out, first on a monthly basis, then every week. This ministry, with the help of the youth of his church, added a soup kitchen, and a counseling service. He, and several youth members volunteered at a local thrift store in exchange for the unsellable items such as socks and kitchen utensils. He then grew quiet as he told us about one of his most memorable clients, “Ruth,” a homeless woman who had lost her job and with a ten-year old son, Jason, in tow, arrived at the church doorstep. Ruth had dropped out of high school when she was sixteen and pregnant and now, at 27, she found herself without a safety net after her mother died. Gabe walked quietly back and forth in front of us, running his fingers through his hair as he told us that shy little Justin loved Batman. His Batman sneakers were well-worn and the only sneakers the youth group had to replace them were plain. Gabe paused and told us what happened next. The youth group started texting all their friends, asking for a pair of boys Batman sneakers in size 7. By the time Gabe arrived at his church the next morning, not only were there three pairs of Batman sneakers arriving at church, but friends of friends brought Batman shirts and toys along with packs of new socks, food, underwear, dresses, diapers, jeans, and more. On those donations alone, his group was able to feed and clothe 5 homeless families. Gabe looked us in the eyes. “Believe,” he said. “Believe that you can do good work and you will.”
When Gabe finished, we all stood up and applauded. He smiled reluctantly. I didn’t check to see if he had perfect teeth. I was too busy being mesmerized by his message.
-Meridian -
…Oh! One More Thing! I Need that Magic!
Last week I just happened to be present when a brand new volunteer, Glenna was returning a memory bear she had made. Glenna has been volunteering for about six months now and is doing so because she is unemployed, looking very hard for another job and almost desperately wants to give back. Glenna is quiet, pounded by rejections and extremely talented.Memory bears, you probably know, are teddy bears sewn from articles of clothing a bereaved person chooses to represent the loved one who died. Bears are fashioned from bowling shirts, uniforms, blouses, event T-shirts, night-clothes and even baby blankets. They are soulful, oozing personality and cherished by the recipient.
Glenna dropped off her freshly done bear and as I admired the pocket she had incorporated from the “Gilly’s Tavern” t-shirt on it, we chatted about the bear she had brought in the week before.
It was a bear from an obviously well-worn Bait Shop t-shirt. Glenna was telling me how her own father had loved to take her fishing when she was a little girl. He had died when she was only 15 and she wistfully talked about the time she caught a fish and dragged it up onto shore, her father laughing all the while. Glenna wiped a tear, apologizing for “taking up so much time” when the bereavement counselor, Sharon, walked in.
I introduced Glenna to Sharon and Sharon thanked Glenna for making the memory bears. “Our clients just love them,” Sharon said and Glenna nodded.
I could tell that Sharon was in a hurry, which was nothing new for a bereavement counselor. But bereavement counselors, I’ve found, have this aura about them that feels so, well…. kind.
“Sharon,” I said, “before you have to run, Glenna is the volunteer that made the bear you just gave out, the fishing t-shirt bear.”
“Really?” Sharon’s eyes lighted up. “I gave that bear to his granddaughter and I saw her last night in group and she told us this story. She took her bear home and that night brought it in bed with her. See, her grandfather was the one who raised her after her parents divorced. He loved to go fishing, and although she wasn’t very good or interested in fishing, she would go and watch him and read. Anyway, she had the bear with her and she had a dream. In that dream she and her grandfather were fishing by a big lake and she caught a fish and her grandfather turned to her in the dream and said,’ now see, I knew you could do it’. It was something her grandfather always said to her.”
I could see Glenna’s eyes go wide and her mouth trembled, “that’s something my father always said to me.” She was crying now. (ok, me too). Sharon beamed.
We can tell volunteers how meaningful their work is, but when their ears fill with real stories and examples, now that’s beyond volunteer management. It’s the magic of our job, the moment that we know exists, but we, as managers, well, we know to go looking for it and to stand back and let it happen.
What do our volunteers need? Ahhhhh, many, many things. Sometimes recognition, sometimes socialization, sometimes to be left alone, and sometimes, they need a magic moment. Frankly, we need it too.
-Meridian
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The Yin and the Yang
What do I bring? I’m thinking about a volunteer, Barney who took orientation six months ago. Barney is a retired welder, a Vietnam veteran, a gruff guy who rides his motorcycle everywhere, even in the cold. In orientation he stuck out like a firecracker on a birthday cake. I honestly didn’t think he would do any volunteering. Silly me, I looked at the wrapper of him, not the Pastrami sandwich inside.
Boy, was I wrong. Barney has turned out to be a “go to” volunteer. He accepts pretty much anything we ask of him, provided he has the time. He quietly takes his assignment with honor, then does it justice. I look at him and think of the archeologist, who spends weeks tirelessly digging, then finds an object covered with aged debris. The object is a find once dusted off and the search was worth it.
Turns out Barney has a hidden talent that he never mentioned and frankly, I never would have guessed. He can play the harmonica. He started playing for one nursing home patient and now they all ask for him. His bluesy New Orleans stylings get the fingers tapping, the mouths turned up in smiles, the eyes closed. He transports, soothes and frees. To step into a room filled with Barney’s music is to pierce the intimate bubble.
I called Barney the other day just to thank him. Words were not coming easy to me. “Hey thanks for playing the harmonica, it’s really cool,” I could say or “Your music is just so inspiring, the patients feel like they’re floating in space.” How lame.
Since I had nothing profound, I decided to just call and say hi. Barney answered the phone and said, “I’m really glad you called. I’ve been meaning to call you. I just wanted to thank you and everyone else for allowing me to volunteer. I can’t begin to tell you how much this means to me.”
Barney went on to hint that he has not had an easy time since Vietnam. He hinted at some periods of darkness and compared his self-image now to light. I never really got to make a phone speech about how much his volunteering means to us. It would have been, well, lame.
What do we get with volunteers? We get them, the yin and the yang of them. I silently wept for Barney’s past hurts and took comfort in his present. Perhaps when Barney plays his harmonica, our patients feel the complexity of him and they can relate.
I am so humbled that he has chosen to give with us. I think our patients see the yin and yang of Barney and take comfort in his “realness”. Realness is what they crave, not plastered smiles of a “do-gooder.”
Is there joy without pain? Are there great volunteers without personal tragedy? Or are great volunteers really human complexities with heart?
-Meridian
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Inspiration in a Cloud of Dust
I attended a funeral a few nights back. Volunteer managers do a lot of that. We find time to be involved in a lot of family functions, births, deaths, graduations, citizenship ceremonies, and birthdays.
I had to drive a good distance to this one. Nothing new, right? It was in the evening. Big deal. Didn’t know anyone there but the bereaved former volunteer. Check. It was important to go. Of course. I didn’t know the person that died. As usual. Was it one more event to wonder whether I had the time to devote? Yes. And when I pulled into the church’s dirt parking lot, did I wish I had changed my shoes? Naturally.
As I got out of my car, I fished for my phone which had fallen between the seats. I didn’t see that large truck speeding down the row of parked vehicles. I stood up and closed the door just as that truck kicked up so much dirt and gravel that it literally blanketed me with a gritty cloud of dust. I shook myself like a dog in water and headed for the church, dignity intact.
Nigel volunteered with us over ten years ago. He had come here from England after the death of his first wife, a young woman whom he had tenderly cared for after eight years of marriage. His life as he knew it had been shattered. He happened to meet another lovely young woman on a holiday in the states and started coming to visit her. They would also take cruises together, or book tours in exotic places just to spend the time with one another. He could come over for short periods of time to be with her, but he could not come here permanently, unless they married.
While on his first real stay here in the states, he decided to volunteer at hospice while his American girlfriend worked. That’s how I came to know him. Ten years ago, he was a man rejuvenated, a man alive again and he became an absolute favorite of the staff. After his six months here he had to go back. We kept in touch via email. Some years ago, he indicated that the American woman he loved, Kari, had some medical issues. A couple of years ago, he told me that it was cancer. Last year he told me that treatments were increasing. Two months ago, he told me that it was terminal and that he finally received a visa after all these years. He came here to this country to care for his love while she died.
I listened to him in the church as he stood before a crowd of people who loved Kari. I listened to him speak of her as his love and how she rescued him from the darkest time in his life. I listened to him as he told of how she touched everyone with her smile and wit and love of travel. Not once did he mention the hardships they faced. Not once did he refer to all he did. Not once did he say that twice he spent years of his life in the hardest role there is; caring for someone you love as they die. Not once did he complain except for the void that now existed.
For my part, my heart broke as I listened to him tell of how he and Kari were finally married just a month before she died.
Will I complain again when faced with having to do the right thing? Yes, I will. There is only so much time and there are so many volunteers to attend to. Will I always be reminded that the right thing is the hard path for most everyone? No, sometimes that message is clouded. But as the dust settles, my imprint on the world is there. And most of the time, despite all the irritable complaining, I have to get a bit dusty to make an imprint at all.
-Meridian
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