Service can feel so limiting, because it challenges you to
realize that you can’t be everything for a person, or absorb someone else’s
pain. Essentially, it’s learning that
you cannot be God, and what can be offered is companionship.
My heart bleeds with these men I work with. They suffer so much, and the reality of my
job is that there’s not a lot I can do to tangibly fix anything. The best I can
do is to be a constant, steady presence, and experience the hardships of life
along their side.
One of the men on my case load, Tom*, recently lost his
girlfriend of 12 years. She had a stroke
two weeks ago, and then a second last week which over took her. When Tom told me she died I felt too young
and stupid to know what to say. I felt
way too inexperienced in life and relationships to offer anything to him. I actually hastily googled “how to accompany
people grieving a significant other” and now ask him, “how are you doing today?”
because the semantics of that sentience verses “how are you?” is supposed to be
less triggering. It still feels wildly inadequate. My tools are undeniably limited, and all I
feel capable of doing is showing up, making a few phone calls during the week
to check in with him, and fussing over him when appropriate.
I love my dudes, and something I’ve realized and adopted
this year is fussing over them, because it’s a simple way to acknowledge their
humanity. Some of my guys don’t have
many strong and reliable relationships in their day to day life, and I think
that fussing over a person’s haircut or their new shirt can really go a long
way. It sounds kind of stupid, but I
think it provides them with a level of validation that we crave as humans. We crave to be accepted and noticed.
As I wrap up my time at Our Brothers’ Place next week, I
keep returning to this image of a bleeding heart that looks like it’s had the
shit beat out of it. And it's not this bullshit commercialized heart: it's got a ton of arteries and veins leading in and out of it. It’s not my heart,
but more of a metaphor for the hearts of the marginalized and those who walk
with them. The blood of our suffering
unites us, and is pumped through our bodies:
we all bleed. I will continue to
carry these men in my heart, which bleeds with them as they continue on in
their lives. I will most certainly miss
them.
*Name has been changed
