My friend Grace

What’s something most people don’t understand?

Many years ago, I was driving home from the Y-Guides Spring Outing down at the Carolina coast. It had been three days and two nights of nonstop fun and late-night whispering and snickering from the eight girls in our tribe. The other seven dads and I groaned in our bottom bunks.

On the way back home, I was flipping around on the radio and found Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion in progress. I’ve always liked him, so while Kari slept in the back, I listened. That week’s singing guest was Sara Watkins, a promising new artist.

I liked her; there was something appealing about her clear, sweet voice. She sang My Friend from her debut album Sara Watkins.

My friend is worn and torn, he’s badly wounded
I don’t know what he really needs
Bring hope to his heart, relief to his mind
Bring hope to his heart, relief to his mind

Something about it registered with me; I unconsciously filed it away.

About five years later, I was over in Charlotte, NC on business. I stopped in to see a childhood friend. We got caught up and then there was a pause.

“I uh… I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” she asked.

“If I can,” I said. “What’s up?”

She knew I had just finished my training in the Stephen Ministry program. Stephen Ministers provide faith-based care to people going through tough times: death of a loved one, divorce, job loss.

“Would you please come talk to my friend, Grace?”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s going on?” I was thinking break up, money trouble, hassles at work. Not even close.

Grace had been in an abusive marriage with a guy who had addiction and psychological problems. About a year ago she had filed for divorce. Things spiraled from bad to worse.

One night, she heard a gunshot from upstairs. There was a pause, a scream, then in quick succession, two more.

She ran up the stairs to a horrific scene. Her husband had shot both of their sons in the head, then himself. In the upstairs hall, in a haze of gunpowder smoke, her world lay in blood-splattered ruins.

I looked at Karen in shock. I was on my first caregiver assignment with a guy who had lost his job. But what Grace was going through… I felt hopelessly out of my depth. And usually, the relationship with the care receiver is at least six months. I had no idea what to say on this one visit. But I could try.

We walked down the street a few doors and knocked. Grace answered. She was in her mid 40s, attractive, wearing a beige dress. Her eyes were red and she looked weary beyond words. We followed her through to the kitchen, where a teenage boy sat at the table.

“Tim,” she said. She spoke loudly and with exaggerated slowness, as though she was addressing an elderly person.

Tim looked around vacantly, trying to figure out exactly where the voice came from. It struck me: He can’t see.

“I’m just going to step onto the patio with Karen and her friend, OK? If you need anything, just yell.”

For the next 20 minutes, Grace recounted the horror of that evening: the curious neighbors; the flashing lights of cops, the fire department, the EMTs. The news reporters, crime scene tape, telling detectives over and over what had happened.

There were frequent pauses for weeping and blowing her nose, using the box of Kleenex that sat on the wrought-iron patio table. Karen got up and held her and looked at me.

Tim had survived, but was blinded. Her other son and her husband were dead.

She had gotten through the funerals, sold the house, and bought the townhouse.

As she blew her nose, Karen looked at me. See what I mean?

I had absorbed so much, so quickly, that I was stunned. What could I possibly say to help this poor soul? I knew enough to avoid platitudes: Time heals all wounds. It’s God’s plan. When God closes one door, He opens another.

I cleared my throat. “Let’s pray,” I said. The three of us held hands across the table and I began.

I started speaking, but it sounded stiff, forced. After 30 seconds, it was going nowhere. Lord, help, I asked silently.

For the next five minutes or so, words poured out of me that were not really my own. My mind was sort of on autopilot as I spoke. But they were just the right words. When I finished, I felt spent; all three of us reached for tissues.

Karen looked at me in amazement, and Grace looked relieved somehow. Not much; she certainly wasn’t beaming, but the clouds of despair and agony seemed to have lifted a bit.

We talked more, maybe half an hour. and she even managed to smile once or twice. Finally, we all stood and she showed us out.

On the porch, she hugged both Karen and me. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both so much.”

In the following weeks, Karen kept me up to date on Grace. She had her good days, and her not so good; but in general, she seemed a little better. She started seeing a counselor. Now and then, I’d exchange an email with her, a little note of encouragement.

One Saturday, I was in the garage with the radio playing. Sara Watkins and My Friend came on.

Send it to Grace, a silent voice prompted. I didn’t wait. I went inside and sat at the computer.

I found it on YT, and composed an email. I asked her how she was doing, how was Tim, a few other things, then attached the URL. I said I just felt like I was supposed to send it and that I hoped it helped.

A few days later, again in the garage, Karen called.

“Hey,” she said. “You got a second?”

I sat on the three stairs leading into the house. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Did you send Grace a song?”

“Yes.”

“She came to see me. She was suicidal, was planning on doing something, then she got your email and listened to it. She said it made her change her mind.”

It was July, but I got goosebumps.

One of my favorite performers is Jackson Browne; I find the depth and raw sincerity of his songs incredible. About a month after the email episode, I saw he was performing locally and bought a ticket.

As I sat in my seat with the usual pre-concert murmur, I read the program and was pleasantly surprised to see that Sara Watkins was opening. She played several songs as the crowd waited impatiently for Jackson. But I enjoyed it; she and her band Nickel Creek were superb. I especially liked My Friend.

After the concert, there was a huge crowd in the lobby at the Jackson Browne T-shirt counter. On the opposite side was Sara’s T-shirt booth. There were a handful of people buying shirts from her band mates as she stood to one side.

I worked my way over to her and she looked at me in a friendly sort of way. I told her how much I enjoyed her performance, and about the first time I had heard her. She smiled and said thanks, and we exchanged a few more pleasantries. I was almost ready to go, when I hesitated.

I told her about Grace and My Friend. Sara’s eyes widened and she put her hands to her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she said softy. “Oh dear God.”

I wonder how many people understand…really, truly, understand…the power of their words. The power to build up; and the power to tear down. To heal; or to hurt.

I don’t think it was just by chance that I happened to tune into NPR that one Sunday. I almost always listen to music on a road trip.

Nor was it by chance that I mentally filed that song away; or that Grace moved into her townhouse about the same time I was finishing my Stephen Ministry training.

I don’t think it was it coincidence that she made friends with Karen, or that I needed to drive three hours across the state on that particular day.

I believe everything was part of a plan, events set in motion years ago. And that at just the right time, everything came together for Grace’s benefit.

Grace, who needed a kind word right then, that day.

The smallest acts of kindness echo down the halls of eternity.

I wish more people understood.

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