The waiting area was not packed, but most seats were taken. I opted for a seat separated from the other chairs by a small table. A type of nook, if you will. I had brought my Kindle reader with me and planned to spend the next hour reading or browsing the internet. But, as is often the case, I found myself observing the people. I tend to do that when I am around crowds.
This group was a poster child for diversity. Sickness does not appear to play favorites or to discriminate on race, creed, ethnicity, etc. It’s an equal opportunity villain. I’m not saying that economic and other disadvantages can’t contribute to poor health. I’m just saying that none of us have any guarantees. But this blog is not about sickness. It’s about people.
Setting my book on the table, I looked up to see older gentlemen in a nearby chair staring at me. I offered a hint of a smile and stretched, pretending to be bored and unaware that he had been watching me. I guess he was a people watcher also. Looking back, I wish I had gone over and just chatted with him. But I fell into that trap of isolating myself in a room full of people. It’s the easy thing to do. Almost like pretending we’re invisible.
I began to wonder how many people come through this clinic on a daily basis. Hundreds? Thousands? If you count all the waiting areas, it has to be a large number. That thought saddened me. No one was here out of choice. Everyone’s life had been interrupted with some unpleasant news or at least a cause of concern, regardless how minor.
I began to scan the crowd. Most of them were sitting quietly, reflecting or possibly praying. Some whispered softly to a spouse, parent or other friend who had accompanied them. A couple of rows away, an elderly gentleman patted his wife on the arm. I assumed he was reassuring her that things would be OK. An older couple bickered softly, not angrily, but probably just because that’s how elderly couples sometimes talk to each other. I heard him say softly, “yeah, you’re probably right”. I’m betting he’s said that more than once over the course of their years together. One lady pushes her husband in a chair and situates him beside her seat. She leaves and then returns complaining that there are no cups on the water dispenser. She leaves again and comes back with a supply of cups. Not sure where she got them, but she’s a doer, not a talker.
Of course there was that one person who chatted on her phone with the speaker on as if she was the only person in the building. There’s always one of those. It’s probably been me at some point, although with my disdain for cell phones in public settings I doubt it. But between her and the voice coming out of the speaker, I was able to ascertain that she was frustrated with someone because that person had told a mutual friend that this person was unreasonable. I heard he say not so softly, “I’m not the unreasonable one. She is!” Consider the irony.
And then there was an elderly lady who seemed to be staring blankly into space. There was a window, but we were on the fifth floor, so she was literally looking into the clouds from where we sat. As I watched her, I realized that I often do the same thing. It may look as if I’m deep in thought when I’m actually emptying my mind of all thoughts.
I decided to say a short prayer for each of these people. I prayed that they would get good reports or have the peace and courage to deal with any that were not so good.
You see, I was struck by the fact that all these people have a story. They are here today because of an unwelcome interruption in their lives with fears, concerns and uncertainties. Some are obviously gravely ill and are meeting to discuss progress in their recovery, if any, and how to proceed. Others will receive good news, as we did, and will grab their phones as soon as possible to share that news with friends and family. Whatever their situation and reason for being here today, people come and people go. And new ones show up to claim the vacated seats. People filling seats.
And that seems to be how it is in the waiting room of life. We observe people coming and going every day and we seem to be oblivious to them or their situation. They are just moving bodies on the horizon that we are aware of and not aware of.
Why do you think that is? Why do we barely acknowledge people who come into our presence on a regular basis? Why do we completely ignore so many of them. Why do we avert our gaze from the person we squeeze by in the aisle of Walmart? Why do we stare ahead instead of engaging the checker at the checkout counter? I don’t know. I have a few theories, none of which are provable.
Maybe we are caught up in our own issues that are pretty difficult. Maybe our situation takes all the energy we can muster. We just don’t have time to do anything other than to process what is going on in our world. Or, maybe we’re uncomfortable engaging strangers. That’s an issue for me. I’ve always wished I was the guy who could lead a sing-a-long in an elevator, but so far I haven’t tried. Maybe we are on a tight schedule. And it could be that we know or assume the other party is on a tight schedule. Hopefully it’s not because we simply don’t care. I doubt that’s the issue.
Why do we seek isolation in a crowd? Why can we sit in a stadium with tens of thousands of people and not speak to anyone other than the person we came with? Or we can be in a small Sunday School class with a half dozen people and behave in the same way. I’d be interested in your thoughts, because I don’t really have a good answer.
I don’t want to sound naïve. We obviously can’t engage every person we meet in meaningful conversation. If we try that, we’ll probably find ourselves being avoided or worse, the subject of an intervention. But can’t we do a little better job of saying hello to some of them. Is it possible that we can ask the sales clerk if she’s having a busy day? Or maybe it’s telling that food server how much you appreciate his service (and leave a generous tip, by the way).
Everyone we encounter has a story. They may not be important to us, but they and their story are likely important to someone. As I said, I don’t have any answers, but I do think sometimes that we can become a little too focused on ourselves and our situations to the point of thinking the universe revolves around our problems and everyone else and their world is secondary. I don’t mean for that to sound harsh, because I am probably more guilty of this than you are.
In the Christmas favorite “It’s a Wonderful Life”, George Bailey spent his life helping others. Yet when he needed help, he sought isolation in its most severe form. Thankfully, Clarence taught him that his life had meaning. His story was important to a lot of people. That person I ignore is important to a lot of people. My story is not more important, so maybe I should acknowledge them a little more than I have in the past. I may never know their story, but I don’t have to.
In Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”, Ebenezer Scrooge also learned a hard lesson thanks to three unwelcome visitors. He learned that people are important and anything we can do to make their lives better is our responsibility.
Not that we have to take the cares of the world upon our shoulders. We can’t fix all problems. As a matter of fact, we can’t fix very many. But we can do a little better in how we relate to our fellow man and woman. Instead of silence, maybe I can offer a friendly hello. Instead of apathy, maybe I can show a small measure of concern. Instead of criticism, maybe I can offer encouragement. You know what? I’m gonna try. I really am. I’m going to make it a matter of prayer. Will you join me? The cost is minimal, but the payback could be enormous.