A Voice in the Desert: A Story of Listening and Compassion
by Robert A. Kirsling
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the words appeared in my mind. At nine in the evening, I walked through the cold, moonlit motel parking lot after a late dinner. I had just arrived in Albuquerque from my home in Milwaukee to coordinate a research project for the National Health Services Corps, and I would be driving to Alamosa, Colorado the next day for meetings to share my findings with Corps physicians. Little did I know that during this trip to New Mexico in November 1997, an event would occur that would teach me the values of listening and compassion.
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the words became more persistent now. I planned to attend noon mass at Santa Fe’s St. Francis Cathedral the next day on the way to Alamosa and needed to allow ample time to pack, have breakfast, check out, and make the 70-mile drive to the church. I first visited New Mexico in 1992 and recalled the drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe as energizing with the colors of the surrounding landscape vibrant—cobalt blue skies contrasting with green scrub juniper pines in the barren red sand of the high desert terrain. The Southwest is a place that helps me reflect and recharge. Leave the major cities behind and it is open spaces—quiet, sacred, peaceful. Incessant noise from the media and ubiquitous technology impairs my ability to listen, not only to others but—just as importantly—to myself. Ironically, the same developments that help me function remotely in my work as a writer can intensify the chatter and make that work more difficult.
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the voice became emphatic refusing to be ignored. Instantly, another thought struck me, and I silently answered the voice that now seemed as natural as a conversation with a friend. Alamosa is about 150 miles from Santa Fe and late-November sunsets come early in the Colorado Rockies, making the San Luis Valley and Alamosa, its largest city, not an inviting drive for a stranger after dark. Yes, a ten o’clock mass made more sense, I agreed. Then the voice stopped as if achieving its purpose.
A few minutes before ten o’clock the next morning, I entered the cathedral, an imposing sight with its distinctive Corinthian columns sharply contrasting with the surrounding adobe structures. Halfway through the service, I heard the woman seated in front of me sobbing. The pastor had just informed the congregation he was leaving the parish for another state and this was his last mass. “She must really like this guy,” I thought.
As the service was ending, the woman was crying harder now and visibly shaking. Few people sat nearby and I was the only person close to her.
“Are you alright?” I asked her.
“No,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Could I talk to you?”
“Sure, whatever you need,” I replied, “How about some lunch?”
“I’d like that,” she said more confidently.
We found a quiet corner table in a nearby half-filled café decorated with serene Southwest landscapes by Georgia O’Keefe. Her name was Sandra. She was middle-aged with dark sensitive eyes and long light brown hair that highlighted her red coat. She moved to Santa Fe from Dallas three years before. She had no children and after much soul searching divorced her abusive husband. Following the divorce, she felt compelled to move to Santa Fe. She accepted a position as instructor at a local college and recently was promoted to assistant professor of English Literature.
The pain was intense in her voice, the tears making it difficult for her to speak. It was lonely in New Mexico at first, but the pastor soon became a close friend and trusted confidant. Then, a year ago, she fell in love with a fellow professor in the English Department and Sandra finally felt at home and at peace with life.
Suspecting there was more to her story, I listened not wanting to interrupt. Her words poured out. She hadn’t even asked my name, but that was unimportant now. I was content realizing our meeting was somehow meant to be for her. Soon, Sandra stopped talking but her crying continued. I remained silent for a while and then asked if there was something else troubling her.
After a pause, she blurted it out.
“My boyfriend died in a car accident last month.”
Her vulnerability was palpable and I struggled for a response. I liked Sandra and admired her honesty. I couldn’t just walk away from her problem, and I felt certain she would not harm herself. I had a counseling degree but had done little formal counseling after graduate school, more than twenty years prior. I had spent a lot of time then working with people who had many different disabilities. As a result of those experiences, I came to realize that every person needs someone who will authentically listen to them when they are in pain. I also carried with me a notable lesson gained from my training: to listen empathically and compassionately, without judgment. For me, call it love or agape, it feels good when I make that human connection.
“He must have loved you deeply and this is a terrible loss,” I said.
“Yes, more than anyone has. And now the pastor is leaving too. I have my students but I feel alone.”
Words of comfort failed me so I squeezed her hand. Although more patrons gathered, the adjoining tables remained empty preserving our privacy. She continued to talk only stopping to nibble at her salad. Eventually, I sensed her mood improving when she asked about my life and what brought me to Santa Fe. I shared my story and just after one o’clock said I needed to leave for my trip. She seemed more composed, and I asked if she felt better. For the first time, I saw a genuine smile. “I’m just fine now.” Her appearance had improved—brown eyes clearer and less swollen, her voice stronger.
“I’m happy I could help,” I said.
Looking into my eyes, she said, “Bob, I don’t think you know how much you helped. Last night, I felt desperate and prayed for a friend, and here you are.”
I asked her what time she had prayed. “It was about nine o’clock. I was in the college chapel,” she replied. Considering how our meeting unfolded, I wasn’t surprised by her response and recalled the voice in the parking lot.
Leaving the café, I walked slowly to my car. I turned and she was smiling as she waved.
Was it all mere coincidence? It had to be more than that. In some inexplicable way, I was meant to be there at that precise moment and my only job was to listen to a person who two hours before had been a complete stranger. I listened and appreciated the healing force that compassionate listening could be for her and me. Feeling a profound sense of peace on my drive to Colorado that afternoon, I was confident Sandra would find her way.
Robert Kirsling is a grant writer and researcher for a domestic and sexual violence agency in Saukville, Wisconsin. Robert has 14 published articles in medical journals and has recently turned his attention to writing short stories focusing on listening, compassion, synchronicity and spirituality.
by Robert A. Kirsling
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the words appeared in my mind. At nine in the evening, I walked through the cold, moonlit motel parking lot after a late dinner. I had just arrived in Albuquerque from my home in Milwaukee to coordinate a research project for the National Health Services Corps, and I would be driving to Alamosa, Colorado the next day for meetings to share my findings with Corps physicians. Little did I know that during this trip to New Mexico in November 1997, an event would occur that would teach me the values of listening and compassion.
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the words became more persistent now. I planned to attend noon mass at Santa Fe’s St. Francis Cathedral the next day on the way to Alamosa and needed to allow ample time to pack, have breakfast, check out, and make the 70-mile drive to the church. I first visited New Mexico in 1992 and recalled the drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe as energizing with the colors of the surrounding landscape vibrant—cobalt blue skies contrasting with green scrub juniper pines in the barren red sand of the high desert terrain. The Southwest is a place that helps me reflect and recharge. Leave the major cities behind and it is open spaces—quiet, sacred, peaceful. Incessant noise from the media and ubiquitous technology impairs my ability to listen, not only to others but—just as importantly—to myself. Ironically, the same developments that help me function remotely in my work as a writer can intensify the chatter and make that work more difficult.
Ten o’clock…ten o’clock, the voice became emphatic refusing to be ignored. Instantly, another thought struck me, and I silently answered the voice that now seemed as natural as a conversation with a friend. Alamosa is about 150 miles from Santa Fe and late-November sunsets come early in the Colorado Rockies, making the San Luis Valley and Alamosa, its largest city, not an inviting drive for a stranger after dark. Yes, a ten o’clock mass made more sense, I agreed. Then the voice stopped as if achieving its purpose.
A few minutes before ten o’clock the next morning, I entered the cathedral, an imposing sight with its distinctive Corinthian columns sharply contrasting with the surrounding adobe structures. Halfway through the service, I heard the woman seated in front of me sobbing. The pastor had just informed the congregation he was leaving the parish for another state and this was his last mass. “She must really like this guy,” I thought.
As the service was ending, the woman was crying harder now and visibly shaking. Few people sat nearby and I was the only person close to her.
“Are you alright?” I asked her.
“No,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Could I talk to you?”
“Sure, whatever you need,” I replied, “How about some lunch?”
“I’d like that,” she said more confidently.
We found a quiet corner table in a nearby half-filled café decorated with serene Southwest landscapes by Georgia O’Keefe. Her name was Sandra. She was middle-aged with dark sensitive eyes and long light brown hair that highlighted her red coat. She moved to Santa Fe from Dallas three years before. She had no children and after much soul searching divorced her abusive husband. Following the divorce, she felt compelled to move to Santa Fe. She accepted a position as instructor at a local college and recently was promoted to assistant professor of English Literature.
The pain was intense in her voice, the tears making it difficult for her to speak. It was lonely in New Mexico at first, but the pastor soon became a close friend and trusted confidant. Then, a year ago, she fell in love with a fellow professor in the English Department and Sandra finally felt at home and at peace with life.
Suspecting there was more to her story, I listened not wanting to interrupt. Her words poured out. She hadn’t even asked my name, but that was unimportant now. I was content realizing our meeting was somehow meant to be for her. Soon, Sandra stopped talking but her crying continued. I remained silent for a while and then asked if there was something else troubling her.
After a pause, she blurted it out.
“My boyfriend died in a car accident last month.”
Her vulnerability was palpable and I struggled for a response. I liked Sandra and admired her honesty. I couldn’t just walk away from her problem, and I felt certain she would not harm herself. I had a counseling degree but had done little formal counseling after graduate school, more than twenty years prior. I had spent a lot of time then working with people who had many different disabilities. As a result of those experiences, I came to realize that every person needs someone who will authentically listen to them when they are in pain. I also carried with me a notable lesson gained from my training: to listen empathically and compassionately, without judgment. For me, call it love or agape, it feels good when I make that human connection.
“He must have loved you deeply and this is a terrible loss,” I said.
“Yes, more than anyone has. And now the pastor is leaving too. I have my students but I feel alone.”
Words of comfort failed me so I squeezed her hand. Although more patrons gathered, the adjoining tables remained empty preserving our privacy. She continued to talk only stopping to nibble at her salad. Eventually, I sensed her mood improving when she asked about my life and what brought me to Santa Fe. I shared my story and just after one o’clock said I needed to leave for my trip. She seemed more composed, and I asked if she felt better. For the first time, I saw a genuine smile. “I’m just fine now.” Her appearance had improved—brown eyes clearer and less swollen, her voice stronger.
“I’m happy I could help,” I said.
Looking into my eyes, she said, “Bob, I don’t think you know how much you helped. Last night, I felt desperate and prayed for a friend, and here you are.”
I asked her what time she had prayed. “It was about nine o’clock. I was in the college chapel,” she replied. Considering how our meeting unfolded, I wasn’t surprised by her response and recalled the voice in the parking lot.
Leaving the café, I walked slowly to my car. I turned and she was smiling as she waved.
Was it all mere coincidence? It had to be more than that. In some inexplicable way, I was meant to be there at that precise moment and my only job was to listen to a person who two hours before had been a complete stranger. I listened and appreciated the healing force that compassionate listening could be for her and me. Feeling a profound sense of peace on my drive to Colorado that afternoon, I was confident Sandra would find her way.
Robert Kirsling is a grant writer and researcher for a domestic and sexual violence agency in Saukville, Wisconsin. Robert has 14 published articles in medical journals and has recently turned his attention to writing short stories focusing on listening, compassion, synchronicity and spirituality.
