Philip Gulley, a Quaker pastor in Indiana -- yes, there are Quaker pastors in Indiana -- tells this story.
He went to see an Amish farmer to buy a rocking chair. When it came time to leave, his car wouldn't start. It's disheartening to need a car jumped on an Amish farm. He said to Emmanuel, the farmer, "my car won't start."
"I noticed that," Emmanuel replied. "That's why we have horses." Soon a neighbor's buggy clip-clopped up the driveway. The neighbor approached the car with its hood up, studied it a bit, and said, "I can't fix your car, but I will sit with you." And he did, joining Philip under a spreading maple tree, until a truck came by with cables that could start the car.
"I will sit with you." What does that mean? "I will be in your presence, wait with you, without comment, without judgment, simply joining with you in your situation. You will not be alone as you process whatever is happening." How often are we called to do that?
Years ago, an elderly member of our Quaker meeting was near death in a local nursing home. He had no family, so we took turns sitting with him. When it was my turn, I sat, silent and still, matching his shallow breathing.
It was a challenge for me, since I'm a talker and a fixer, always offering solutions to everyone's problems. This was not a problem to solve or a conversation to have. I learned the value of just being with, of sharing nonverbal space and time. I can't be sure that he was aware of me, but I believe my presence made a difference.
In April 2017 I was appalled to learn that our governor had scheduled eight executions of death row prisoners over a period of 10 days that month. I wanted to acknowledge what was happening, but I couldn't go there to sit with the men. How could I be with them as they waited to be killed? I decided that since I couldn't sit with them, I would stand in a public place, silently, to bear witness to their deaths. I announced that I would be standing in front of the county courthouse every day at noon for half an hour for three weeks and invited people to join me. I was willing to stand alone, but every day, people came, three or six or 15. It was deeply moving to stand there with a row of people, side by side, in silence, in witness, as traffic swooshed by. It didn't stop the executions, but the condemned men knew we were there, and I was told it mattered to them. We did the next best thing to sitting with.
There are times when words won't help, when nothing we can do will fix anything. Our presence says, "You matter, and I care."
I can't fix your car, but I will sit with you.