Some people are fixers, helpers, or caretakers. It is their calling to care for people damaged by illness, inability, or age. They treat our sick and wounded, feed and bathe our babies and old people, attend to the needs of the needy.
I have no instinct for fixing or caretaking, usually don't know how to step in to help. But with deep wells of empathy and sympathy, I attach easily to those who are sturdy, resilient, doing what they can each day to make it through.
A little more than three years ago, my son asked my husband and me to help a friend of his. I'll call the friend "John." John was a non-traditional student near here, finishing his degree with an overload class schedule, working three part-time jobs, and rearing his son, "Shawn." Shawn's start in life was rough, living sometimes with his mother and sometimes with a grandmother, instability the key feature. His schooling had been sketchy, little attention given to more than the basics. At 14, Shawn was sturdy and resilient, polite and pleasant, and failing in high school.
With Shawn's failing grades, he was ineligible for the sports he loved. The sports were required to build his discipline and keep him engaged. The grades had to come up, both for Shawn's present and his future.
That's where my husband Jim and I came in. Our son enlisted us to tutor Shawn on whatever he needed that freshman year. We agreed on a weekly schedule, and Shawn usually showed up unprepared, lacking some combination of tools, textbooks, and assignments. Sometimes when I went to his apartment to pick him up, he didn't show up at all. John wasn't very helpful, poor at communicating if there was a change in schedule. But we were willing to stick with it, and progress was made.
The next summer we lost track of Shawn while he lived with his grandmother in another city. But he came back to us in the fall of his sophomore year, taller and more mature, more likely to be prepared, and tackling harder subjects. It was more challenging for all of us in some ways, easier in others.
And then he disappeared.
Shawn and his dad had some blow-up, and John sent the young man to live with his mother. We didn't know at first what happened. Neither John nor Shawn told us he was leaving with as suddenly as it happened. Also they'd changed phone plans over the summer, and we no longer had John's correct phone number. Finally, with no direct contact from either of them, we learned about the move.
Our sweet, sturdy and resilient student, sent from us with no warning. We had welcomed him into our home, felt like we were making a difference, and then he was gone. We did what we could to let him know we are still here, but the door closed, and we grieved.
Recently I made a new friend, "Albert." Albert's had a rough time, but sturdy and resilient, he does what he can to move through his life. Perhaps his biggest "problem" right now is a wall of isolation, built purposely from mistrust and coincidentally from neglect. Reaching out time and again, he's had little experience with a hand reaching back. After a while, Albert largely stopped reaching.
But Albert and I were able to build a door in that wall, through which he would peek. After a while, and many conversations with him peeking out the doorway, he opened the door. We had the chance to learn more about each other, start to build trust and what I thought was a real friendship.
And then he disappeared, the door closed, and I grieve.
I can't seem to fix this. I do not have a door knob on my side. I cannot re-open this door; only he can. The door is closed, but I'm still here.