Seen

Every morning, my early-rising friend texts me.

Or I text her.

We don’t plan it.

We just both know one of us is awake before most normal people.

If I had to be up at 4 a.m. to catch an early flight, I’d think that was so incredibly early—like most people do.

I remember a seventh-grade history teacher—hauntingly tall, with overapplied makeup that made her look like a clown, the unsettling kind.

She told us she got up at 4 a.m.—that just made her seem even weirder

And now—

My person and I are the weird ones.

Unlike me, she’s already in motion.

Paperwork. A sermon—

for a funeral, a wedding, or a fill-in Sunday service.

Counseling during the day.

Pastoring on the side.

Before that, it was theological homework.

Always something.

I have none of that.

And I don’t want any of it either.

My 4 a.m. mornings are wide open.

It’s just time.

Except—she’s there.

Not filling the space.

Not taking it over.

Just…there. 

Still, the deeper gift of these early morning texts isn’t lost on me. 

Recently, a dear friend told me her person unexpectedly died.

The one she texted with every day.

They rarely saw each other.

But they communicated every day for five years.

He was her constant.

Her just-for-her kind of person.

I’ve thought about that a lot since she told me.

Has she slipped through gravity’s arms—

that keep us here?

Will she feel untethered?

I know that feeling.

It’s unsettling. It’s weird.

A long time ago—before I had experienced much loss—I asked a friend how her recently widowed mother-in-law was doing.

She said something I’ve never forgotten.

The hardest part was that no one was there at the end of the day to be seen by.

To witness that she existed.

That stayed with me because it was the first time I’d heard that kind of loneliness.

One of my elderly clients lives in her home, alone. She has had a full life of friends, family, and community. Over the last few years, I’ve watched that circle grow smaller.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Until now—

The absence of it is more noticeable than the presence.

The witnessing…

or the lack of it.

That lonely place.

The last few times I saw her, I knew I should have stayed a few minutes longer.

But I haven’t..

I say, “See you in two weeks,”

like I always have.

I stay the same amount of time, as if nothing has changed.

As if she is still exactly who she has always been.

Maybe it’s a gift. Maybe it’s not. 

Part of me justifies it as kindness.

And part of me knows that makes me a weak witness-er. 

Underneath, I know.

The more genuine response would be to stay longer.

To sit. To talk.

To let there be space for whatever might come. Maybe it's to let in the warmth of connection that melts the loneliness.

Or maybe to talk about what it feels like to be seen less and less.  

That would be the more loving, tender, human interaction I could give.

I should give.

I could easily be that person for her. 

Next visit…in two weeks. 

And maybe today I’ll start texting her.