I just love September, October, and November.

I know some of you are reluctant to let the warm blue and green days of summer go, and I understand! Because it’s true that the trees that stun in gold and red and orange in late September and early October inevitably give way to bare branches. And it’s also true that some days the grey clouds hang low and the afternoon feels sort of left-over and dreary.

But that’s just sometimes. On other days the sun shines and those bare branches are amazingly beautiful against a sky that’s vividly Kansas blue.

And the sunsets!

And the chance to rummage through boxes for sweaters and scarves and hats and gloves!

But best of all…the season of Advent and Light is just a couple of months away, and I look forward to that beginning somewhere around September 1st. (I know!! It’s crazy! And by the way, don’t you think the celebration of Advent is even better than Christmas in some ways? It’s that whole quiet, grateful time of reflection…the expectation, I guess.)

Anyway, this time of the year always reminds me of Chicago, and the time we spent there in early fall one year when the kids were little.

Hot chocolate was chasing away the chill from a walk along a busy street and there were four pretty happy people on Michigan Avenue that late Friday afternoon. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to that part of Chicago, but I just love it.  Our hotel looked out over the Magnificent Mile and was just a few city blocks away from so much that was way, way outside the norm for this Kansas girl.

Sometimes I think the streets of my hometown are busy, but they can hardly compare with the traffic on Interstate 90 as it winds around within miles of the University of Chicago’s gorgeous campus. I-90 zips past a dizzying exchange that highlights some pretty amazing examples of transportation engineering and gives access to streets that will deposit you close to the doors of historic Chicago landmarks: The Palmer House, the Art Institute, the Field Museum, the Shedd Aquarium.

It didn’t take long after we landed at O’Hare for me to get hooked. I have always loved big cities and Chicago was no exception. The city seemed to want to impress that year…fall days just perfect for walking, a really kind waitress or two, deep dish pizza to die for, genuinely kind smiles from busy people on crowded sidewalks and subway riders who struck up conversations with us. Oh, it was fun!

A few doors down from our hotel there were department stores filled with bright lights and the loveliest things. Our girls were wide-eyed for sure. A short walk further and we found ourselves in a small upscale little nook of a cafe, wiping drops of hot chocolate off the table…a testimony to the girls who couldn’t quite wrap little hands round the mugs. But who cared? The cocoa did its good work of warming us from the inside out…and we were happy.

We packed a whole lot of fun into the four or five days we were there, storing up memories to look back on when we got home. The morning we were scheduled to leave, my husband headed out in search of a rental car and the girls and I were somewhat hesitantly packing up in our hotel room. We didn’t want to go! The dolphins at the Shedd, actually seeing Seurat’s “Sunday Afternoon” on display at the Art Institute, looking out over the city from the top of the Navy Pier Ferris Wheel; well, who wanted to leave all that?

But of course we had to go, so we got busy trying to stuff clothes, souvenirs and a few things we found in the American Girl store into the last suitcase when we heard a knock on the door and there she was…a hotel maid asking if she could come in and tidy up. We were just waiting until daddy returned, so sure, of course! She and I struck up a conversation while the girls were curled up on the couch with stuffed animals and blankets…intent on watching Madeline find her lost Genevieve on Chicago’s public television station.

As she worked, this new acquaintance talked…cleaning sinks, changing sheets, emptying trash. We exchanged surface conversation, and then I asked her how long she’d lived in Chicago. She told me she was from the Ukraine; which opened up all kinds of questions for me. I’ve always wanted to go! She stopped what she was doing and I remember she hesitated for just a minute…and suddenly her story came tumbling out – one word falling on top of the one before it.

“My husband left us soon after we got here….I’m trying to support my family now; my daughter, my little boy and myself.” She filled in a few gaps…a few sentences sketching over what was surely a heart full of pain and disappointment.

Having brought his wife and family to this unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar country, her husband decided to go it alone; to leave this woman who had once thought her heart safe in his hands. And not only her, but his two children as well. He left duty and trust somewhere along the way, too, but I doubt he cared at that point. I wavered between the desire to hug her…or to go find and smack him.

Her story both broke my heart and bolstered it. Talk about a dichotomy. But I wish you could have seen the determination mixed with vulnerability on her face as she quietly told it to me. I sat there mesmerized…by her pain, yes, but I think also by her stark honesty. What was it that caused her to draw a complete stranger into her confidence?

As I’ve thought about her over the years, I think the answer is pretty simple. Sometimes there are stories that just have to be told. They may be stories of pain, but they can also be stories of clear, sanctifying joy. They’re too great to bottle up; they force their way out because they need to be said and heard and remembered. They need an audience because they matter too much. In some way, they’re too big for one person to manage alone.

We share universally the desire to be understood; to have someone, somewhere care about us, share the journey with us, “see” us. Some of us have to be coaxed a bit to tell our stories, but for some of us the telling comes easier. Regardless of which camp we fall into, there isn’t a person alive who doesn’t need the validation of being heard on some level.

I think about this when I read the pages that trace our faith history. Say what you will about Hagar, whose story is found tucked away in Genesis, but there are few I think who could argue with the pathos of her situation. Or who would take issue with the inspired, descriptive and perfectly beautiful name she gave to her Creator, “You are the God who sees me.”

You’d have to fast forward all the way to the 38th chapter of Job to find words in the Old Testament that catch my heart the way those seven do. Hagar puts language to the inherent want of every man, woman and child who has ever been – or ever will – be.

We want to be seen, known, understood. We want to matter. When we open up the deep places in ourselves to someone else, we are letting them see us, and that’s a vulnerable business.
Which is exactly why I think listening is one of the highest forms of human communication. When you listen, you hear things that may frustrate, anger, encourage, inspire, break your heart, or bring gratitude.

But – and this is the most important part – listening does the essential work of granting dignity. It tells the speaker that you find them worthy. It gives the exquisite gifts of significance and knowing.

Such a simple act on our part.

Immeasurable and intangible…to the eye, at least, but not the heart.  And certainly not the soul.

Because remember the soul building we’ve talked about before? This is part of that never-ending, exceptional work that we get to be a part of every day. Think of it this way…everything you do will either be sifted and thrown away as chaf, or preserved and glorified as beauty. So, when you take the time to deliberately see and actively listen to someone, you are doing something that lasts, something that has prints of the eternal all over it. The soul that you help form is forming yours in tandem.

Isn’t that the neatest thing? I love that reciprocal give and take that He put in motion. It’s just so like Him to give us these inexpressively beautiful hints of what the Eternal City will be…community in the best possible sense.

I’ll never see my Ukrainian friend again…not in this world, anyway. But I will pray and believe and trust that she triumphantly walked out of the shadows and into the sunshine…and that her children have grown up to call her blessed. Her determination was beautiful and must certainly have been given to those two she loved best.

I hope a little bit of it was passed on to me.