An Empty Seat, a Full Heart, and a Second Chance to Listen
Some fears come loud, like a slammed door or a marching band you didn’t invite.
Others just show up with their own cup of coffee and settle into the porch swing of your soul, creaking softly, waiting for you to sit beside them and say nothing at all.
I’ve known both.
Plymouth, 1977.
My neighbor Edie was a nurse, the kind whose eyes told the truth before her lips ever got involved. She cornered me one summer afternoon with the kind of ask that sits with you for decades.
“There’s a boy,” she said. “Your age. He’s dying. Just wants company. You’re kind—just sit with him.”
She didn’t need me to preach. Just to be.
But I didn’t go.
I stayed home, tangled up in the usual teenage fog:
Girls. God.
And whether I’d ever be good at anything besides drawing cartoons and dodging gym class.
What if I said something stupid?
What if I felt too much and couldn’t unfeel it?
Fear didn’t shout.
It just smirked and sounded suspiciously like my own voice.
And I listened.
That regret has been riding with me ever since—quiet, not cruel. Like a missed note in a hymn you used to know by heart.
These days, I’d sit beside that boy.
Not to solve or soothe. Just to be.
To sigh. Maybe say, “You’re not alone. These moments are short, but eternity is long.”
Maybe I’d say nothing at all.
Because I’ve learned something:
What’s invisible is often more real than what’s seen.
And what’s unsaid sometimes speaks the loudest.
Fear didn’t vanish as I aged.
It just changed its tone.
It stopped roaring and started whispering. And it turned, strangely, into a kind of teacher.
It taught me that I ache to be enough.
That presence matters more than words.
That silence, when shared, can sing.
That absence leaves a scar—but grace carves deeper.
And now?
I still hear that creaking swing sometimes.
Still feel fear patting the seat beside it.
But I don’t always sit.
Sometimes I step off the porch.
Sometimes I sit with someone else who’s scared.
Sometimes I write things like this.
Because maybe you’ve heard that swing, too.
And maybe today is the day you choose to move.
Tags:
fear, faith, courage, regret, spiritual growth, healing stories, real life, christian living, overcoming fear, presence over perfection, porch swing wisdom, grace in weakness, vulnerability, memoir, becoming whole, transformation, telling the truth, brian doyle style, wendell berry heart, stories that matter, living from the inside out, emotional honesty, light in the dark, soul conversations, listening well, being enough
Forming 2.0 
sometimes we’re scared, not knowing what’s expected of us,
and we can’t always be sure that we will do what’s needed,
sometimes all that’s needed is to be, to sit, to comfort.
I went through something like that too, and still regret not
giving her what she needed; it was such a small thing, I missed it
completely.
You nailed it. When we let someone else down, we let ourselves down, too.
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Judy—your words carry the quiet weight of someone who’s truly lived it. I felt that deep sigh between your lines, that ache for a moment missed, and the grace you’ve somehow grown around it. Thank you for sharing that piece of yourself here. Yes—sometimes just being is enough. And sometimes we only realize that when it’s too late to go back but not too late to go forward differently. You’re not alone in that kind of regret, and your presence here is a gift.
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Wow just wow you nailed it that is exactly how I feel most days like I have not gotten something done that quietly whispers to me now.
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Kari—thank you for this beautiful honesty. That whisper you mention—I know it well. It’s not always loud, but it lingers, doesn’t it? Like it’s asking not to shame us, but to call us deeper. You nailed something too: how unfinished things stay with us, quietly. But maybe that’s not a flaw—maybe that’s grace, still inviting us to show up now, even if we didn’t then. I’m honored the story resonated with you.
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Likewise I am also very honored that my story my beginning resonated with you as well.
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Well written. This made me feel a deeper compassion. A pause to reflect what I need to do. It comforts me, setting me apart from those who need more than necessary. Excellent piece or work.
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Hi Tim,
Thank you for your kind words—and for taking the time to read and reflect. It means a lot coming from someone who clearly knows how to listen to life as it unfolds, whether through a creaking roof in the night or a quiet moment watching the road stretch ahead.
Your stories remind me that the road isn’t just about the miles—it’s about the meaning we find along the way. Thanks for carrying that sense of wonder and reflection with you—and for sharing a piece of it here.
With gratitude,
-Dean
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