I have been attending Meeting and thinking of myself as a Friend (off and on) for over ten years. This was an odd Meeting that occurred today. Of course, I experience things uniquely, and possibly even with a slanted understanding. This is what I experienced in Meeting. The beauty of Quakerism, though, is that the individual experience is so important and honored that everyone's perspective is worth considering.

I came into Meeting ready for some silence. Last time, I came in feeling chatty and got hushed. Someone hushed another young adult there, and I empathized with her briefly. Then moved on because she pretty much has a good life/ it made. Laughing is ok here.

So I wanted to savor the silence for a bit. I was not interrupted when the old man spoke. But my centering was not that successful. Probably wouldn't have been in a silent meeting either. So this Sweet Old Man tells us these personal things that I am horribly posting for the world to see: 1 he is 76. 2 his mother died at 91 3 his father at 86. His closest friends in his life have been three dogs. He has written six (unpublished) books.

This Sweet Old Man went on to say his third dog, Sammy, is in his car. He thinks about that dog, that the dog might die after him. Might outlive him. The sweet old man thinks he has "an estimate of ten to fifteen years left".

He touched my heart. I think I said something rough and unfeeling in afterthoughts. I left immediately after signing the lobbying post cards.

Only right now, in writing this am I realizing that this moment right now and this day of denial and numbness is a critical day for me. The message of this sweet old man was the most important message for me spiritually that I ever have heard in my life.

When people get old they talk about death and preparing for death. My inner spiritually wimpy juvenile laughs at this message, but it is just the way things are. Listening to an old man tell his story, a sad, depressing, and lonely tale finally after denial and numbness is opening me to compassion and caring.

We need to listen to old people. My father. My mother. People who really are more likely to die soon. What are they saying? Are your ears opened?

Are their words sticking even if we temporarily block out that Daddy is dying soon, or that Mom is also mortal, morbid even.

I am sorry I haven't been a better listener. To the old.

Don't die yet.