V is for Vacant

I received an email recently from someone who reads 37days, a writer I’m sure you will be hearing more of, a woman named Amy McCracken. She was responding to one of my recent alphabet posts, and in responding, shared a story of her own, one that moves and sways and resonates and is the best way I know how to talk about the letter “V.” And so, an excerpt from a recent email that Amy McCracken sent her Dad about a business trip, one on which she “felt so false…like I am not the conference call/business trip girl people might think I am.”

Dad,

As you know, I flew to Orlando in a very foul mood…By the time I got to the meetings, I wanted nothing more than to take the shuttle back to the airport, get on a flight home, and head straight for my pillow-top mattress in my bedroom overlooking the lake. 

But I didn’t. I arrived in time for a catered lunch, broke out into workshops and small groups, and brainstormed about ways to be even more successful at my job—all the while making sure that on the night of the event the DJ arrives on time, the donated Chick-fil-a is kept at proper temperature, and the port-a-johns are delivered to the correct spot.

On the second day, I talked to my peer group about the big secrets of building relationships–BE NICE, LISTEN, REMEMBER THINGS THEY TELL YOU, CALL THEM TO ASK ABOUT SOMETHING THEY TOLD YOU ABOUT THE FIRST TIME YOU MET, DON’T SPEND THE FIRST MEETING ASKING FOR MONEY—GET TO KNOW PEOPLE, BE YOURSELF. Be yourself. The entire time I was speaking, I felt like an imposter–like I was nowhere near being able to take my own advice.   

I left that evening to fly home. I got to the airport early…and started making my way to my gate. TSA employees threw away my toothpaste and some pricey hair gel and made sure that my curling iron was indeed a curling iron. The airport was so crowded…

At the gate, there was only one seat. Disheveled, I sat down. Immediately, I noticed the really (really) old man beside me and thought, he can’t possibly be here alone—I bet I just took someone’s seat. He’s so old. He can’t be doing this alone. I turned to him and said, "Is someone sitting here?"

"Yes. You."

"Good. I thought maybe someone was beside you."

"No one is beside me. No one has been beside me. That seat has been vacant for a very long time."

And then he started to cry. 

And I just sat there. He stopped crying. I sat there until we had to board. And then I sat next to him on the plane. We did not speak. For a little while, through the oval window, I could see the Atlantic Ocean below me.

We did not speak. Then the sun went down and the clouds were red and orange. Then it was dark and I could not see anything. I sat beside him. He had his hands in his lap and might have dozed off for a few minutes. We did not speak. Descending, I could see the lights of the city. He shuffled his feet back and forth. We did not speak. Not for 2 hours. 

When we landed and got to the end of the walkway leading from the plane, we still did not speak. But he put his things down. And he gave me the longest, sweetest hug and said, "Thank you. Thank you for sitting beside me.”

It was the first time in two days that I have felt good about who I am, where I have been, and where I am going.

I should have been the one thanking him.

I love you, Dad. Goodnight.”

First of all, that’s one lucky Dad that his daughter writes him such emails. And one lucky daughter, that she has a dad who reads them and who, I imagine, holds her up when she needs it—who no doubt sits beside her when she is feeling vacant, as it were.

What I saw in Amy’s story was that we all—in some significant ways—have an empty seat beside us. We are, all of us, vacant in some way, with a void that needs filling, even wordlessly, especially wordlessly. Sometimes, we don’t need people to fix us, but just be with us. Who are we there for in this way? Who is there for us in this way? Not to fix, but to be.

Sometimes, vacant is how we feel when we are being who others expect us to be, not who we really are. Sometimes, vacant is how we feel when we don’t know who we are.

V is for vacant. Sit in the empty seat. And if you’re the one with the vacant seat beside you, clear off your bags and open the space. Magical things might happen, like a two-hour, silent vigil that buoys you, holds you afloat, makes you feel like you have some company on this magical and scary journey home.

At the end of that journey, give a sweet hug—either literally or figuratively—to let your angel know. It might be that the ride was just as important for them.

[Photo from here]