The words were simple: “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” But for a young girl, they had an impact that spanned decades.
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I was sixteen years old and sitting at a bar. (Don’t ask, it was the 70’s in New York). A boy from my high school—one of the cool kids, someone who barely talked to me otherwise—came over to me and said “Hey, I’m sorry to hear about your father. I just wanted to tell you that.” His name was Tom B. He sat down and talked with me for a while. I don’t remember another thing he said that night. But I remember that he was the only one of my high school class besides my closest friends to make an effort to say, “Hey. I’m sure what you are going through is hard.” We talked for an hour, two, and then he left, I left, and we never saw each other again.
In fact, I didn’t see any of my high school friends again. I want to college miles away, and muddled through life as best I could for many years. This was years before the internet, or cell phones or Facebook or Instagram or anything. A conversation on the bar stool was about all the connection you had.
Until this year or last year when I slowly started re-connecting with a few people from my high school. I somehow got on a very analog-seeming email list: one person from my school took it upon themselves to email out news of births and deaths and goings on of my graduating class.
One of those emails informed me that Tom B’s father had just died. And of course, since his words were ones I still remembered all these decades later, I dropped everything I was doing, emailed him and said, “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
And I told him how much it meant to me that he had come over and said those words all those years ago. How the fact that he had taken the time to sit down and talk to me meant something to me, and it was something I had never forgotten. And how every time someone I didn’t know very well experienced a death of someone close, I would drop everything to say, “I’m sorry to hear about your loss.” Because I never know the one time those words might be important.
Tom B. and I have since connected over a lot of happier moments, along with some sad ones, through the magic Facebook. I always look forward to what he has to say. We still haven’t seen each other or spoken to each other in person since that moment just after graduating high school. It’s a virtual connection that is one of the thousands of connections that are now a part of the fabric of my life. But the connection is meaningful because it means something to both of us.
What words can you say today that someone might remember 35 years from now?
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Photo: iStock
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Photo: Yevy Photography / flickr


Unfortunately many of mine are the ones that sting. My dad died when I was 12, too, and when a year or two later I was playing with a new friend on the playground. We were swinging in swings- I was swinging myself, and her father was pushing her. Somehow we got on the topic, and he said to her, lightheartedly: “Aren’t you glad you have me around?” The words echo, and they hurt more the older I get and the more I understand how cruel an adult has to be to say that in front of a child. It… Read more »
My dad died when I was 12 and 1 person said that to me and I really remembered it well. I’ve not seen her since I was 16 and she wasn’t a close friend of mine but I remember her for that. It’s all about the little things
We’re often scared of not knowing what to say. We can also have an unconscious fear that death, mourning and sadness are infectious diseases. In my experience, it may not even be what we say: it’s just a question of being there. Two theologian friends lost a son, suicide. The next morning, quite early, I was on their doorstep, and we cried together. Often, there are no words, or we find them as we reach out to the other in pain. But if we don’t do the reaching out, they can never know that we’re thinking for them, empathize with… Read more »
bobbt, sometimes your comments are very touching, especially when you share parts of your life, and your insights. That is really the kind of connection I mean.
Yeah, sometimes the most poignant words of consolation come from the most unlikely sources.
It really is the little things.