When the Easiest Thing is Really the Hardest

Last spring, I brought my autistic son to a special holiday service for young people with disabilities. I’d brought him several times in the past, and it’s truly the only place I’ve ever felt any kind of real spiritual connection. Or perhaps even the possibility of the presence of God. It’s also the place in which I was reminded of how the broken among us are the least seen and heard by the wider world, but also how we are the very people who often model best for each other what being seen — and being heard — actually look and feel like.

How often do you ask people, “How are you?” Several times a day? A dozen times in a week? It’s one of the most common ways we interact with other human beings. Now ask yourself how often you listen for an answer — a real answer. If we’re honest, when we ask that simple how are you question, we’re already thinking about something else as we assume the person will say, “I’m fine, and you?”

Have you ever tried to offer an honest answer to that question? If not, you should. In many ways, it’s the ultimate social experiment. It is the simplest of inquiries, yet it is one almost never in search of an honest reply. Asking the question is as automatic as sneezing but so, predictably, is disinterest in the answer. Unless of course it’s “Fine, thanks.”

Now back to last spring. My son and I went downstairs to what is known as the Shireinu (Our Songs) service at a local synagogue. It’s offered four times a year, coinciding with major Jewish holidays. Last spring, we were there for the Passover service. At the door was a mother I’d seen before, with her son. I can’t quite place his age. Facial hair always throws me off. He could have been 25. Or 45. It didn’t matter. All are welcome at this service.

The mom (whose name I didn’t know) was assisting her son in handing out printed programs for the service. I took one. I offered holiday greetings and asked how she was. “I’m hanging on by my fingernails,” she replied. I could have nodded and walked away. But the lack of compassion and near-cruelty of doing that was beyond me. I couldn’t ask that perfunctory question, get an honest, aching reply, and just walk away.

“I’m so sorry you’re feeling that way, that things are so hard. I’m glad you made it here to services, and I hope you and your son will find some joy in that.” I touched her arm. She thanked me. Then my son and I went inside and took our seats.

Fast forward to the fall, and to Rosh Hashanah, the next date on the Shireinu holiday calendar. The crowd was bigger this time, but this mom and her son were there again. I offered her the traditional shana tova greeting and asked her how she was. “Hanging on by my teeth,” she replied. “Last time, you said it was your fingernails. I’m not sure if this is progress or not.” “You remembered what I told you last time?” she answered. “Yes, of course I did.” She smiled and took her seat next to her son.

I still don’t know her name. But I am pretty confident that she knows she was seen and heard. Because the thing that is so automatic, so easy, isn’t really easy at all. You don’t know what you might unleash in someone, what joy, or ache, or rage might emerge as a reply. But if you really don’t want to wrestle with what might be an uncomfortable answer, perhaps it’s best to reconsider asking the question. Or conversely, take a risk and pay attention to the reply. I can promise you that the gratitude on the receiving end will change how you think about all the people around you that you comfortably take for granted, the ones who just might be eager, if not desperate, for someone to pause long enough to listen to the answer.