By Nancy Gordon, director, CLH Center for Spirituality and Aging

When my younger daughter was about four, she was sitting at the eating bar in our kitchen/family room as I worked on meal preparation. We were involved in a conversation that I thought was going fine. But she brought me up short when she said, “Mom, I need you to listen to me with your eyes.” I realized that I’d been only half listening as I did my work and I certainly was not looking at her and giving her my full attention. When I worked in a retirement community and was in daily contact with older adults, I often found myself in much the same position. I was listening, but I was also thinking about how this conversation was making me late to the meeting I was on my way to or I continued with my task of setting up a room for an event or folding bulletins as the conversation proceeded. It was ironic that often the people I was there to serve seemed to get in the way of doing my job!

On my better days, when I remembered why I was there, I was able to set aside my to-do list and tasks and actually listen, with my ears and my eyes. On those days I would come away with what felt like tremendous gifts. For it was in those times, when I gave my full attention to the resident in front of me, I received a story about their life. I remember meeting Carl in the Main Atrium one day. He had a picture with him of his parents and aunts and uncles taking a recreational boat ride on the pond in Chicago’s Garfield Park about 1902. His words to me as we looked at the picture together were, “I am so blest.” I knew that Carl lost his daughter, his only child, to polio when she was away at college. After moving to our community he’d lost his wife. He sometimes suffered from depression. Yet here he was saying, “I am so blest.” I left such conversations in awe of all that residents like Carl had been through and the strength and resilience that brought them to that day. I was amazed at their accomplishments, their memories of Chicago long before I had been there, their experiences of God’s faithfulness, their hopes for the future. And even when it was residents complaining about a service or a program that didn’t seem to be working to their satisfaction, on my good days, I could hear the needs for validation, for meaning, for support that were the root cause of their complaints (aside from the fact that sometimes we just needed to improve!).

In a culture that values busyness, productivity and youth, the old, who are no longer a part of “productive” society, are undervalued and often unappreciated. Their opinions are rarely sought; their stories are rarely heard. The people who care for them are often pre-occupied with their own lives and the many tasks that they must do both at work and at home. In that context they are present with older adults, completing the tasks of care but they are not present in a way that allows them to listen with their ears and their eyes.

Attentive and careful listening is the first step in providing spiritual care as part of our care for older adults. On one level we know this—but I’m convinced as with so many other things that we know, but do not necessarily practice—we don’t actually listen this way often enough. It takes focus and concentration. It calls us to let go of our own agenda and to be fully present to the person before us. It requires intentionality and discipline. And it requires at least a segment of time where the person we’re hearing and seeing is our only priority. We all know that when we’ve been in a place where someone has really listened to us, we leave feeling valued and affirmed. We may actually understand ourselves in a slightly different way when we’ve had the opportunity to reflect and to speak our story in someone’s presence. And as we are truly heard, we realize that our life does hold meaning, for ourselves and for others.

Attentive, careful listening is a wonderful gift to receive. And attentive, careful listening is a gift that we can give.