There's Room Here

I recently attended a counseling conference in Charleston, South Carolina.

Like most conferences, I expected to learn from the speakers. I imagined I would return home with pages of notes, new ideas, and perhaps a renewed sense of purpose.

Instead, I came home thinking about a bench.

One educational session had just ended, and there were about fifteen minutes before the next one began. I found a bench beside a water fountain and sat down to rest before heading to the next lecture.

A few moments later, an older gentleman approached with a rolling walker.

“Would you mind if I sit here?” he asked.

I smiled, motioned toward the bench, and said, “Please do.”

Neither of us knew that a simple question would become one of the most meaningful parts of the entire conference for me.

He introduced himself and began telling me about his life. He shared stories of his military career, his faith, returning to college at fifty, and eventually earning his doctorate.

Then he told me about his family.

He spoke about one of his sons who had struggled throughout school. It wasn’t until later that he came to understand that his son had been living with ADHD.

He paused.

Then he quietly told me that his son had lost his life at the age of twenty.

Without thinking, I reached over and held his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

He smiled with a kindness that I have not forgotten.

He told me that losing his son changed the course of his life. He wanted to understand depression. He wanted to understand ADHD. He wanted to understand what it feels like to grow up believing you’re different. His grief became part of the reason he dedicated himself to helping others as a therapist.

We talked for about fifteen minutes.

Long enough that we were both late for the next session.

Neither of us seemed to mind.

Before we hurried off to our next lecture, we stood, shook hands, and exchanged one last piece of our stories.

I told him I would be finishing my Doctor of Ministry in Christian Counseling at the end of August.

He smiled warmly and said,

“Of course you will.”

There was something about the way he said it.

It wasn’t flattery.

It wasn’t casual encouragement.

It felt like someone who had walked a long road recognizing another traveler still making the journey.

Over the rest of the conference, we crossed paths two more times among hundreds of people. The last time, I simply smiled, waved, and headed home.

I have thought about that brief conversation ever since.

The conference wasn’t quite what I expected.

To be honest, the event disappointed me.

The gift, however, did not. The gift was simply this brief moment in time with another person asking for rest.

As I drove back home to Myrtle Beach, I realized something.

Sometimes we confuse the event with the gift.

I had traveled to Charleston expecting to learn from the people on the stage.

Instead, I learned from the man who asked if he could sit beside me.

Nothing about our conversation was manufactured.

There was no networking.

No agenda.

No performance.

No attempt to gain anything from one another.

It was simply two people sharing a piece of their lives.

In a world that often feels hurried, distracted, and transactional, that kind of encounter feels almost sacred, especially to someone like me with ADHD.

God puts people in our path when we need them the most.

It also caused me to think differently about something I have reflected on for many years, especially throughout graduate school and in the seminary.

I have often thought about the Great Commission as something we go out and do.

This week, I found myself wondering if it is perhaps also a way of being.

Perhaps “Go...” is not only about the places we travel.

Perhaps it is also about the way we travel.

Perhaps it begins by noticing the person God has already placed beside us, on the bench.

By staying in the conversation.

By listening long enough for someone to tell us who they are.

When I think about Jesus, I am often struck by how present He was with people.

He saw them.

He listened.

He stayed.

I believe one of the greatest gifts we can offer another person is simply to be fully present while they are telling us who they are.

That afternoon on a bench reminded me of something I have been trying to understand for a long time.

Perhaps this is what it means to be human.

Two strangers sharing a bench.
One asking for a place to sit.
The other making room.

Perhaps this is part of healing.

Not that grief disappears, but that it slowly becomes compassion for the people who continue walking the road behind us.

Perhaps this is what it means to grieve.

Not forgetting.
Not moving on.
But allowing love to continue finding expression long after loss has changed us.

Perhaps this is what it means to believe.

Not only in the places we go or the things we accomplish, but in the quiet ways we choose to be with another person. Maybe the Great Commission is lived not only in extraordinary moments, but in ordinary ones—when we notice the person already beside us and remain long enough to hear their story.

And perhaps this is one small way we find our way home.

Not because we finally arrive somewhere.

But because, every so often, we discover that home is also found in those unmanufactured moments when two fellow travelers recognize one another along the way.

I thought I traveled to Charleston for an educational conference this week.

Instead, I came home with a quiet story.

A story about being present for someone else.

A story that reminded me there is still room on the bench.

There is still room in the conversation.

There is still room in our lives to see one another truly and to be intentional.

There is room here.

For the client.

For the stranger.

For the grieving father.

For the woman at the well.

For the reader.

For you…

Perhaps that is one of God’s quietest gifts.

One fellow traveler to another. I hope to see you soon, along the journey.

If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to join me for future Fellow Traveler essays exploring what it means to be human, to heal, to grieve, to believe, and to find our way home.

www.bcwgofsc.com
michellecoreycolson.substack.com

Warmly,

Michelle

Michelle Corey Colson, MA, MA, LPCA, D. Min. (Cand.)
Founder, Beach Counseling & Wellness Group of SC
Creator of The Grasoma Method™ – A Grace-Based Somatic Approach