THE CHAIR WAS NEVER JUST A CHAIR 

Sometimes what a person needs most is somewhere they are allowed to stop. 

There was a recliner at Two Feathers.

Nothing particularly remarkable about it.

It wasn't an antique.

It wasn't carefully chosen because it represented some grand philosophy.

It was simply a comfortable chair.

And every couple of weeks, a gentleman would come through the door and sit in it.

He wasn't coming for a class.

He wasn't there for a Soul Portrait.

He didn't need to buy anything.

He needed the chair.

His son lived some distance away, and the drive required him to travel back and forth regularly.

Somewhere along that journey, Two Feathers became a place where he could stop.

So he would come in.

Sit down.

Lean back.

And rest.

There was no program for this.

No appointment category.

No clever name for the service being provided.

There was simply a chair...

and a human being who was tired.

The Things We Don't Know We're Offering

We tend to think of service as something we do.

We teach.

We help.

We make.

We give.

We solve.

We provide.

And certainly, service can be all of those things.

But sometimes what we offer another person is not something we do at all.

Sometimes we simply provide a place where nothing is required of them.

No explanation.

No performance.

No expectation that they make good use of their time.

Just:

Sit.

Rest.

You can stay awhile.

I don't know that I fully understood what that chair meant while it was happening.

It was part of the room.

One of many things inside Two Feathers.

But eventually this gentleman told me something I have never forgotten.

Those little periods of respite helped make it possible for him to continue doing what he needed to do for his son.

The chair had become part of his journey.

A Place to Put Something Down

Perhaps this is why certain places stay with us.

Not because of what happened there—

but because of what didn't have to happen there.

There are places where we don't have to explain ourselves.

People around whom we don't have to fill the silence.

Rooms where our shoulders somehow drop before we consciously tell them to.

A kitchen table where nobody minds if we sit longer than expected.

A porch where someone always seems to have another cup of coffee.

A friend's passenger seat.

The corner of a library.

A bench beneath a tree.

A chair.

We spend so much of our lives carrying things.

Responsibilities.

Schedules.

Other people's needs.

Our own expectations.

Sometimes hospitality is simply saying:

You can put that down here for a little while.

Perhaps We All Have a Chair

It doesn't have to be furniture.

Perhaps your "chair" is the way you listen.

Perhaps it is the extra place at your dinner table.

The message you send someone without requiring an answer.

The cup of tea you make before they ask.

The way people know they can call you.

The silence you don't rush to fill.

The permission you give someone to arrive without being entertaining, cheerful, productive, or okay.

We may never know what these things mean to another person.

And perhaps we don't need to.

The gentleman eventually got up from that recliner each time.

He continued his drive.

He continued showing up for his son.

Life continued asking things of him.

Two Feathers didn't remove any of that.

For a little while...

we simply gave him somewhere to rest between here and there.

And perhaps that was enough.

I think about that chair sometimes.

And I no longer believe it was ever just a chair.

Some forms of kindness ask us to do something.

Others simply leave a place open.