The power of presence

By Jacob Doran

Some people have a gift for helping others.

They aren't always the people you think of—doctors, physical therapists, counselors or care givers. Sometimes, the most powerful gift is the gift of presence.

My mind goes back to a difficult time in my life, when I hurt so deeply that I couldn't even share it with others. I had gone to a friend's house, just to be around people, but I wasn't feeling very conversational. As if sensing the anguish I was feeling, his six-year-old daughter crawled into my lap and laid her head on my chest.

About 20 or 30 minutes later, when the child got down and went about her day, I realized that—without ever saying a word—she had facilitated an ineffable healing that I still struggle to understand. I felt as though I had been the recipient of a gift—something that words fall somehow short of.

But what? She had not actually done anything. And yet, she had touched something deep within me through her very presence.

That's the secret.

That, in a nutshell, describes the relationship between a Bernese mountain dog named Moritz (featured in this week's issue) and the countless individuals whose lives have been touched through his visits—not by his words of comfort, for he can speak none. Not by his warm embrace, for he cannot offer one. Not even by his acts of kindness or noble deeds, though animals are not beyond such things. These are not what he specializes in.

What touches the beneficiaries of Moritz's healing ways is his calm presence. He seems to know, instinctively when others are sick or hurting, and he gives them the only gift he knows how to give. It is the gift of an understanding and compassionate presence.

Mortiz's owner, Barry Schieber of Bigfork, has written much about the lessons in humanity and compassion that he has learned from his dog. Though I haven't spent much time with Moritz—he didn't seem too interested in me, when we met, which might be a good thing considering his visible connection with the sick and hurting—I would like to say that I too have learned something from him.

Like small children, animals have the ability to sense what grown men and women are often oblivious to, and they are not so attuned to our cultural predilections and predispositions that they have at last become indifferent or too absorbed in other things to notice what's right in front of them.

Every day, I am interact with people who whose hurts and needs go far deeper than I am ever aware of. Some of those needs are absolutely staggering. Most of the time, people do not mention those needs, either because they consider it a private matter or because the doubt that anyone really cares—an assumption which may bare more truth than we like to admit.

I wear more hats than I can usually keep track of at any given time, and I am as guilty as anyone of not noticing what's right in front of me, because my thoughts are already taken up with what I have to do next and—lest I forget—what I am supposed to be doing right now. Call it staying on task or whatever you will, but when it means that I no longer have time to notice what's right in front of me, I've lost one of the most precious qualities of life and humanity. I've been reduced to an efficient machine.

There is a man who lives just across the street from me, whom I know I need to visit, but I almost have to schedule an opportunity to do so. And yet, I realize that even a few minutes could have a profound impact on his day.

That's all it takes for Moritz. Just a few minutes out of his day. No life-changing words of wisdom. No mighty deeds for which he will be remembered, except that it stopped. He acknowledged what he saw. He made a connection. And, then, he went on his way.

I haven't spent much time around Barry, either, but I can tell that he is probably a lot more like Moritz today than he was when he first met the 12 week-old pup with a purple collar, who seemed at once both playful and serene.

I see Barry visit with people. I see him notice what I would have missed. I hear him ask questions that I would not have asked. I see him take time to make those brief connections, however insignificant they seem—a moment of sharing, whether in conversation or a simple invitation to meet Moritz.

Brief. Honest. He doesn't try to say just the right words. He doesn't ask his dog to do tricks. He stops just long enough so that his presence—and, of course, Moritz's presence—can cheer someone's day. He asks a few questions and listens intently as other people share with him. It is enough. You can learn a lot in a few minutes.

I've come to realize that a few minutes can make all the difference in the world. Come to think of it, I would value more the friend whose presence is a regular part of my life, even if it's just for a few minutes at a time, than one who visits for hours but once or twice a year. Presence means a lot, however brief it may be.

A person who volunteers to help the elderly told me recently, "It doesn't take much effort to care." How true.

It took little effort for a six-year-old girl to curl up in my lap, and yet she did what no adult with words of guidance and encouragement had been able to do. In her unspoken way, she told me, "I know you're hurting. Let me sit with you for a while."

It was a connection that I will never forget. I still feel the warmth of that encounter—the profound depth and simplicity of a child's compassion. It has change they way I view compassion, altogether.

When was the last time you took time, even if for only a moment, with some else's life and needs? Never underestimate how priceless the gift of presence can be.