John did magic for our children's birthday parties. The guests were young, and easily mesmerized, but even I had no idea where the ace of hearts went. It seemed to melt into the deck when I wasn't looking. He intended to do a show last week for Parent's Night Out, but the briefcase of tricks went missing. 

This week at our marriage group, I had a stockpile of things I planned to say. There were disappointments that had brought me to tears in the last few days, and this was a safe place to bring those feelings. As it happened, I was last to speak, and there were only a couple of minutes left in our time together. 

But when I looked for the sadness, it had disappeared. 

Another woman had talked about her own griefs. A few days before, she had actually taken time to list them. I pictured her by a lake, writing, and letting the tears fall. She did not spell out the particulars to us, but I had guesses. 

Another member of the group talked about how his contribution had been glossed over. The explanation was that there was no one willing to show up. But he was. It hurt. 

Then there was a minister who had traveled to preach years ago, and crossed a time zone. Not realizing this, he waited for the congregation, and no one came. He left his sermon on the pulpit and drove away to commiserate with a friend. One of the first to arrive thought he saw the pastor pull out of the parking lot, but there were no cell phones then. Gradually, people walked in to the church, and not finding the preacher, someone offered to read the talk. 

I was not aware while it was happening, but in listening to these dear friends, my sadness melted into theirs. Rather than wanting them to validate my feelings, I was absorbed by my deep affection for them. What happened to them softened my own sadness, and healed it. 

It was my turn to speak. They would absolutely listen. And yet, I no longer needed to give voice to what felt like expired feelings.