In the past few days since Benjamin went into a residential treatment center I have heard from other people who have faced the same choice. Drugs, depression, eating disorders, violence, and mental illness strike fiercely and frequently. I knew it obliquely, but I am learning it viscerally. There is a string of compassionate comments from friends on my Facebook wall, and when I scratch the surface I remember their stories too. His sister. Her mother. Her aunt. His child. 

A woman came visiting to offer comfort. The conversation circled back to her own hurts, which are scabbed but have not healed. We hugged and found things to laugh about, without any illusion that the strife has ended. 

I recall a time I led a small group at a conference. Only two people had signed up, and the circle of chairs was intimate. But three minutes before starting time another person peeked in the door. 

"Come in!" I invited. She looked nervous but sat down. We introduced ourselves, and began to delve into the topic. Just then two more people slipped in, after double checking the sign. We welcomed them in and recreated a  sense of safety. Four more people found their way past their own looming inhibitions and into the room. The time we shared flew by, as we connected, and listened with the intensity born of vulnerability. 

That was long ago. I am less surprised now when I hear the quiet confession of a mother who has not spoken to her daughter in ten years, or the man who can no longer allow his brother in his home. If someone wants to talk, I am ready. The circle expands when you pull up a chair.