Carla Discovers Empathy’s Commitment
Well Beyond Sympathy
Your hear-and-read option:
Listen to Carla’s story as you read it (below).
Carla, a woman whose 70-odd years had been cultivated with the same precision as her prize-winning roses, stood amid the wreckage.
Her quiet world, usually fragrant with the perfume of blooming hybrid teas, now smelled faintly of scorched canvas and crushed petals.
A rogue hot air balloon, making an unscheduled descent, had turned her beloved rose garden into a scene of horticultural devastation. The basket had smashed down, snapping thick stems and tearing leaves, while the panicked crew, scrambling to escape the traumatic scene, had inadvertently stomped on countless delicate buds.
The first to arrive was Arthur, her perpetually optimistic neighbor, also in his 70s. He pranced into the decimated garden, surveyed the broken foliage, and beamed. "Well, Carla," he declared, hands on his hips, "at least now you have space for a larger lawn! Think of the possibilities!"
Carla had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop a giggle from escaping. Arthur’s unwavering positivity, while well-intentioned, felt as flimsy as a discarded balloon fabric. He felt for her, certainly, but his cheer offered no real solace, no commitment to the messy reality of what had just happened.
His was a sentiment, a well-meaning but ultimately superficial nod to her distress.
A few hours later, her grandson, Leo, showed up. Leo, a quiet teenager, didn't offer any gushing apologies or bright-side platitudes. He just stood there for a moment, taking in the scene with a solemn expression that mirrored her own quiet despair.
He didn't say, "I'm so sorry, Grandma," or "That's terrible." Instead, he vanished, only to reappear moments later with his laptop.
Leo didn't speak as he knelt beside a particularly mangled bush. He simply opened his laptop, navigated to a horticulture forum, and began scrolling.
"Looks like you can propagate from cuttings," he mumbled, eyes glued to the screen. "And some of these roots might be salvageable. I'm looking up the best nurseries for replanting the specific ones you had."
Leo’s quiet commitment was palpable. He wasn't just expressing sorrow; he was feeling sad with her. He understood the intricate bond Carla had with her roses, the hours of careful tending, the quiet joy they brought. He knew the loss wasn't just aesthetic; it was a blow to her routine, her passion.
Without being asked, he started. He found a sturdy rake and began gently clearing the larger pieces of debris. Then, with surprising gentleness for a lanky teenager, he helped Carla carefully snip away the hopelessly broken parts of the rose bushes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He researched soil amendments and pruning techniques.
The next afternoon, Leo reappeared, not with more platitudes, but with flats of vibrant marigolds and petunias. "They're just temporary," he explained, almost shyly, "to bring some color back until we can get the new roses in."
Together, they dug small holes and nestled the cheerful annuals into the ravaged soil, a small act of rebellion against the devastation.
He returned every few days that week, checking on the temporary flowers, sketching out a new, more resilient layout for the rose beds based on his research.
Years later, Carla still cherishes those temporary flowers. She laughs about Arthur’s "larger lawn" comment, a distant memory of well-meant but hollow words.
But it's the image of Leo, silently researching, dirt under his fingernails, committed to helping her rebuild, that she remembers most vividly.
It was in his quiet actions that she truly found the first tender shoots of her own resilience.
Also hear and read Carla’s “parent story” from 2024
Go to “Empathy’s New Tilt for Erik“
Age: Our Greatest Asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
Weekly Stories About Aging Well
Stories about addressing ageism.
Stories about handling ableism.
Stories about thriving during the second half of life.
Accolade: “Love reading your stories. You never disappoint.” - Mary K.
How to use “My Latest Legacy Nugget” resources to share
your “52 Shades of Graying” comment with a family member or friend.
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - birthday
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - graduation day
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - holiday greeting
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - special day
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - wedding anniversary
Template for “My Latest Legacy Nugget” note - wedding day
See all past issues of “52 Shades of Graying.”
See all past chats of “52 Shades of Levity.”
Check guidelines for your “52 Shades of Graying” Discussion Group.
There are children like that. Gentle and thoughtful.
I probably wouldn’t have made it through my first year of college without my first post-high- school roommate, Jerry.
Jerry had the heart of a high school teacher even before he received his first diploma. And, after all, he had a cool Chevy. Both became important for me because I was a green freshman, who had cerebral palsy, walked with difficulty and didn’t speak clearly.
I bought a grocery cart to hold my books and give me balance as I walked each morning the one block from our dorm to Old Main on the Platteville State University campus.
But Jerry was always there to give me a ride in his warm car when the sidewalks were full of snow or icy.
And, he and Tom, our housefellow, became my quarterbacks when it came to my task of gaining acceptance as one of the first few students in 1961 with a disability to gain acceptance from the other guys in our dorm.
* When have you found an increased sense of personal resilience through the unexpected empathy of another person?