I am currently writing over a month after these experiences back in Philadelphia. These few days were some of my most memorable, still — but I will have to defer to my journal for most details. I was essentially trapped in Spokane as forest fires raged, blocking any westward escape route. There were two active fires in the local area, forcing evacuations of suburbs at the outskirts of Spokane. Luckily, the Brunton family (Sheila and Paul), 70-or-so retirees, quite literally left the door to their home open for me.

On the first night in their home, there was no one there! Paul dropped me off and then had to be on his way for his on bicycle tour out in Montana. He showed me where the shower was, a fresh bed in the basement, and welcomed me to use anything in the kitchen. The house was mine, according to him — even though we had just met.

He left quickly and I savored the sweet generosity that is unthinkable of now, in a big city, writing from the comforts of every day life.

His wife, Sheila, would be coming home the next day from a trip of her own to visit her sister.

The following day, as air quality indicators in the area blew the caps off the scales, I prepared some handmade pasta, hoping that it’d be a great way to thank Sheila and welcome her home to dinner.

It was not a great way — I had never made handmade pasta successfully before! And this was not going to be the time I did. They came out all gnarly and stiff and awkward — the sauce I made was more of a vommity-mess.

Of course, Sheila came in with the widest grin on her face, the patience of a saint, and gleefully ate up my limp noodle creation.

Over the next three days, Sheila and I became good friends. The best of friends, in fact. We walked, and cooked, and ate fancy food, and most importantly, we talked.

In my journal, I thought about what made our friendship so special.

I didn’t expect to befriend a 70 year old woman when I arrived in Spokane. A friend that I would truly befriend and confide in.

Often with older folks, I grow close with them by virtue of protection. They are my watchers, my unconditional lovers.

They know little about me but where I am going and coming from.

For them, that is enough.

I no longer think that unconditional love is something we need — a “mother’s love”.

No, what we need is conditional love — the love of friendship. Love conditional on us being us. When the intrinsic, unchanging characteristics of our truest selves is what is desired, what is necessary for another’s love — that is the truest, most honest, fulfilling, and pure form of love.

Mothers don’t choose who they love. Friends do. And for people to choose you — over others — is perfect love. It is love with choice.

By the end of my fourth day in the Brunton home, Sheila knew more about me than most of my friends.

Simply put, I think what I appreciated about my relationship with Sheila is that — despite our 50-year age difference — I was an equal, more toward a friend than a grandson. It wasn’t all listening to her advice — which was fantastic — but it was her listening and valuing what I said, too. For the first time I felt like what I say matters. For the first time, my words carried weight — I just needed to straighten my shoulders and be where people cared enough to listen. I felt empowered. She made me feel like I was special — that we connected because it was her, and it was me.

Here is a vignette for your tasting.

Sheila and I were standing in the kitchen — and I don’t remember which night or day it was or what we were cooking. Maybe she was mixing the butter to those lovely and delectable crumbly huckleberry muffins. Yeah, I’ll say that. But that doesn’t matter too much.

We were somewhere in the lull of a conversation and she turned round with a glint her eyes and a tilt in her head. She said, “You know, Ben, here’s something you don’t really get — you don’t realize until you’re 70.”

“What’s that?”

She paused, feeling the words in her mouth before delivering them. “That you’re okay,” she said, her warm grin growing.

I furrowed my brows. “I don’t follow. You mean that I’m safe from danger or harm or bad things? … or that I’m … enough?”

She smiled.

“That you’re enough.”

Before I left, I left a thank you card. I spent a lot of time on it and I am guilty of taking a picture of what I wrote before I sealed it. Here’s a few snippets from it.

Dear Sheila —

Wow. What words are there to describe these past few days? Firstly, I am beyond moved by Paul’s and your generosity and trust. But far more than that, I am moved by your words and company.

As you said, it is not every day that a Chinese-American 20-something-year-old from Philadelphia gets to confide in and soak up the wisdom of a 70 year old country lady from Spokane. What an irony it is that two non-believers experienced something so unquestionably divine.

…

Often times, in our conversation — it felt like I was watching a really good movie — the type I like where nothing happens, but everything does too. The quiet planets that make our heart beat have changed course, but you and I, and this home still look the same.

That is all to say thank you and I will miss our conversations — especially your morning questions that told me you had been thinking about what I said — that I was heard on the deepest of levels.

I hope you, too, will continue to love the world and yourself. You have made a profound impact on my life.

I see new colors and hear new notes.

Thank you for that. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I doubt many will understand the grand beauty of the conversations and connection we had. But I am okay with that. It will be a memory cherished truly only by you and me, and that is perfect.

With Love and Gratitude,

Ben

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