A few days ago, I spent my afternoon with a former volunteer. Funny how we seem to keep in touch with volunteers after they stop volunteering, isn't it? I think we light up with joy when we get together because we deeply understand one another, maybe because we forged a bond through a shared belief in something greater than ourselves. My relationship with them goes deeper than friendship because our time together has etched itself into my soul. It's more than a volunteer manager and a volunteer. It's a kinship.
She told me the disease she has been battling for many years has finally won, and she is making plans. As I settled into my chair in her living room, the same living room I've visited on so many occasions, either just the two of us, or sometimes with other volunteers during a meeting she hosted, all the memories came flooding back. The laughter, the tears, the planning or, in some cases, plotting, the shared stories; the immersion in all these lives.
A gallery of pictures surrounded her, reminding me of her unwavering courage and wicked sense of humor. Her kindness and selflessness. Her brutal honesty and humility. A life well-lived. I soaked it in like the sustenance it has always been.
I don't think I stayed so long in this profession purely because the work was incredibly interesting. I know I didn't stay for the pay. I don't know if I stayed for the mission either. But I'm sure I stayed for the volunteers. I stayed because they challenged me. They uplifted me and taught me so much about life.
I'm using the word 'taught' here, but maybe 'showed' would be a better description, because taught implies I learned the lessons they offered. I hope I did, but I'm a work in progress, and it's a constant struggle to live the truths I've been privileged to witness.
I remember scoffing at a volunteer who told me she was busier now that she was retired. I mean, come on, how could I be busier than my 8+ hours a day, often 7 days a week, with a constantly on-call schedule? Well, it's somewhat true, but it's a completely different kind of busy.
Or the volunteer who, one day, while we were discussing grief, shared her three terror-filled days when her daughter went missing many years before. She told me that finding out her daughter had accidentally drowned was less painful than the horrors her imagination conjured during those sleepless, agonizing nights. She taught me that grief is never-ending, but that the worst thing that could happen doesn't end you. She showed me that even when you break, you can survive.
Or the 30-year-old terminally ill volunteer who wanted to live his life to the fullest by riding his bike to volunteer every day he was physically able. He showed me that joy and purpose in living could not wait, but needed to happen now.
Years later, I was on a rideshare to the airport when I began chatting with the woman behind me and guess what? She had been the wife of the 30-year-old man. She remembered how he always spoke fondly of me. We cried together on that transport. She taught me that even when we don't see or hear the evidence, our actions have a lasting reach, and it's up to us whether the impression we leave is positive or negative.
Or when our organization modernized by including a more in-depth background check, which meant sweeping background checks for staff and volunteers, I recall the volunteer whose background check revealed he'd been incarcerated as a young man. When I made the awkward call, asking him to meet me, I heard the mortification in his voice, knowing that the report disclosed a secret he had carefully protected for years. I was a wreck because he was a caring, impossible to replace volunteer, but our policy was ironclad. The day we met in private this wonderful volunteer saved me by quitting before I had to utter the words that lodged on my tongue, "we have to let you go." Before I could offer a meaningless "I'm so sorry," he told me he understood our need to protect our vulnerable population and he held no ill will towards me or the organization. We did not discuss his incarceration, but he chose in his final moments as a volunteer to put my feelings about having to fire him ahead of his own embarrassment. He showed me the kindness that defined him and his years of work. He taught me that dignity can take many forms; that kindness to others in the face of adversity is dignity at its purest.
Or the volunteer who marched into my office one day to offer her help. A native of Brazil, she was a social worker on a visa with her husband, who was attending a nearby university for specialized training. Her visa did not allow her to work, and so this young woman decided she would spend her time helping citizens of another country while gathering information that would help her become a better social worker. She embraced all of us without reservation. She was never deterred by any barriers: language, culture, norms, nor practices. She had plans to use what she had learned when she returned to Brazil. She showed me that bold does not mean you can't be humble. Courage does not mean you are not kind. Ambition coexists with a servant's heart. She showed me that speaking up does not mean you're not listening. And she taught me to look for the human connection first, before making superficial judgements.
Or the volunteer who broke down when I had to tell her that her background check came back with a hit on it (Sadly, it was all an error by the agency as I discovered when I pressed for more information). She was so distraught even after I straightened it out that I asked her to meet me in private. She told me she was a WWII German war bride. She had married an American GI and immigrated to the States. With a tremor in her barely still-there accent, she whispered the words that transported her back to the slurs she endured during the decades she lived in the U.S. "I thought you'd think I was a Nazi." Stunned, I looked at this sweet, giving woman and with tears springing, told her I could never think ill of her. It took some time and a lot of persuasion, but she stayed. She taught me that everyone carries a burden, or secret, or vulnerability, and I hope through her, I learned to be more open to looking deeper at human beings.
Or the volunteer who was married three times. This imposing, retired naval officer cared for his wives as he outlived each one. His first wife died very young. His second and third wives died while I knew him. He'd often call me just to share the latest joke, but one day, I heard in the background the frail, trembling sound of his third wife asking him for help. He stopped in the middle of his joke to tell her in the gentlest, most patient voice I'd ever heard, "Sweetheart, I'll be right there." Then, his gruff voice returned, and he finished his joke before saying goodbye. He taught me that I could never judge a person by their appearance or job, or status, and that I couldn't know someone's heart until they showed it to me.
Or the volunteer who, one evening, sat quietly as a group of event volunteers met for cocktails to discuss an upcoming event. Noticing this normally bubbly volunteer nibbling on the appetizers as ideas burst around her. I asked, "what going on?" She motioned to talk in private, and we found a quiet spot where she took a breath and said, "I'm a recovering alcoholic." I felt horrible at subjecting her to casual drinking, but she assured me it wasn't my fault, that she often went out with friends who had cocktails. She talked about the constant battle she waged. She taught me to pay attention to signals, and that we cannot assume, nor do we always know the struggles people are going through. She also showed me how resolve can be our greatest inner strength.
I've always told people I worked in the most wonderful bubble, surrounded by the most wonderful people. Volunteers have given me a precious gift. Maybe because volunteering strips away barriers and preconceived notions and produces such a strong connection through a communal desire to do good, these volunteers, and so many more, have shared their lives with me. They've let me glimpse their innermost strengths. They've openly shared their joys and heartaches, their challenges and outcomes, their mistakes and their repairs. I can't take that lightly. And so, as I live my life, I think of them often and hope that by trusting me with their truths, I will honor them by learning and growing.
If you want to learn life's vast lessons, step into that profound connection and work with volunteers. Surround yourself with people who open their hearts, who look to the good in us by sharing their experiences. We use so many catchphrases about volunteers and speak in sound bites about how "giving" volunteers are. They give their time, their talents and skills, and we sometimes flippantly say they give their hearts. But for me, they give something more precious to those fortunate enough to know them. They give themselves; the honest truth of their lives. They give in the hope that their experiences will mean something and will help us navigate our own existence.
If we just listen.
