There's something about late-winter/early-spring sun.

I have a vivid memory that keeps replaying in my head and has been replaying since the day it first occurred.

I’m 15 years old. I’m walking across the street past Kew Forest high school. All of the birds on the block are chirping. The sun is shining so bright that everything appears crisper. It’s the type of late-winter/early-spring morning sun that warms the back of my neck but my hands still feel cold. I’m holding my CD player. It’s gray and often skips but that’s okay because my friend Dana just gave me a copy of her Beach Boys CD and I’m feeling invincible.

I can see my shadow on the ground and the way my feet have a little pep in each step. I see it all as though it’s happening right at this exact moment.

It’s 37 degrees this morning with a real feel of 27. I’m sitting at my desk at 30 years old, nearing 31, and feeling the crisp late-winter/early-spring morning sun warming the back of my neck. The birds are chirping outside of my window as if to say, “We made it through another night! What a gorgeous day!” and I’m feeling like the 15 year old with the extra pep in her step again.

I’m 25 years old dragging the heavy wooden tables outside to the patio space of Blue Smoke on 27th. It’s the type of late-winter/early-spring morning that feels chilly outside but we’re promised warmer temperatures later in the day. It’s one of the first mornings it feels this way and even though my hands are drying and cracking because of the cold air, I’m dragging that big round table outside like my life depends on it. I feel the warm sun on the back of my neck and I look up.

She’s standing with her colleague just outside of the patio space. Her eyes are concerned as she’s explaining to him that she saw a ghost last night in her apartment.“Or at least I think it was a ghost,” she said, looking to him for some guidance or comfort. “You see these things too, right? Like everyone has these type of weird experiences, right?” Her coworker, a man in his late thirties, looked at her with such a judgmental expression that my heart broke for her. I’ve been there before. I’ve reached out for help and been told I should have kept it to myself.

“No, that’s not normal. I don’t know. I think you need to go seek God. Sounds like you may be connecting with the devil.” She looks hurt. I continue dragging the tables to fit the floorplan but begin to feel my hands tremble. It’s the type of shake that usually only happens when spirit is pushing me to say something. I’ll later learn this is when their high vibrational energy is trying to connect to my lower vibrational energy, pushing me up to their level to speak for them.

I walk away.

I stand in the foyer of Blue Smoke, the little room between the entrance to the main restaurant and the jazz club. I pretend I’m catching my breath but really I’m fighting the urge to speak to this woman. “I don’t know her,” I say to myself “I don’t want to look stupid. I don’t want her to be scared of me. I don’t want to 'out' myself.” I saw the look of judgment her colleague had. I don’t want to be on the receiving end. I don’t want to be seen as though I’m working with the devil when all I’ve ever known was God gave me this gift that I kept trying to return to know avail.

I drag the chairs to the patio space. Heavy, cumbersome, metal chairs that have no business being dragged in and out of a patio space. I hear the woman say, “But it doesn’t feel like it’s evil. I love God. I don’t think the Devil is doing this.” The man starts telling her to go to church more often. He explains she’s not been doing enough to avoid the devil. I can physically feel her pain. I can feel how this moment is hurting her deeper than she cares to explain to him. I can feel that she thinks she’s a disappointment to God. I can feel her question herself and this gift.

I felt a surge of energy flow up my body as I ran to the take-out counter. I grabbed a pen and ripped a piece of the floorplan that was carefully taped on the host stand. I write, “Echo Bodine - Still, Small Voice” on the sliver of paper. I take a deep breath in and walk briskly outside.

I’m 25 years old and I feel the sun warming the back of my neck as my hands shake with nerves. “Hi, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation since you’re standing in the patio area but, you didn’t make a deal with the devil. God gave you this gift. Please, read this book. It will help you understand the gift that you’re dealing with. I know firsthand. I can tell you so many stories but I won’t because I’m working. I just need you to know you’re not alone.”

You’re not alone.

She took the slip of paper from me, her eyes looked glassy like she could have started crying with the relief of feeling heard for the first time. The man looked at me and said, “Wait, you know what she’s going through?” And I said, “Yea, and I used to think it was the devils work too but you can’t tell her that. You can’t make someone feel that way just because you don’t understand it. This is a gift. That’s what the “still, small voice” is that Echo’s talking about. It’s God. You’re doing God’s work.”

A silence hung in the late-winter/early-spring air.

“Anyway,” I said, finally catching my breath from all the nerves, “That’s it. I gotta get back to work and I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation. I just -“ I looked the woman in the eyes and said, “I felt in my gut and in my heart - I felt God needed you to know you’re not alone in this. He gave you this gift for a reason.”

I dragged my last chair back to its designated space and walked back into the restaurant.

I never saw her again.

It wasn’t about me making an everlasting friendship or impact on another person. It’s about being there for your neighbor when they just need to feel seen or heard. It’s about recognizing what a soul needs in a moment instead of what we’re saying on the surface.

In these times of stress and anxieties, in the time of social distancing, remember that we’re all struggling through something and sometimes all we really need is someone to listen. Someone to truly hear what we’re saying. I’ll never know if that stranger read the book that helped me. I don’t need to know that. I just needed her to know, even if it’s for only 5 minutes of the timeline of her life, that she was not alone.

That’s it. You’re not alone.

Remember that.