The Bench

April 27, 2024

When I was in college, I would walk to most of my classes across campus with my dearest friend, Renie Amoss. Renie and I functioned at a slightly different pace than many of the other students on campus. We liked to be early to class and a little more leisurely than most of my fellow students, who would roll out of bed 10 minutes before class, brush their teeth, and run full speed across campus to make it to class on time. (I went to Goucher College; it was a small school, and it only took about 10 minutes to get from one side of campus to the other.)

Renie and I would take the extra moments before class to sit on these cold, hard, stone benches that were clearly naming opportunities for philanthropists and not really designed for someone to sit on comfortably for any length of time. No one ever sat on the benches except us. We would sit and watch the students and professors move about campus, noticing so many things that no one else even stopped to pay attention to. We usually sat in silence, taking it all in, and then, as we began to walk to class, we would start our conversation about what we had observed.

One day, we got to our usual bench, and some students were walking by. Keep in mind that the campus was so small that people rarely rode bicycles through the middle of campus. Then we saw a guy on a unicycle just riding along the path from the residence halls to the academic buildings. Everyone else was wrapped up in what they were doing; no one even noticed. But this guy was skillfully riding a unicycle through campus, and literally no one even cared. In fact, I think it could have been a unicorn, and people wouldn’t have noticed either.

Given the very unusual nature of the moment, I broke the silence with Renie while we were still sitting on the bench. I said, “Did you just see the guy on the unicycle?” She grinned and giggled, “Thank G-d you saw it too. I thought I was losing it.” At this point, the guy on the unicycle was still in sight, and both of us started to speak loudly enough for others to hear. I said in my outdoor voice to my classmates walking by, “A dude rolls up on a unicycle, and you are acting like it’s just a normal day.” Renie continued as she laughed out loud, “Wake up, people! Life is happening around you, and it’s not normal. You may want to pay attention.”

It has been many, many years since I graduated from college, but in so many ways, I feel like I have been sitting on that same cold, hard, stone bench, watching people walk by what is extraordinary and horrible with the same glaze as my former classmates with Renie’s words still ringing in my ears, “you may want to pay attention.”

The bench was always cold, hard, and uncomfortable. And now, the bench is also lonely.

The bench feels lonely for many reasons. The first is Renie was killed in a car accident not long after her graduation. Her wisdom, counsel, trust, love, and support have been missing from my life for a long time. And as I have tried to invite others to my now metaphoric bench to observe the world the way we once did, this is what happened:

• Some people who have tried to join me on the bench spend most of their time complaining about how cold and hard it is and wonder why I would even choose to sit and observe from a place of discomfort.
• Other people have wanted to stand on the bench and scream in outrage about what they are observing in the world, and it becomes even more clear that the passersby are too overwhelmed by their visceral response to even acknowledge their pain.
• And most people haven’t even slowed down long enough to know the bench is there. They are in a race to be right (correct) that has no finish line and they are just compelled to keep running.

The time I have spent on the bench has allowed me to sit in the brokenness of our world not as a bystander but as a skilled observer of what is. I have found that when you are consistently observing what makes you feel uncomfortable, you don’t get used to it, and you also can’t ignore it. It makes you question if you are seeing the world as it is, or if are you seeing it as you are. Since October 7, taking the time to observe from the cold, hard stone bench has brought perspective to my outrage, silence to my meaningless words, and tears of clarity to my eyes.

Normally during our Passover seder, we are encouraged to recline in comfort as an acknowledgment of our freedom. This seder, I did not use a pillow; I brought myself back to the cold, hard stone bench. It did not feel appropriate to celebrate my freedom in comfort when there has been so much suffering, bondage, violence, and death this year. And then I reflected on the teachings of psychologist Victor Frankl from his awe-inspiring book about his experiences in a concentration camp, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” Frankl suggests we can change even when life is hard. We can create meaningful lives full of depth, love, and purpose. “Man does not simply exist but always decides what his existence will be, what he will become the next moment. By the same token, every human being has the freedom to change at any instant.”

As we move through the final days of Pesach, I ask you to take the time to observe the world from a different seat than the place where you normally sit. I encourage you to see and hold what is beautiful. And in that same time and space, accept how hard life is right now. Acceptance is not resignation. Acceptance might allow for a new vantage point to help you decide who you want to be in the next moment for yourself, for the people you love, for your community, and for all humanity.

Chag Pesach Sameach.

Betzy Lynch, CEO