Feeling the Presence of Absence

November 1, 2026: The trees became loud, as if the leaves that filled their branches felt a need within them to be heard and seen just prior to their departure — never again to be seen or heard again. Sure, there would be a rebirth in the spring, but this generation of growth and renewal was withering away. Soon what is today loud and bright would give way to the stoic silence of bare branches strewn against a background of cold, gray skies.

I had been writing now for several months. The writing had become one of my greatest pleasures, and I now gave pause to wonder if I was like these trees of autumn; feeling a desire to become loud... to speak after so much time of being silent and falling in line to what was required of me. I felt the compulsion to continue to write, but the voice of these trees was louder than my own. The trees bade me be silent and listen rather than speak... and so I listened intently to what they had to say.

For everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1

As I considered the bright and vibrant trees of autumn; the dread of a cold, dark, dead, colorless winter filled my mind. The sorrow of the impending, but all together inevitable, "absence of presence" took shape in my consciousness. That thought brought about still another: the very palatable, deeply felt presence of absence.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in the midst of a friendship that was causing me a bit of distress. What had once felt like a close bond had turned into a strained, fading connection. Having contemplated the relationship ad nauseum, I set about repairing what felt broken between us. Something had been bothering me for several months and I wanted to speak to her about it, so I reached out. I told her I needed help with a project, and that it was going to take a little bit of vulnerability on my part. I specifically told her, "I'd like to try and repair what feels broken between us." She seemed a bit hesitant but agreed. I then opened up, became vulnerable, and told her what had been unsettling me. She disappeared... No response to my vulnerability other than silence. I was initially hurt, but upon further reflection, I realized that the lack of response, in and of itself was a response. Perhaps I had overestimated her capacity to hold what I had come to her to discuss. I'm not sure if she was unwilling or unable to meet me where I was. Whatever the case, I had invited her to meet me, and she had declined the offer. I felt as though I had come to her honestly, earnestly and with a willingness to engage in a dialogue. That dialogue never took place, and the weight of the presence of absence was felt. We had been close at one point, and now we were not: two paths that ran parallel for a time and then diverged.

My friend Doug, who is an x-ray tech, performed a thoracolumbar x-ray on a patient — his last patient of the day. "Those are fun", he told me a few days later. What was significant about this particular x-ray was that it was the last he would be performing for a while. He and his wife had decided to move to The Netherlands and this thoracolumbar was potentially the last x-ray he would ever perform, caping off a career that spanned 10 years. He and his wife have been good friends of mine for nearly two decades. We all first met in 2008; the year I arrived in Washington. The three of us would meet up on occasion throughout the years for meals and weekend hikes through local forests and nature trails.

About five years ago, when I discovered that the company I was working for was shutting its doors, Doug was the one who encouraged me to apply at the company where he worked. He is responsible for helping me get the job I now currently occupy. Coming to work these past several years has felt — in the faintest of regards — like coming "home" in the sense that I knew my good friend Doug was in the building. Now he was gone, and the presence of absence was felt.

I met with Doug and his wife Clarissa this past week the night before their flight to The Netherlands. We sat on their porch around an outdoor dining table, had a drink and chatted a bit about their plans for the future. "Be present for this moment", was a thought that ran through my mind on more than one occasion as I sat with my friends; soon to depart for a land a world away. It was a thought I balked at, for the thought in and of itself was keeping me from being fully present for the moment at hand.

After talking, a bit of laughter, and some choked up moments, our gathering came to a close... they still had much to do before their big journey the following day. Dusk was upon us, and the fading light was made all the more disheartening by the presence of a cold, persistent drizzle. Doug and Clarissa walked me to my car. I embraced them both, told each of them, "I love you", and then — as a lump formed in my throat — I encouraged them with the only words that I could think to muster: "You have each other". I got in my car, waved to them both as they made their way back inside, and I meandered my way home... and in the midst of that dark, wet drive the presence of absence was felt.

I think what the trees were telling me, with their leaves so bright and colorful, is that there are people who are present for a season of life and then depart from our company. They teach us, nurture us, mold us into something we weren't prior to their entering our lives and then they may fade into the background a bit. Perhaps they'll return someday... perhaps they won't. I can think back to a myriad of individuals — faces from my past — who made a profound impact on my life... and then were gone.

I think the trees might have also been telling me to treasure the individuals who are still very present in my life. The ones that make an effort, who meet me where I am, and love and accept me for who I am. What a gift to be completely transparent — to lay bare all my scars, faults and failings — and still have people in my life who love me and cherish my presence in their lives.

I had been experiencing the pang of the presence of absence over the course of the past several weeks. I now felt a compulsion to feel the presence of presence in equal measure. My heart was now encouraged as a myriad of faces filled my mind — faces of the people still present in my life. May I be a presence for them so that they might be spared, in some meaningful way, from the presence of absence.