Reading People

While hiking one February day several years back, I happened upon a young lady by the trailside, perched on a rock outcrop, gazing out over the river far below.

Following is some information I garnered during my initial quick “read” of this young lady.

She was beautiful. This part of my read didn’t take long. Like about half a second.

She was intelligent. On her backpack, which she had laid down on the ground behind her, was written the following quote from Tolstoy, “It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.”

In my long experience in this world, I have yet to find a soul who quotes Tolstoy unless they are smart. I mean really, really smart.

She was kind. As I passed her by on the high overlook, I spoke to her, giving her my chirpy but always authentically friendly “Hello!” that I strive to give to everyone who comes my way in life.

She turned ever-so-slightly to wave a hand toward me. The small smile she offered was ghostly, completely devoid of any joyful or happy emotion.

I read her body language; this young lady was feeling absolutely overwhelmed by another immensely powerful and directly competing emotion.

She was sad. Deeply and tragically sad.

So I asked her, “M’am, I don’t mean to intrude. But are you okay?”

She whispered, “Yes. Thank you.”

But her eyes and body language spoke a different story. They collectively screamed out, “No, I’m in great emotional pain. Please help me, if you can!”

I walked toward her, speaking softly, using my ever-present humor. “I was once an elementary schoolteacher, and I’m an old man now, so I’m about as safe as anybody you could ever meet out in the middle of nowhere. Hey, can I take a look down there, too?”

Her mouth smiled. But her eyes did not.

As I peered alongside her down the long steep cliff toward the river, I said, “You know, when I was young I thought about jumping off a place like this. In fact, I thought about it again just about four months ago.”

Her face lit up with fear, as if I had just taken off an invisible mask. Her eyes flashed with equal parts denial and anger. “I wasn’t thinking about jumping,” she lied.

Then just as quickly, her face softened again, as did her words. “I’m alright,” she said. “But thank you for caring.

Not looking directly at her, but toward the beautiful river below, I continued. “It was four months ago for me. A childhood friend and I were both in love. Well, so I thought. Anyway, we were going to get married. Then a bolt from the blue hit. She messaged me she was leaving. No real reason given. But in a few days I found out she had been seeing someone else for quite some time. I’ve had some bad things happen to me in life, but that betrayal broke my heart.”

When I turned to look at her again, tears had formed in her eyes. She asked me, “But how did you know what I was going through?”

I had apparently “read” her well, piecing all the small details I had observed together and making an educated guess that I should share with her what turned out to be a remarkably similar life experience.

While I stood tongue-tied, my new young friend spoke on. “Will the pain ever go away?” she asked me.

Her eyes now pierced my soul. She was now intensely “reading” me.

I slightly hesitated to answer her question, so she asked, “Do you really think I will make it?”

I had long ago learned not to “just make up some nice words” at a time like this. Our best advice always contains both honesty and kindness.

So I said, “I can’t really tell. But I really think you will. Somehow, I think you will rise above this, forgive everything, remember everything, and make something great happen because you survived it all.”

The young lady said nothing in return. There was a long and awkward pause. I had become at a loss for more words. So I thanked her for talking with me and turned to go.

After taking a few steps, I heard a surprisingly strong and clear young female voice call out from behind me, “And I think you will make it, too!”

I was not the only one who was “reading people” that day on a high ridge above a river.