When I was in grad school, I had a teacher who taught a class called “Counseling Skills” or something to that effect. I kind of rolled my eyes when I realized I had to take that class, because I had the arrogance to believe I knew how to listen, how to care, and how to communicate compassion already and didn’t need a class to help me. The lesson in humility, though, was not given through the class material itself, but by the professor. This man walked in to talk to a bunch of new students who were all prospective counselors, and approached with such gentleness it stopped me in my illusions of grandeur and made me pay attention.

In thinking back to this kind man, I realize that he taught me how to listen because he actually listened in class. Sure, he taught the lessons, but then he would calmly entertain questions and treat each student with such value and worth that you instantly felt like you mattered—even if your question was really stupid. He never looked like he was trying to come up with an answer while listening, but would take the question with a minute of consideration so he could truly take in everything the person was saying.

I came to find out throughout the semester that this man was dying of cancer. He didn’t tell us, but once in a while when he would have to miss class, the substitute informed us that he would be doing that occasionally when he didn’t feel he could have enough strength to teach. And yet, there was never a demand for respect or honor, but a continued communication of his students’ value as he approached with gentleness. I watched him deteriorate throughout the semester, and attended his funeral the next year after he went to be with Jesus face-to-face. I remember thinking how it must feel for him to be present with the One his soul loved so much, and who had always listened to him.