I knew a therapist who composed a song with this title in reference to his own therapist. This song reflected how his therapist had, indeed, taught him how to love. Recently, I had an experience with a patient that reminded me of a person who served as a therapist for me albeit in a somewhat informal way. This person was Dr. Vernon Grounds, a professor of pastoral care and the president of Denver Seminary where I was finishing my last year of seminary before I went to graduate school. The academic year was 1968-1969, which might stir some memories of this important time of life in America with assassinations, the Viet Nam war, protests against the war, and the sexual revolution. It was an important time for me because I was coming to a formulation of what I believed about life, God, people, and myself, a project that has continued over these ensuing 50 years. I had thought to some degree about these important matters somewhat during my previous 25 years but nothing like I did during this year. It was a year of great learning, great thought, and sorrow. For some reason Dr. Grounds invited me to breakfast one morning, which then turned out to be a regular invitation that he made for me for the entire academic year. These many breakfast meetings always had the aforementioned elements in our discussion: life, God, people, and me. I consider these hours as ones of personal therapy although I didn’t realize that at the time. Dr. Grounds remains the kindest, most intelligent, most integrated, and most deeply spiritual person I have ever had the opportunity to know although I have also had the opportunity of known many other significant figures who have been instructive in my life. These would include other therapists, professors, religious leaders, relatives, and friends, but none has touched my soul as did Dr. Grounds. Having recently been reminded of the song written by someone I knew many years ago, “You Taught Me How to Love You,” I realized that Dr. Grounds did just that: he taught me how to love him, and in so doing, he taught me how to love. I offer the following humble words with deep appreciation:
He taught me how to love him.
He taught me about God
He taught me about people
He taught me about life
He taught me about myself
He taught me how to think,
He taught me how to feel.
He taught me how to speak.
He taught me how to love.
He taught me these things with the purest of love for me.
He loved me so perfectly that he didn’t have to say it.
All I noticed when we parted was that was somehow different.
The difference? I was loved
I didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t pay it back. But I needed it.
He taught me how to love him “because he loved me first.”
We therapists have a tremendous privilege, something that is often in my mind and frequently something I say when I am with a patient. The privilege of people’s stories, their thoughts, their actions, and most importantly, their feelings—this is a very special opportunity for all of us in this odd trade, which is composed of mostly listening and then a measured response. How many times have I heard, “Well, I’ve never told anyone this….” And the things that they have never told anyone are not largely those of facts or actions, but of feelings…”feelings,” that undefined central experience of being human. I hear feelings in the form of silence and chatter, of pain and pleasure, and of thought and action. But when I hear these real feelings, often something the person has just discovered, felt, and said, I am moved. I am privileged. These many hours of therapy—but not all—are ones where I have the privilege of loving someone in a special way because I have heard, seen, and felt the person’s feelings.
It has occurred to me, much due to a recent therapeutic hour that I had with someone that I have also had the privilege of enlivening a person’s own capacity to love. This most recent encounter was with someone who said, “I love you Ron” and then quickly added, “No, it is more than that. I love you so much.” What a privilege to be loved by someone, a love that I don’t deserve, can’t pay back, but something that I need. Yes, need. I don’t need to be loved by a specific person, a mistake that many people make, but I do need to be loved. It is always humbling. It is always special. It is always godly. And I never expect it.
I leave you with this thought for your consideration: who has taught you how to love? Whom did you find yourself loving because he/she first loved you?