Silence After the Storm

In the sandstone valleys of Moab, Utah, lived Amala Harris—a school counselor known for her calm voice and ever-listening eyes. After her husband passed, she’d poured her soul into guiding troubled teens, often sitting with them on the old bench under the cottonwood tree behind the school.

But at home, her relationship with her grown son, Caleb, was frayed. He had returned from the city after a failed marriage, and every dinner ended in silence or argument. Amala would offer advice. Caleb would push back. “You never hear me, Mom,” he snapped once, walking out before finishing his plate.

One day, a storm rolled over the mesa, and the school closed early. Amala sat under the cottonwood, waiting for it to pass. To her surprise, Caleb showed up, drenched and holding an old envelope—his high school essay Amala had once praised and framed. “You said this was the first time someone made you feel seen,” he said.

She nodded, quietly.

“I think I forgot what that meant,” he admitted.

For once, Amala didn’t speak. She just listened.

The storm passed. The wind stilled. And they sat, in the hush that follows thunder—not as mother and son trying to win a point, but as two people rediscovering the art of truly hearing each other.

Moral: 

True connection begins the moment we stop rehearsing our reply—and start truly listening.

Inspiration

Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply. - Stephen Covey