What If It All Goes Wrong—and Someone Stays Anyway

I love the kind of connection where you can say anything without feeling judged.

The kind where you feel safe, heard, and understood.

It’s rare to find someone who listens with care and helps without criticism.

When you do, cherish them. That kind of peace is sacred."

During my second year as a middle school counselor at Hixson Middle School in Webster Groves, I was walking down the hall when I heard an eighth grader say to a friend, “I think B.R. is a fag.” I kept walking as if I hadn’t heard, but a knot formed in my stomach. That knot had a name: fear.

I started doing what I’d perfected over the years—projecting worst-case scenarios like a cinematic masterpiece. What if this turned into a big deal? What if the far-right conservative Christians in the community complained to the school board? What if I lost my job, my credibility, my safety?

I panicked. I buried it. Some truths are so raw we barely whisper them to ourselves.

Eventually, I called Father Bill Chapman, our priest at Trinity Episcopal Church in the Central West End. He agreed to stay late and wait for me after work. I arrived, nervous and unraveling. I blurted out everything—the comment, the fear, the shame.

He lit a cigarette, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. “I think we need a shot, don’t you?” he said. I nodded.

We sat knee to knee to knee, eye to eye. I rambled. I cried. He poured another shot. And when I finally paused, he leaned in and said, “I am so sorry you have this heavy weight you’re carrying around.”

We finished the bottle.

Then came the words that stitched me back together: “If any of your fears turn into reality, I can promise you, Ellie (his wife) and I will be right there with you. If it lands at the school board, we’ll be in the front row. And you always have a safe place with me.”

I walked out lighter. The storms I’d predicted hadn’t arrived. Maybe they never would. Maybe the real work was staying grounded in the moment, trusting that support—even quiet, whiskey-laced support—could be enough to keep going.

Father Bill Chapman was God made visible that night. Not in thunder or scripture, but in a shared bottle, a tearful promise, and the kind of listening that makes you believe you’re not alone.

Closing Reflection

Empathy on the Rocks isn’t just a clever name—it’s a reminder that connection doesn’t always arrive polished or pristine. Sometimes it shows up in a cloud of cigarette smoke, with a bottle of Bailey’s between two tired souls. Sometimes it’s a priest who listens without flinching, or a friend who pours a second glass and says, “You’re safe here.”

This story isn’t just about fear—it’s about the grace that follows when someone chooses to witness your struggle instead of fix it. It’s about the sacred weight of being seen, knee to knee, eye to eye, without judgment.

We build peace not by avoiding the hard moments, but by surviving them together. And when the storms we predict don’t arrive, we learn to trust the quiet, the present, the people who stay.

That’s empathy on the rocks: messy, honest, and poured with care.