Listening
The Weekend Briefing
I checked my watch. 12:15 p.m. We were to meet for lunch at noon. Was I being stood up? That’s an occupational hazard of ours.
Standing in the lobby of his country club I peered out the window to the circular drive. A minivan eased into one of the handicapped spots by the front walk. The door opened. He exited slowly, leaning a bit on his cane.
I stepped outside to greet him. “Harry,” I smiled, “it’s good to see you again!” He returned the smile and my extended hand.
This was our second meeting. The first was at his home. A great big house, it echoed with the emptiness of grown children gone from the nest and a spouse claimed by cancer a year ago. At that first meeting Harry had a friend join us, a “wing man” of sorts. So when Harry called me, out of the blue, and asked me to join him for lunch at his club I was gratified by the trust that seemed to be developing between us.
“Good afternoon Mr. Donahue!” The dining room of every club has a sentry posted behind an enormous podium. This nice lady greeted Harry with affection. “Marian, where are you putting us today?” he answered with a smile. We walked slowly through the tables to a quiet spot by the window. I offered my host a chair so his back would be to the sun streaming in.
I don’t care how many visits you’ve made, the first question to start the meeting is always a cautious moment. This is the time when the other person is “reading” us. Are we nervous? Rushed? Cocky? We usually aim for “quiet confidence” with the emphasis on “quiet.”
My question about his weekend lead to another about his family then, “Can I ask, how did you meet your wife?” and somehow all this lead to a story about Harry’s early career. It seems disjointed in the retelling but at the moment it was exactly what it was supposed to be – a conversation. It was a conversation with the fundraiser doing most of the listening.
He answered my questions with relish, as if to say, “You know what, thank you for asking. Thank you for listening with sincerity. Thank you for letting me be heard.”
I wanted to tell him, “No, Harry, the thanks go to you. This is wonderful. Illuminating. Fun. Listening to you is helping me understand why philanthropy is important to you and how I might be able to suggest a gift to meet your needs, not just mine.
“I daresay if I was yammering at you instead of listening, there would be no possible way to understand what is important to you.
“But I understand now.”
He’d brought along a ratty old manila folder. Papers were falling out of it. A Wall Street Journal article he insisted I read. A photograph of his late wife. Drafts of a letter he’d started, to friends, for a fund in her memory.
I put my hand on his forearm and smiled. “Harry, I have to ask you a question. Looking at Dorothy’s picture, she seems to have been quite the catch. How did you manage that?”
His eyes immediately filled with tears and he answered through those tears. “We were married 57 years. She was the most beautiful girl I ever knew. I miss her so much.”
We just sat there for a minute. Then Harry said, “You know, you and I are separated in age by a generation and yet I feel we have so much in common.” I just nodded.
“Harry,” I finally asked him, “If I put together some thoughts about how we could move this project forward, create a memorial to your wife and invite your children to get involved, would that be something you’d like to see?”
“Yes,” he told me. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
I never cease to be awed by the power of listening. When we first start out as fundraisers we are less sure of ourselves and we may try to control the meeting by talking 90% of the time. Our epiphany comes when we realize the person who talks the least is the one who controls the conversation. We build trust by listening. And we learn what is important to our donors.
To me, listening is the most difficult – and the most important – skill of our craft to master. Very few people do it well. I’m still learning.
Have a good week, my friends.