For the past two and a half years, Alan has spent two to three hours each week with R., a hospice patient whose life is filled with rich experiences. Alan doesn’t see himself as the one to do the talking—he prefers to listen. And with R., there is always something worth listening to.

They talk about everything: food, farming, religion, politics. But what fascinates Alan the most is R.’s incredible memory. In all their time together, R. has never repeated a single story—each visit brings a new chapter of his extraordinary life. Even more astonishing, R. remembers every story he has ever told Alan, never losing track of the details.

For Alan, these visits are a gift. “R. is amazing,” he says. “Every conversation reminds me how much we all carry within us—our experiences, our beliefs, our lessons. We don’t always agree, but we’ve built a friendship that can handle that, with the utmost respect for each other.”

Hospice volunteering isn’t just about giving time—it’s about receiving wisdom, connection, and the privilege of truly listening.

Margie’s patient, an 87-year-old man with a genetic muscular disorder, has a tradition—he plants zinnias from the seeds he carefully saves each year. His flower bed is large, bursting with color from June until the first frost.

One day, Margie mentioned her friend who was battling multiple cancers. Without hesitation, her patient insisted that she take her a bouquet. And so, for three years now, every week, Margie has delivered a fresh bouquet of zinnias to her friend—a gift from a man who has never even met her.

Last fall, when he needed to build a carport that would take up much of his flower bed, he didn’t let that stop him. Instead, he got lumber, cut it himself, and built a raised flower bed just for his zinnias. He made sure they would keep growing, not just for himself, but for the joy they bring to others.

And, of course, Margie always gets a bouquet too—a small but powerful reminder of generosity, resilience, and the beauty of simple kindness.

When Amber walked into her patient’s room last year, a familiar sight flickered on the TV—an old Western. As it turned out, it was Gunsmoke, a show Amber had watched as a child. That was all it took to spark a lively debate. Which Western was the best? Why was Gunsmoke’s lead actor so talented? Her patient had strong opinions, rattling off his other films with enthusiasm.

Then, the conversation took a turn—from classic Westerns to classic Appalachian cooking. They talked about soup beans, cornbread, and canning. The patient, who had grown up in the mountains, was passionate about doing things the right way. And if Amber suggested a different method? “No, that’s wrong,” the woman would insist.

The debate grew so animated that the patient’s roommate chimed in, laughing, “If you get her going, she won’t stop!” But neither of them wanted to stop. For two hours, they playfully argued over food—how to cook collards, the best way to can vegetables, and the traditions passed down through generations.

Amber never did try the canning techniques her patient swore by. But every time she prepares food, she thinks of that spirited conversation—a memory of laughter, connection, and the simple joy of a good debate.

For Sarah, one of the most rewarding parts of hospice volunteering is meeting people she never would have crossed paths with—farmers, construction workers, men and women whose lives look so different from her own. She loves hearing their stories, learning about the so-called “olden days,” and sharing in their experiences.

But just as meaningful as the time spent with patients is the impact on their caregivers. When Sarah recently reached out to the sister-in-law of a new patient, the woman’s relief was immediate. “I better write down your number,” she said, “because I’m really frazzled these days.” The gratitude in her voice was unmistakable—two hours of respite meant the world to her.

That moment reminded Sarah why she does this work. It’s not just about conversation and companionship—it’s about giving caregivers the rare chance to step away, even for a little while. And in doing so, she doesn’t just get to know the patient—she becomes part of the family, sharing in their journey, their struggles, and their stories.