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Comforting
Two elementary-school boys were, for the first time in their lives, absolutely still. Deathly still. In separate pools of blood, each under a pale blanket, they awaited the arrival of the coroner. For them, school ended prematurely. With crushing authority, the grim reaper visited the vast metropolis of Los Angeles at the corner of Beach Boulevard and Rosecrans Avenue—unannounced and uninvited. In heavy traffic. In broad daylight. Death the Dictator came, saw, and conquered. He always does, which prompted George Bernard Shaw to write:
The statistics of death are quite impressive. One out of one people die.
But what about those who live on? What about those who try to pick up the jagged pieces? As I stood there beside my oldest daughter, fighting back tears, trying to swallow that knot in my throat, I kept thinking about two families that would never be the same. Two mothers and dads, especially, I could paint a portrait of the coming days: indescribable sorrow, disillusionment sleepless nights, endless reminders, paralyzing anxiety, that unendurable sense of loss, that numbing mixture of anger, helplessness, denial, and confusion.
Let’s pause here and pretend. Let’s pretend you are the neighbor. One of those two grieving families lives next door. On an average Thursday afternoon, you phone rings…or a knock comes at the door. The information you hear stuns you. You’re suddenly reeling, and you feel as if you’re in a dream (“nightmare” might be a better word). Life screams to a halt. Thursday seems strangely sacred, almost eerie.
The grief of someone very near becomes so real you can taste it. The pain stabs deep and perhaps your first thought is, “Oh, how my heart goes out to __________!” Your second thought is, “What can I do to help? What would be the best expression of love, compassion, and sympathy?”
Suddenly, you’re stuck. There’s no set of rules to follow—no handbook for showing mercy. You hurriedly thumb through you Bible and find no sermon notes on “How to sympathize.” No, my friend, comfort for the sorrowing cannot be regulated and systemized. To go through programmed motions with the grieving turns you into a good candidate for another “job’s counselor” …and none of us wants that title. What can you do? What should you do…or not do? What could be said that might be appreciated and appropriate?
Be real. As you reach out, admit your honest feelings to your friends. If the news stunned you, say so. If you suddenly feel tears coming, cry. If you are overwhelmed with pity and compassion, admit it. You may be a Christian with a firm hope in a life hereafter, but you’re also human. Don’t hide that. It may be through that gate a path of friendship will develop.
Be quiet. Your presence, not your words, will be most appreciated. The thick mantle of grief has fallen upon your friend, bringing dark, unexplainable sorrow. An abundance of words and attempts to instruct will only reveal an insensitive spirit to the grieving. The Joe Baylys, in the course of several years, lost three of there children. In his book, The Last Thing We Talk About, he shares his honest feelings when one of the children died:
I was sitting, torn by grief. Someone came and talked to me of God’s dealings, of why it happened, of hope beyond the grave. He talked constantly. He said things I knew were true.
I was unmoved, except to wish he’d go away. He finally did.
Another came and sat beside me. He didn’t talk. He didn’t ask me leading questions. He just sat beside me for an hour and more, listened when I said something, answered briefly, prayed simply, left.
I was moved. I was comforted. I hated to see him go.
Be supportive. Those comfort must have a tender heart of understanding. They don’t come to quote verses or leave a stack of literature. They came simply to say they care. Nor do they attempt to erase today’s hurt by emphasizing tomorrow's hope. They are committed to the support, the understanding of the grieving. Few things heal wounded spirits better than the balm of a supportive embrace.
A little lost a playmate in death and one day reported to her family that she had gone to comfort the sorrowing mother. “What did you say?” asked her father. “Nothing,” she replied, “I just climbed up on her lap and cried with her.”
That’s being supportive.
Be available. Everybody comes around the first day or two. But what about a month later? After the flowers? Or fine months later? Or after the grass grows over the grave? Life, like the muddy Mississippi, keeps rolling along. Unfortunately, so do the memories of that little fella whose place at the supper table remains vacant. If ever the comforting hand of a friend is needed, it is then—when other kids are going swimming and snitching cookies and riding bikes. Be committed to comforting later on as well as now. Your appropriate suggestions that will help them break the spell of grief (C.S. Lewis wrote of “the laziness of grief”) will help them begin again.
Like Jesus with the sisters of Lazarus in the crucible of grief, be real (He wept), be available (He stayed by their side.) No big sermons, no leaflets, no attempts to correct their misunderstandings, not even a frown that suggested disapproval. He let grief run its course. Our Lord believed, as we should, that we are healed of grief only when we express it the full.
Perhaps this explains why so many are grieving…and so few are comforting.
Deepening Your Roots
2 Samuel 1:17:27; John 11:17-44; John 16:5-22
Branching Out
- What is the one thing you can do for someone you know who is grieving? ____________________________________________________________________________________________
- Rather than sending a sympathy card or sending flowers to someone experiencing grief, do something different to show your care. For example, consider sending Christine Wyrtzen’s CD For Those Who Hurt, or sending a book, or writing a letter about how much the person means to you, or sending a teacup and saucer with a note that says, “I wish I could be there to care for you during your painful hours.”
- Embrace (hug) someone today and reassure him or her of your concern for him or her—regardless of whether he or she is experiencing grief or not.
