My friend Linda decided to pay a visit to Jenna, a young woman who had miscarried just a few days before. The grief and loss this woman felt were as painful as anything she had ever experienced. Many of her friends and family members tried to say something of comfort, but most of it barely made a dent. Yet Linda shared something that actually had Jenna laughing.
What was it?
This wise friend said, “Let me guess all the pick-me-ups you’ve heard over the last few days.” And she began to tick them off, one by one:
You can always try again.
Probably for the best, since this is nature’s way of getting rid of a baby with problems.
Be grateful it wasn’t later in the pregnancy.
The timing must not have been right.
Well, you hadn’t planned it anyway.
God never gives us more than we can handle.
We can’t question God’s will.
Jenna had heard each one. She even threw in a few more for good measure, and the healing relief of laughter emerged.
We’ve all heard these kinds of phrases before. We may even have used them ourselves. After all, most of them contain a piece of truth, and our intentions are good. So why don’t they work? How is it that our words of comfort end up feeling so trite and useless—nothing more than empty platitudes?
First, walk with me into the mind of the person who’s hurting.
When you and I say, “You can always try again,” they think, Not for THIS baby, I can’t. This unique human being that I already loved is gone. There is no second chance for this child.
When we say, “Think of it as a blessing,” they think, Seriously? Maybe, then, I should hope and pray that God blesses me with 14 more miscarriages so I can be really blessed. Frankly, I’d rather He go and bless somebody else.
You get the idea. Our hearts are usually in the right place, though if we’re honest, we sometimes throw a simplistic phrase out there because it’s a quick Band-Aid that allows us to move away from this very uncomfortable territory as quickly as possible. Whatever the reason, these get-over-it statements don’t penetrate and can make us feel as if we’re throwing something against a brick wall.
When we offer these simplistic responses, typically our goal is to help grieving people find a better, less painful outlook on their suffering. But that’s the problem—grief isn’t about a lack of perspective.
When we try to comfort someone who’s grieving, the goal is not to make the person feel better. It’s to be there while he or she feels worse. Grief isn’t to be avoided; it’s to be experienced. Processed. Endured. Unpacked. It’s a journey that must be taken. Throwing platitudes at someone in pain, even when done with the best of intentions, feels as if we’re trying to minimize what he or she is feeling—as though we’ve come up with many different ways of saying, “It’s not really so bad.”
The Empty Cup
When grief arrives on our doorstep, there’s work to be done. It’s like being handed an invisible cup that must be filled. Each tear we shed, each unexpected breakdown in the grocery store, each item we touch that floods our mind with memories, each dark day that seems to have no end—all these add to our cup. The grieving won’t end until the cup is full. But here’s the problem: We don’t know how big the cup is. In the end, it’s full when it’s full.
There’s no formula for filling that cup correctly. Don’t assume that what worked for you will work for someone else. Our job is simply to be there while the person does whatever needs doing. There will come a time, much later, when he may indeed want to hear positive uplifting words, when he needs all this to make some kind of sense. But not until he signals that he’s ready to move on. For now, he simply needs time to fully own this pain.
The Jesus Model
In the 11th chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus demonstrates what compassion looks like when dealing with people in different places of grief. He puts this concept into action right at heart level. Mary and Martha had just lost their brother Lazarus. Jesus had known for days that His friend was going to die. And He also knew, just as fully, that He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead.
When Jesus arrived on the scene, He found both sisters in need of His company, but His response to each of them was very different. Martha was in a chatting mood. She just wanted to understand, so on hearing Jesus was coming, she went to meet Him and said, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” (John 11:21). But Mary’s full-blown grief expressed itself differently. When others went to greet Jesus, she stayed behind and had to be called for.
What follows is fascinating, as it provides a lesson for how we can best care for a grieving person. Jesus knew He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead and that the cause of Mary’s tears was about to be removed. You and I might be tempted to speak let-there-be-joy comments all over the place. But that’s what makes Jesus’ next action extraordinary.
He cried.
Jesus didn’t try to talk Mary out of her grief. He didn’t share words, trying to give her a better perspective on the situation. His empathy and compassion allowed Him to merge His pain with hers.
He knew what she needed. Now admittedly, Jesus had an advantage—He could see people’s needs with divine insight. We don’t have such heart-vision. We’re going to have to look for the signs, ask a lot of questions, at times be silent, and let the people we want to help actually lead us in our ministry to them.
“Here’s What I Need”
A good friend of mine had been single for so long none of us was sure he’d ever marry. No relationship ever quite seemed to “take.” Then he met Sandy, and a love story was born. It was clear within months that this was the romance of a lifetime. But shortly after their marriage, Sandy tragically developed the cancer that would soon take her life. When my husband and I stopped by to visit her, we weren’t certain what to say. But Sandy had taken a proactive approach by creating a “Here’s What I Need” pamphlet that greeted all visitors at the door. It stated very clearly what things she did not want to hear and what things she would most like to hear. In other words, it made very plain just how we could best minister to this precious woman. Having concrete suggestions was a relief, and it allowed us to be a blessing to her in ways that mattered.
Most hurting folks don’t have the ability to articulate so precisely what they need. There typically is no guidebook giving us a roadmap on how best to proceed, so I learned to leave the platitudes in a basket by the door. Instead, she needed us to come with an attitude of service, of listening, of caring, of sharing the pain. It was our job to do the hard work of being the ear of compassion, hearing what she had to say (and even what she didn’t say).
Sometimes, it’s more helpful to step into the grief rather than away from it. Instead of throwing an easy or thoughtless response, which could actually cause more pain, we can clear the runway for those who grieve, by removing obstacles and distractions that keep them from doing the work of filling their cups.
Or if we have the courage of silence, perhaps—like Jesus—we can simply weep, too.
