Hope for Clumsy Comforters

I sit across from my friend, Asia* at a table in Starbucks. I knew this would be a hard conversation, but I’m not quite prepared for how hard it will actually be. I can see the struggle worn into her face from the time she arrives. I frantically reach for something to hold onto, something to anchor me, and a bit of divine wisdom to know what to say. What do you say to your friend who carries the constant grief of infertility, who has been trying to conceive for the past few years, but still finds herself without a child? What do you say when her recent attempts to foster have only brought more heartache, when the alcohol abuse of her past (that she's free from now) caused the agency to say no when things had looked so promising? She had a room and a heart ready, and thought this would finally be her chance to nurture and love a little life. I can’t comprehend her grief.

“I don’t need sermons right now,” she says. She’s frustrated with all the attempts others make to comfort her with their words. And my mind tries to remember what I have said over the past few months, what may have been perceived as hurtful or insensitive. I remember a time, just a few weeks ago, when I had sent her a text to try to comfort her. I try to be careful and considerate with my words, especially to those who are suffering. It never occurred to me that while what I was sharing was true, it just might not be the right time. I don't even know if she's referring to what I had shared, but, I feel defensive, even a little wounded. I was just trying to help. Maybe she feels like she doesn't need truth right now, but she does! At the same time, even though I don’t understand what she’s going through, I understand just a bit of her frustration. I remember when my dad was in a deep depression, my heart already weighed down with grief, hearing someone say in my hearing that “it’s a sin to be depressed.” I know friends who have lost loved ones and then, only adding to their grief, had other “friends” say, “If you had just had more faith your [family member] would have been healed.”  When another friend lost a loved one I saw the comments on Facebook, reminding her that “He's in a better place, and "God has a plan." Yes, he is, and God does, I want to say, but how is that helpful right now? How does that even scratch the surface of mind-numbing pain? I know how unthinking we humans can be. Oh, we mean well so much of the time, but so much of the time we just need to keep quiet. 

What hurts most right now is to realize I’ve been one of them—one of the well-meaning, but perhaps-a-little- thoughtless ones. And it’s pride, I know. Pride that’s surprised that I would make a mistake. Pride that doesn’t’ want to be in the category of the clumsy comforters. But I am one of them, broken and in need of grace.

We stand in the parking lot and hug. I tell her I’m sorry if I’ve ever said anything insensitive. She assures me it’s ok, and leaves to go back to Austin.

Over the next few weeks I wrestle and grieve a little. I grieve my pride and I grieve clumsy words and I grieve for my hurting friend. I'm uncomfortable with the way things were when she left. I know my apology may have been sincere, but I’ve struggled since then with how to reconcile the need we all have to hear truth with the need to just be with people in their suffering. But it comes to me slowly, what I’ve known all along. I am not called to fix anyone. My words will never be able to heal. I am simply called to love. To love patiently. To love consistently. To love fervently. And love will take different shapes, it will look different in different seasons and for different people, depending upon their needs.

I send her an email with these words:

Just thinking of you. Praying for you. Love you.

I want to say I'm sorry again if I've ever said anything hurtful or insensitive or preachy. Sometimes I want so much to encourage, that I forget the time might not be right, even if what I share is true.

I want you to know I love you right where you are, and of course, HE does too.

If you ever want to be reminded of truth or need some kind of specific encouragement or prayer, please know I'm here. I'll leave that up to you.

For now I just want you to know you have my love and prayers. I'm thankful for you.

And her reply:

Thank you, sister. That meant a lot to me. I look back to before I struggled with infertility and the way I sometimes interacted with people in pain. I focused on sharing truth (which is good) but didn't really listen to their heart and join them in their mourning.  Sometimes we just need a presence, someone to witness our pain and love us thru it.  It is uncomfortable because it is completely out of our control.  Thank you for seeking to understand...

 

Yes, it is uncomfortable because it is completely out of our control. I think that’s why we reach for words instead of silence at times. Silence is scary. The words aren’t always for the person we are trying to comfort; we are trying to grasp for something to hold onto, something to give us a sense that the world is still alright. And sometimes, like reaching out to straighten a crooked picture on a wall, we thoughtlessly try to "straighten" others, to bend them to a place of being "all right.' But the world isn’t alright; it’s broken. And part of how we enter into others’ pain is by not trying to pretend that everything is alright when it’s not. Yes, God is still good, but right now the whole creation is groaning, waiting to be delivered from it’s bondage to decay (Romans 8:20-23). Suffering is real.

Grieving with someone without saying can sometimes feel like we are standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into the unknown. Sometimes it feels like we're already falling. Words feel like a net, promising to catch us. But really, we don’t have to fear. We don’t have to reach for a net, because underneath it all are His everlasting arms, and our words don't hold everything together; He does. It’s not that there’s never a time to speak true words of comfort, it’s just that they fall flat sometimes when the pain is so deep. Not only that, the lack of empathy behind them can hurt more than heal. “Whoever sings songs to a heavy heart is like one who takes off a garment on a cold day, and like vinegar on soda” (Proverbs 25:20). 

I will Say I love you. I will Say I’m sorry. I will Say I’m praying for you. But after that, I will wait; I will simply be present and show my love. I'm sure I'll make mistakes again, and that's okay. The important thing is that I know the God of all Comfort, the God who became flesh and lived in our sin-stained world, is teaching a clumsy comforter what it means to incarnate his love.

*I asked Asia if I could share her story. She was glad for it to be shared if it might be able to help others. She has a heart of gold!