Today I went to see the movie Courageous with my sister. It deserves its own blog, so we'll deal with it at a later date. What's relevant for now is that it reminded me of what I lost 9 years, 1 month, and 21 days ago (I used a date calculator; I wasn't committed enough to figure it out myself). It reminded me of the great sense of loss I felt and how the Lord met me in it. (Well, I guess we have another blog... or 5).
Then I came home and got on Facebook. I saw a former classmate talking about how she missed her grandfather and wished her girls had the chance to know him. The very first comment on her status was a very well-meaning friend, I'm sure, who talked about how her grandfather was with her and how her girls would know him through their mother. I know she meant well. I know she wanted to provide comfort. The part of me who knows the pain of loss and the pain of knowing your future is forever altered wanted to quietly, yet matter-of-factly say, "It's just not the same".
So I started thinking about why the woman felt compelled to respond. I thought about all of the well-meaning things people said to me that really didn't help. In fact, some of them hurt- they made me feel like I was a failure as a Christian for missing my Dad. Why do we do this? Why do we have this compulsive need to make things better to such a point that we find ourselves saying ridiculous things in an attempt to comfort? It seems we're afraid of grief. We're afraid to admit that we don't know what to do or say to make it all better. Perhaps we even feel like failures when those we love hurt. Then I thought about another response. Where are the people willing to say, "Your sadness and anger don't scare me and they don't scare God," as they hold you when you cry? Where is the friend who fixes everything with one look that says, "I hurt deeply for you because you hurt, yet I know I can do little to make you feel better"?
That's the friend I want to be. I want to stare the person in the face and say, "Whatever you're feeling doesn't scare me and it's really okay that I can't fix it". Then, hopefully, at some point I can point them to the person who CAN fix them, who CAN heal their sorrows. I'm not saying don't try. All I'm saying is that your response to another's grief and struggles should be about them, not about making yourself feel better or like you did what you were supposed to do. It's hard, I know. We WANT to make things better and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm simply suggesting that perhaps your part is to sit and just be okay with the other person's feelings.
Then I came home and got on Facebook. I saw a former classmate talking about how she missed her grandfather and wished her girls had the chance to know him. The very first comment on her status was a very well-meaning friend, I'm sure, who talked about how her grandfather was with her and how her girls would know him through their mother. I know she meant well. I know she wanted to provide comfort. The part of me who knows the pain of loss and the pain of knowing your future is forever altered wanted to quietly, yet matter-of-factly say, "It's just not the same".
So I started thinking about why the woman felt compelled to respond. I thought about all of the well-meaning things people said to me that really didn't help. In fact, some of them hurt- they made me feel like I was a failure as a Christian for missing my Dad. Why do we do this? Why do we have this compulsive need to make things better to such a point that we find ourselves saying ridiculous things in an attempt to comfort? It seems we're afraid of grief. We're afraid to admit that we don't know what to do or say to make it all better. Perhaps we even feel like failures when those we love hurt. Then I thought about another response. Where are the people willing to say, "Your sadness and anger don't scare me and they don't scare God," as they hold you when you cry? Where is the friend who fixes everything with one look that says, "I hurt deeply for you because you hurt, yet I know I can do little to make you feel better"?
That's the friend I want to be. I want to stare the person in the face and say, "Whatever you're feeling doesn't scare me and it's really okay that I can't fix it". Then, hopefully, at some point I can point them to the person who CAN fix them, who CAN heal their sorrows. I'm not saying don't try. All I'm saying is that your response to another's grief and struggles should be about them, not about making yourself feel better or like you did what you were supposed to do. It's hard, I know. We WANT to make things better and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm simply suggesting that perhaps your part is to sit and just be okay with the other person's feelings.
