“Are you okay?”
It’s the first question we ask when faced with someone experiencing any type of hardship. In our hearts, we know they aren’t ‘okay’; but the words inexorably tumble out of our mouths. We need to say something—anything—to engage them into conversation; sometimes out of a pure desire to assess the situation, other times because we simply don’t know what else to ask. Yet, silence isn’t an option, either. If we don’t engage, we become seemingly thoughtless bystanders, watching the horror show that is our loved ones’ tragedy. As C.S. Lewis writes in his own experience, A Grief Observed:
“An odd byproduct of my loss is that I’m aware of being an embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do. And if they don’t.”
Lewis knows. His own struggle with grief strikes the heart of the matter: He knows he isn’t an embarrassment due to his grief—he feels that he is the cause of embarrassment to others who have no earthly clue as to how they can approach him, or, leave him alone. He wants neither, and both. It’s an odd place to be in the midst of grief—much like being in a pool filled with purified drinking water while dying of thirst, yet unable to drink it; we rather prefer the taste of our own tears, gulping down more air with which to scream and rail at God—or anyone else—for our suffering. Yet we don’t want to do that alone or in the company of anyone else. It is the paradox of grief.
Then comes the inevitable, “I’m sorry”. While we mean well, what we don’t understand is that we’re asking for them to become the caring one in that moment—in our minds, this isn’t true; we really do feel sorrow for the other person. But the truth is, saying ‘I’m sorry’ will evoke an ‘it’s okay’ response. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, the other person will understand from where we’re coming and answer, ‘thank you’—but most of the time, people are too embroiled in grief or trauma to have that kind of situational awareness. We are not helping in those moments, as much as we mean otherwise.
So, now what? How can we ‘be there’ for someone without effusing meaningless phrases? What does it look/sound like to ‘help’ someone through grief? Through trauma?
I’m no expert on those two subjects, at least no more than anyone else who has endured them. Grief and trauma are contextual; at best, our job as support is to do just that: support. The question then turns from, “Are you okay?” to “What do you need?” Many times, the initial answer will be, “I honestly don’t know.” But eventually, by keeping the question alive, the answer comes. It, too, being contextual. The main thing to remember when dealing in grief and trauma is to be present. Simply sitting with someone and not saying or doing anything seems like the perfect response to Lewis’ paradox of ‘I hate it when they do. And when they don’t.’ If we can be brave enough to let our only question be about the person, not about us (Notice that I didn’t write, “What can I do for you”, but rather, “What do you need”), then we may just find a way to be present without being obtrusive.
I think back to when my friends lost their baby. There are no words, no actions that can mitigate that kind of pain. I don’t have to go through it to know that—no parent should ever lose a child. But being present with them, allowing them to speak when they wanted, cry when they wanted, all without injecting how wonderful a help I could be and without asking empty questions just to gain responses, seemed to be enough help in and of itself. Eventually they opened up, and they needed us to listen to them, to cry with them, and to hold them up.
Christ’s commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves is one that asks us to walk in their shoes, see from their perspective when possible. If not, then it is boiled down to a simple choice: Can we love without getting in the way? Are we able to not be the hero—to not need to feel like we’ve done something to help the other, and simply allow grief to happen? Our greatest weakness as compassionate humans can be to over-function in times of turmoil. If we are willing to lay down questions that we already know the answers to, then perhaps we can pick up on the silence and hear the truth of their situation through it.
Perhaps we can observe grief first, and through invitation and patience, be a part of that grief observed.
Faithfully,
Fr. Sean+