Companions in grief

 It’s been a long hard week. Our dear friend and colleague died before any of us thought he would. The sense of loss has been overwhelming.

How much more for his wife, also our dear friend. My dilemma as an introvert has been how or even if to reach out to her. Maybe this is not the right time? Maybe she just needs to be alone? I don’t want to inappropriately intrude on time with family. I don’t want to make things worse with my presence or words. I certainly don’t have any wise advice to impart, not having traveled this path myself. But doing nothing also seems wrong.

Actually, my friend herself solved my dilemma, inviting Hal and me, plus our son and daughter, over the second evening after the death. Her three daughters had traveled to be with her. Our kids all grew up together on the mission field, so it was like a family reunion. We hugged, cried a little, laughed a lot, told stories, remembered all the funny and wise things Ron did. We ate a good meal supplied by a neighbor. Our intention had been to drop in, express our love and loss, then leave in “good time.” We ended up being together for four hours. It was healing and we all sensed it was “sacred time” (much better than “good time”).

But my concern as an introvert remains, specifically in situations where a friend is experiencing trauma or grief. I want to be a companion in grief, someone whose alongside presence is a genuine comfort. I need to learn how to step out of my lack of confidence and simply be that companion.

I spoke to two of my friends who have experienced grief, asking about what other people did or didn’t do that helped. And what only made things worse.

Marcile has experienced widowhood twice in her life. In her first marriage, she and David were still young, only 46. David was killed in a small-airplane crash that stunned the community and left Marcile bereft and alone. In an instant. Shortly after the memorial service, she recounts spending a weekend away with close friends. But during the whole weekend no one even mentioned the fact that David wasn’t with them. People sometimes think that if they don’t speak about a negative fact, it’s like it doesn’t exist. Not able to stand it any longer, Marcile brought up the subject and asked her friends to talk about it. She needed help in facing the new reality.

Marcile came to see grief as a dark pool that she had to walk through. It takes time. Sometime she felt as if she had arrived at the other side, only to be blindsided by a memory, again plunged into the pool. She said it helped to have a few trusted friends who walked alongside, who understood that the journey would be long.

My friend Bonnie recently lost her husband, after having spent a lifetime together. She found she needed both the company of trusted friends and times of silence. Shortly after her husband’s death, an acquaintance showed up uninvited, saying, “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Being alone is sometimes what I need,” Bonnie tells me. At this time in life, she prefers to stay home and has dropped some activities, including keeping up an active social life. “I’m not tending to friendship right now. I can’t do casual chit-chat.”

This does not rule out contact with others. Even before her husband died, several neighbors sensitively showed up, bringing coffee in the morning, checking in everyday but not staying too long, showing genuine affection and concern that comforted Bonnie. She currently keeps up meeting with several trusted friends, friends who know how to listen.

Heidi Matson, another friend who has walked the path of grief, has written a book about it: Even Though: A Journey through the Valley of Loss toward Hope (2021). I call Heidi a friend, but we’ve not actually met in person. During the pandemic, I had the privilege of editing Heidi’s book and we spent lots of time on the phone and conversing through email. Her story touched me and I’ve given her book to several of my grieving friends. (That can be a dangerous thing to do. Some equate receiving a book about grief as a form of advice. And not all grief books are equally helpful. Take care when you give your grieving friend a book.)

Heidi writes with humor about the insensitive things people can say. She writes about 

the inane, insensitive, and even ignorant comments made by several well-meaning people. Many can only sit in the pain and confusion [death] brings for so long before they are compelled to fill the space or try to fix it. As a result, they end up saying ridiculous things…. Silence, by the way, is rarely stupid. When you don’t know what to say, that’s probably a pretty good indicator that you shouldn’t say anything…. And the truth is, nothing you can say will make it better. But you can say a lot of things that will make it worse.

Heidi and a friend decided to face the issue with humor, creating “The Stupid List” where they listed insensitive comments. The list included, “You’re cute. You’ll be remarried in five years.” “God only does this to strong women.” “I’ve been avoiding you. I just can’t stand to see you. It’s too sad.” And so on. Most of us here in the retirement community would never say such things; we’re too mature, right?

In another chapter Heidi writes about the necessity of community for healing, speaking especially about friends and family who had experienced trauma themselves.

Often the people who were best at knowing how to be present were those who had themselves suffered. It is what I call the “fellowship of suffering.” The connection and understanding that exist with someone who knows what it’s like to feel suffocated by grief is a great comfort.

She writes about the people who simply held me—in their hearts, in their prayers, and in their arms.

Douglas McKelvey in his book, Every Moment Holy, includes a liturgy for “A Friend of One Who Grieves.” It voices my prayer:

“…. Give me wisdom, grace,
and empathy, O Lord, to simply walk beside,
to let my friend lead as they learn to navigate this grief,
and not to ever in arrogance believe that I can
somehow set them straight, or make it right,
or give advice they do not need from me.
Teach me how to set aside my own discomfort,
so that I might compassionately perceive,
in the context of their specific loss and their specific need,
what true encouragement and helpfulness would mean….
[Let] me serve my dear friend well
by a close and constant willingness
to bear some small part of their long burden.
Amen.