Band-Aids

How do you offer comfort to a grieving woman? She’s your friend. So was her husband. Your heart is sad. Hers is broken. Life will never be the same again for either of you. You long to help. Somehow. Terrified that anything you say can and will be used against you. What if you say the wrong thing? Or don’t say the right thing? At the right time? 

What does she need? You don’t know—even she doesn’t know. There’s just pain everywhere for her. She’s never been here before. She doesn’t know what to do or say to you either. Can she trust you with the shattered fragments of her soul? Will you try to fix her when there’s no fixing this? Can you sit with her during a flood of anguish and confusion that makes both of you sad and maybe uncomfortable? Or will you panic in the discomfort of it all and try to cheer her up, offering a band-aid while she's bleeding out? 

Maybe you should ask her how it’s going? Dangerous. The old paths of greeting are fraught with landmines now. Or remind her to take one day at a time when it’s all she can do to take one breath after another? Tell her to look on the bright side by saying her husband is in a better place? That God did heal him? Someday she’ll see him again. Will that suture the wound?

Death throws everyone into uncharted waters. Prayer seems to be the only safe offering. Condolences say, “I see you and I’m sorry about what happened to you,” but feel inadequate. Cards and flowers are the same, a consolation to some, yet not others. Stocking up on Kleenex may be a good idea—you never know when or where a kind gesture will trigger tears. Everything triggers them for her. A lonely drive she used to take with her husband. The sight of lovers holding hands while they walk. Elderly couples blessed with twenty more years together than she had.

Maybe if she was reminded to practice gratitude for what she still has left, then she’d start to pull out of this free fall. Then everyone could breathe a sigh of relief and go back to normal. Advice is rarely any help to the listener. No one is expecting her to recover right away. She knows that. But how long is too long to feel sad? A couple of months? Years? It’s a good sign when she’s smiling or makes a joke. Good. She’s hanging in there. Moving on. Getting a grip. Oops. Nope. There it comes again and . . . she’s down. It’s getting a little old, isn’t it?

Living one day at a time in her world means waking up every morning knowing that this is a life sentence. He’s never coming back. He’ll never hold her again. She’ll never caress his face or smell his coffee or ride in the car with him again. His story has ended leaving hers without a plot.

She’s doing the best she can to put one foot in front of the other, force herself to do the normal things that are familiar, at least. Routine is good, she reminds herself. She needs reliable things in a world that doesn’t make sense anymore. Get up, get dressed, get out, connect. You’re doing great, she thinks, straightening her bed, looking at the sunshine through the windows, making unending phone calls that seal her husband in his grave. Surviving every new day, breathing with a knife in her heart.

There’s no guidebook for getting through this one, either as her friend or for her. That ‘stages of grief’ model? It doesn’t exist. Pain is unpredictable. There’s no roadmap. No shortcuts. No one’s experience is identical to anyone else’s. This is a walk in the dark, feeling her way blindly through disorienting circumstances. She was robbed of everything familiar to her, especially her true love. Even his wallet was stolen while he lay unconscious in the ICU. Salt in the wound.

So, what does she need to hear? What comfort exists that could ease her unending pain? Has anyone discovered anything that will break through her suffering fog and reach her weary, shattered heart?

“I love you.” “I’m praying for you.” “Holding you close.” “Keeping you right here.” “Thinking of you.” “You’re always on my mind.” “I’m here if you need someone to cry with.” “You are so loved.” “Tell me about it.” “May I sit with you for a while?” “Do you want to meet for coffee/lunch?” “God puts you on my heart constantly.” “I left something for you at the front door.” “I made this for you, praying for your comfort the entire time.” “I’d like to pick you up and spend some time with you.” “I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. There’s no need to respond.” "I so want to give you a hug and just be there." "Thinking of you every day and sending love." "Praying for your night. Always right here." "Prayers stay constant." "You haven't left my heart. Love you." "Carried you thru the night."

And if any of these things are spoken, all the better. She misses the sound of his voice. You can offer yours in the void.

None of these assurances fix anything for her. Instead, they remind her she’s still important to someone, and there are no expectations of her while she tries to find her footing again. No impatience. No advice. No one knows what these shoes feel like except her. There is no judgment about what she’s supposed to learn from this tragedy or what the future may hold for her. She’s doing everything she can to stay here in the moment while avoiding regret over the past and fear of what’s down the road. Though she searches to make sense of this senseless death, offering life lessons is wounding, not helpful.

Acceptance. Tenderness. Offering the relief that you understand this will take as long as it takes. And for as long as that takes, hearing the simple truth that she is loved and prayed for . . . heals.

Anything that heals is a comfort.