A Light for My Path

I’ve written before about the things not to say to someone who is grieving. I don’t mean to be harsh or admonishing. I get it – it’s hard to know what to say, especially when you are caught off guard by someone’s grief. I’ve been in that uncomfortable situation when I didn’t know the person I was talking to had lost a loved one. “How’s that husband of yours? Still trying to improve his golf score?” A stunned look crosses her face and then she tells me he died three months ago.

My tone immediately changes and I blurt out condolences and “I didn’t know; I hadn’t heard.” It’s awkward and I tend to babble to cover my embarrassment. When what I should do is just say nothing for a moment. Hug her or place my hand on her arm. Let her gather herself and tell me as much or as little as she is comfortable with saying.

This advice is easy for me to sit here and tell you (and myself) when I’m not in the middle of that awkward situation. But, even if you find yourself fumbling with words can I ask one thing of you?

If the sentence on the tip of your tongue starts with “at least . . .” please don’t say it. Just don’t.

There is no at least that makes up for the pain and grief.

At least he isn’t suffering any longer.

At least she didn’t linger.

At least you two had a long, happy marriage.

At least you’re young enough to find someone else.

At least you have/can have other children.

At least you know she is in Heaven.

Every one of these things can be true, but they are not helpful. Yes, even knowing my daughter (any many other friends and loved ones I’ve lost) are in Heaven – though it brings me peace in the certainty I will eventually see them again – it does not change the fact that I miss them here on earth. I crave my daughter’s physical presence. I miss hearing my daddy’s beautiful voice. I long for my mother’s gentle advice.

Time has smoothed out the jagged edges of the wounds these losses left on my heart. But, they will never completely heal in this lifetime. So, I still sometimes surprise myself by tearing up when I talk about Rachel seven years after losing her or even my mother, who’s been gone nearly thirty years. If I do, I’ll understand you might feel uncomfortable and not know what to say. At least you’ll know what not to say.

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Laura