April 18, 2021
The Lonely Road of Sorrow
When
you are traveling the lonely road of sorrow, you don’t need to have someone
tell you, “I know how you feel.” Ironically, what you need most is someone who
listens compassionately while you share how you feel.
That’s
one of the lessons I have learned in the weeks since my wife died. If you tell
me you know how I feel, I may smile and not respond but inwardly I am thinking,
“No, you have no idea how I am feeling.” Truth is, no one knows how another
person is feeling, so it is presumptuous to think you do. You only know how I
feel if you stop talking long enough for me to tell you how I feel.
I
became aware of this important lesson as I reflected on the way several friends
reached out to me in my sorrow. Martha got me thinking about this in a note
with a card she sent. She reminded me of a Harvard study which concluded that
close relationships contribute to our health and happiness. Our friends and
fellow companions in Christ are the catalysts of true joy. “Friends make the
journey of grief so much easier to travel,” Martha said. “I could not have made
it through my grief without the help of my friends.”
We can
learn the same lesson from reading Saint Paul’s Letter to the Philippians. Paul
tells his friends, his partners in the gospel, that he thanks God for them
every time he remembers them. He prays for them with joy and longs for them
with the affection of Christ. Yes, friends matter,
especially those who are our brothers and sisters in Christ.
So, how
do friends help assuage our grief. They do so by patiently listening as we
share how we feel. Bonny and Tommy came by. They sat on the porch with me. No
sermon. No advice. No reprimand. When they drove away two hours later, it
dawned on me that I had done most of the talking. They brought no fruit or
flowers but simply offered me the greater gift of listening. They never said,
“We care about you.” Their caring was manifested by the way they listened to
me.
Eddie
brings breakfast on Thursday mornings. One morning Ron came with him; on
another morning Dick came. They did not tell me they knew how I was feeling;
they just let the pancakes and bacon tell me they loved me. And once again,
when they left I realized I had done most of the talking. They had listened patiently
without one time trying to “straighten out” my thinking.
My
friends are teaching me how to effectively comfort friends who are
grieving. The secret in bearing one
another’s burdens is simply to “be there.” You can fake love but you can’t fake
being there. And being there, patiently listening, with a friend whose pain
seems unbearable, can make all the difference.
When Jill’s son died one
morning, I rushed to her home. When I asked how she was doing, her reply
underlined what I am saying: “I am ok,” she said; “Jane came.” I looked at Jane
and silently prayed, “Lord, don’t let me ever forget those two words – ‘Jane
came.’” Her friend Jane was there, offering the loving gift of listening.
The
death of someone you love is a stunning reminder of our mortality. Suddenly the
world is turned upside down. Someone is missing. A chair at the table is empty.
Tools once used are now idle. You feel numb and helpless. Yet life goes on. And
you must find a way to go on.
Caring
friends can help us find the strength to deal with the reality of death. Little
help comes from reading a poem that says, “I did not die; I am still with you.”
No, the person who died in my arms and was buried in the family cemetery plot
is actually dead and gone. I don’t need a sentimental poem; I need a friend who
will listen to me explain how it feels to know that my wife will never again
sit at the table with me, or listen to my stories, or straighten my tie or hug
our great grandchildren.
So,
look around you. You probably know someone who is struggling with the emotions
that grief produces – anger, guilt, bitterness, emptiness, loneliness, fear and
self-pity, to mention a few. You could possibly help that person, not with the
advice to “get over it and move on,” but by simply being there until the pain
diminishes.
When
you lovingly listen to a grieving friend, as though you are hurting with them,
that friend may begin to think that God is also listening, and that He also
hurts when His children suffer. Your being there may give someone hope that God
is there also, and that He has sent you to make the lonely road of sorrow
easier to navigate. The privilege of providing loving support to a fellow
struggler by listening, may be the secret of a life well lived. And sooner or
later, each of us will need that support. + + +