No one told me that I’d have to be a grief counselor during my wife’s viewing. Everyone offered their love. Some, perhaps triggered by the loss of a spouse, struggled with their own unresolved grief stories. Instead of being comforted by them, I felt the pull to comfort them. But I didn’t have much to give. I did my best, but I was empty. I quickly changed my expectation from “receiving their love,” to “offering them hope.” I thought they were supposed to comfort me, not me to comfort them.
But the Lord came through again (as he always does). He provided me with a spirit of peace (which I attribute to the prayers offered by so many). Initially, I was upset that they wanted me to comfort them, but the spirit of peace allowed me to adjust my expectations and see what was happening. All these people came to honor Deb and me on a cold, rainy Thursday night. They were loving me. They were a gift to me. They honored me; I needed to honor them. The truth is, each person showed it as a gift.
I was humbled by the number of people willing to give up their Thursday evening. I assume many didn’t know what to say and were nervous, fearful of saying the wrong thing or offending me. So, I worked hard to give lots of hugs and enjoy each person as much as possible.
To love others well, you need to know yourself. I’ve had fears when approaching a person who lost a father, child, or spouse. I didn’t know what to say. That may not be the purpose. Perhaps the goal is just loving the person. Loving is tricky sometimes, but just trying to love is a win in my book.
I have a fear of “screwing up,” when I approach someone grieving. This fear always made me hesitate to pull back in self-protection. God reminded me that I needed to receive love the best I could, something that was uncomfortable at times. I used to avoid funerals the best I could, but now I see it’s a way to love someone. It’s honoring someone. I understand people want to be heard and loved.
Two Types of Comforters
There are basically two types of comforters: the “advice-givers” and the “listeners.” If you’ve ever been comforted, you already know these two simple categories are true.
Unfortunately, most comforters are advice-givers. They want to solve your problem. But grief isn’t a problem, and it can’t be solved. Advice might be helpful, but telling mourners to do one or two things isn’t necessarily soothing. It increases the griever’s stress when we are already stressed out.
I’ve learned to limit my time with people who think life fits into clear black-and-white categories. When black and white people talk, they seem to lump all smart people into a certain clearly defined category (usually based on one thing they happen to be talking about) and other people into the “less-than-smart” category. They ask questions to get you to agree, not get information. “Have you seen anyone that stupid? No common sense, right?” or they ask the most obnoxious question in the world, “Am I right?” I feel like I’m taking a test when I talk with these people, and I don’t want to fall into the “less-than-smart” category. So, talking with these people is more anxiety-provoking than comforting. I fear I’ll answer wrong and be dumb. Frankly, I didn’t see this as helpful.
It’s not a good idea to use the Bible as a sword, hacking at assumed sinful motives. I have sinned in my life, but standing in a line with a hundred people is not the time to use it. Allow me grace before confronting my sin. Please use the Bible as a source of strength, not discipline. The Psalms begin to leap off the page when I read them. They heal, reminding me who God is and who I am.
I don’t mean to be judgmental because I understand what’s happening. These people (usually men) want to help me, and the only way they can think of doing this is to give me a solution. This comes across as “wisdom,” but it only adds pressure. Here is a shortened list of things I’ve been advised to do:
Go for walks
Exercise
Join a gym and go three times a week
Read the Bible
Pray more
Read Psalms more
Take a trip
Get a dog
Get a cat (I hate cats)
Get a horse (I live in the city with a postage-stamp-sized yard)
Go to church
Read certain books (can’t remember them all)
Eat more
Sleep more
Don’t sleep too much
Don’t watch too much TV
Be with family
Be with friends
Don’t drink too much
Don’t date for a year
Don’t buy a motorcycle and drive “to the ends of the Earth.”
Write your thoughts out (advice I initially rejected, but obviously, I changed my
mind)
Write a book
See a therapist
Talk to the pastors
Go to the Grief Share group (good call; our church didn’t have one at the time, so I
thought I’d wait)
Go to the men’s Bible study more
See a football game
Go shopping more (I hate shopping)
Fix up the house
Take more time off work
Get back to work
Travel to Paris (not going to happen)
Spend time in the garden (I did not do this one at all)
And pray more than ever before
Just writing this list is exhausting. Imagine if this list was given to you in a rapid-fire two-hour social event while your dead wife is in a casket ten feet away from you. How am I supposed to respond to these helpful suggestions? Some of these suggestions were commands, which were more demeaning than helpful. It was overwhelming, and I was already overwhelmed.
The second group of comforters listened. I don’t know if I could have made it without these precious friends. Instead of insisting on giving me solutions, they 1) asked one or two questions and then 2) stopped talking. These two points are not complicated, but I can count on one hand the number of people who can pull off this skill. When these people listen, I feel heard. My thoughts are real, and so is my pain. I’m not crazy; I’m just hurt. It’s like God is putting his arm around my shoulder and asking, “Tell me more Andy.”
Listening is a judgment exercise. It’s not filled with, “No, you shouldn’t do that, that’s a bad thing to do,” or “Wow, I can’t believe you said that. I thought you were a Christian.” Instead, these people don’t give their opinions because they want to love me, not correct me. When someone listens to me, I feel the freedom to understand my thoughts and feelings. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s going on inside of me.
Listeners give me space to be wrong, insensitive, and bewildered. It’s like taking a deep breath of air.
Unless I’m talking about suicide, please give me space to air my feelings. I know right and wrong; I’m trying to figure out my emotions.
One of my favorite authors is Henry Nouwen, a priest who taught at Notre Dame for decades, then at Yale, and finally at Harvard before leaving academia to work at a home for the developmentally and physically disabled in Canada. He changed my life with his writings. He said,
“Anyone who willingly enters the pain of a stranger is a truly remarkable person.”
Now that’s love. Being present with a person who is in pain and listening is love. I don’t know why there aren’t more Christians doing this. That troubles me. Shouldn’t we be the best at loving? Isn’t that God’s priority?
When you listen to my story, you receive me; when you receive me, you show me God’s love.
It takes a remarkable person to rest their anxieties long enough to give their full attention. By giving up control, you love me. When you come to me and sit with me, with no agenda, you comfort me. Isn’t that what Jesus talked about in John 13 when he asked us to love one another?
How Selfish am I?
Deb’s death helped me realize how selfish I am. My focus is on me, my sympathy, and my needs. I wanted life from others and didn’t intend to give back. I took it but did not give it. I expected (perhaps demanded) pity from others and grew irritated when I didn’t get it. I am a little boy.
When I began hearing other men’s stories, I changed my perspective. God gently tapped me on my shoulder and reminded me, “This isn’t about you Andy.” Now, please understand, he didn’t say, “Get over yourself,” or hit me in the back of the head with a hymn book and mumble, “Grow up Walks” as I would have. Instead, he drew me back into his presence with stories of pain from other men.
The world wasn’t going to stop because Deb died. It will keep going. No one owed me anything. It’s nice to receive sympathy, but I could not require it from others. Demanding is both selfish and ugly.
I am growing in my awareness of needing to be aware of my sin pattern. I need to be aware of my heart. I’ve been so busy with “things” that this awareness feels like a new language. The language of the heart. I don’t know my heart as well as I thought I did. Henri Nouwen said:
“The mystery of the spiritual life is that Jesus desires to meet us in the seclusion of our own heart, to make his love known to us there, to free us from our fears and to make our deepest self known to us.”
How can I love others when I don’t know my heart?
Dan Allender once said that man’s greatest fear is sorrow, suggesting we do whatever we can to avoid feeling that emotion. This avoidance leads us to all kinds of addictions, attempts to control others, or simply hiding in front of a video screen. It produces a factory of dysfunctional behavior in a person trying to find relief. I share this with prisoners who have lived most of their lives trying to escape their pain through drugs. Eventually, drugs become part of them, like a knee or kidney.
Is that true of me?
I’m not abusing drugs, but the desire for relief is greater than at any other time of my life.
Then, on Thursday night, just before Deb’s showing, the pain of the sorrow became public. There was no place to hide anymore. I was face-to-face with hundreds of friends and family. I hate crying, but I cried anyway. I was honored by the few brave souls who ventured to see Deb one last time. I loved it and hated it at the same time.
As a man, I realize something tenses inside me when I receive grace. Receiving love made me very vulnerable. An unwritten “man rule” says to the world, “I can do this on my own.” But that’s silly, isn’t it? I am a broken man with broken thoughts. I need others but don’t like needing someone else to come through for me.
What surprised me was the number of widowers I saw at the event. It seemed they were more upset than I was. Some of these men’s wives died years ago, but you could tell it was fresh again at Deb’s viewing. I was embarrassed, and they cried more than I did. I began, “What’s wrong with me? My wife’s body was three feet away and I am just standing, comforting men whose wives died six or seven years ago. What’s wrong with me?”
But it was those widowers who rallied around me and met at my house a few weeks later, trying to speak and pray for life in me. It was the group no one wanted to belong to, but we are thankful such a group exists.
And I knew I needed them.