A Better Answer--Part 6, The Power of Understanding

When people ask me how to help others, they are asking what to do or say, especially what to say, that will give comfort to someone who is hurting. They sincerely want to extend a tender touch and envelop the person with kindness and love.

This is beautiful, and taking time to learn to do it better shows me deep wisdom and honest love.

As I've said before, we would all love exact words to say. A script would be so nice, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, there isn't one, so I'm trying to give you some things to consider, and I hope if you understand the reality of someone going through trauma or deep loss, it will help you speak wisely.

Sometimes, helping isn't about what you say, though. It is about what you don't say.

I don't often give hard and fast rules, but in this case, I'm going to do just that.

If you really, honestly want to express empathy and concern for someone...
If you really, honestly want that person to feel like you are truly trying to understand so you can support and love them...

NEVER, NEVER, NEVER say you understand.

Because the fact is, you don't understand.

I don't care if your husband has died or your dad has died or your whomever has died. You do not understand MY experience with this loss. Perhaps you can relate, but you do not understand.

Let me try to explain this so it doesn't just sound like a rash blanket statement.

My husband died. He was 42. Massive heart attack. His last words to me were, "Jerri, you're a great mom. See you tomorrow."

I almost let the words slip out, "Rob, I love you," but I didn't. How pathetic would that be? We were a month from the divorce being final. He had made it clear he no longer loved me but wanted to move into his new life. I said nothing.

Three hours later, he was dead.

I don't know anyone who has experienced those  circumstances. Can you really tell me you understand the guilt of not saying those words, the shock of his being dead at 42, the anger at burying someone who didn't want me, the absolutely absurd accusations by his parents, and the children's reactions? Oh, and by the way, this happend 4 1/2 months after my mom died, my stepdad quit speaking to us, close friends took sides, and....

Really. You want to tell me you understand that?

I didn't think so.

I have known or met several women whose husbands have died.

In one instance, a wife watched for nearly a year as cancer stole her husband's mind. I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine knowing it will be the last anniversary or the last birthday or the last...day.

In another instance, her husband died on Christmas. He took a nap and didn't wake up. I cannot imagine trying to celebrate Christmas. I cannot imagine seeing the world celebrate when the heart aches so badly.

Another friend lost her husband to a drunk driver. For the one you love to die from causes no one can control is one thing. To lose your loved one because someone is selfish and irresponsible...I cannot wrap my mind around that.

And then there are the men I know who have lost wives. It is a whole different thing. I've met men raising children alone, men who are single after losing the love of over 50 years, and a few in between. I have no clue what their experience is. I don't understand what it is like for a man to suddenly have to figure out girl's hair, menstrual cycles, and house keeping. I cannot imagine a lifetime of being and becoming one...only to have the one who made you whole ripped away.

Sure. We all lost our spouses, and I can relate to their loss, but I don't understand.

There are simply too many factors. I don't understand my friend who is now raising three stepchildren in their teens and a son under five all by herself. I don't understand the young man with the baby only a few months old trying to figure out life without his wife who died of an aneurysm in his arms.

No. I don't understand that at all.

I don't understand the stress of finances or family relations or social relations or emotional demands. I don't understand trying to balance jobs or helping children who had to walk right back into public school. I don't understand having the opportunity to end with closure. I don't understand the peace of knowing everything that needed to be said was.

I just don't understand.

Honestly, I think when people say they understand, really, they want to feel like someone understands them, like someone gets it. I think they want validation for their experience and reality.

However, the truth is no one can fully understand because every experience, every reality of loss is personal. It is customized to that person and that situation. It is impossible to truly understand someone else's pain.

Knowing that can feel very defeating. How can I help if I don't understand what I'm helping with?

Believe it or not, one of the best ways you can help is to fess up and tell the truth. Look the person in the eye and say, "I don't understand what you are going through, but I understand pain. I understand feeling lonely. I understand how life changes in ways I don't expect or want, and I understand the confusion and pain. How can I help you with yours?"

Your willingness to tell me you don't remotely understand tells me you at least understand the magnitude of the effect on me. It tells me you know this is heart crushing. Your telling me you can't imagine the pain, confusion, and shock validates my looking around at the remains of what used to be trying to get a grasp on what happened...and trying to figure out where life goes from here.

Your telling me you don't undestand, tells me you really do.

And that is powerful.

A Better Answer--Part 5, The Power of Credibility

It was WonderGirl's first time back at youth since her dad had died, and the sermon that night just happened to be about honoring fathers and their being the unquestionable head of the house. For WonderGirl, this was a double whammy. First of all, she no longer had a living father, and second, he had chosen to walk out on his family so he could "be happy". The topic of fathers was not a good one for her, and the idea of honoring a father who abandoned his family...yeah, not really.

When the pastor asked the young people to raise their hands for comments or questions, WonderGirl's hand went up. When he pointed to her, she said she thought honor was earned, and some fathers didn't earn it. The pastor told her he didn't care what the father had done. He should be honored and given authority over the house.

WonderGirl cared.

When she got to the car, she was just about beside herself. She was livid, and and she was hurt. By the time the door closed beside her, she was in tears. She unleashed the entire 30 minute drive home. I listened.

When we got home, she went to her room to work things out with God, and I posted on social media an explanation of what had occurred and asked for prayer.

One of the women took that opportunity to tell me I was coddling my daughter and allowing her to walk in anger, that I was allowing her--even encouraging her--to wallow in anger, and we needed to get over it.

As tactfully and calmly as possible, I informed this person that I didn't know how she could make a statement based on blips on a social media page, that there is a whole story she didn't know. She replied that she didn't know what was happening the rest of the time. She was only going by what she saw online, and based on that, she had given her opinion.

My point exactly.

She didn't know what was going on the rest of the time. She never called. She never emailed personally. She never texted. She never messaged. She made no effort to contact us or be part of our lives in anyway beyond the blips of the media page, but that was enough for her to make judgments--and they were judgments--about our hearts, our feelings, our thoughts, and our healing.

I deleted her from my list of friends online. Then I deleted her from my phone and my email.

And I didn't miss her .

Earlier this week I was talking to a friend about the family, and she was asking me about different aspects of life. Specifically, she asked me about the possibility of my dating or having a relationship, and we talked. It is a personal topic, and she knows it, but I also know her heart. I know it because she has walked the hard road with us. She has listened and loved through the ugliest. She has handled honesty I wouldn't put on anyone else. She has proven herself with phone calls, cards, texts, and coffee. She knows the story because she has walked it with me.

When she shared her thoughts on my lack of dating and lack of relationship, it wasn't someone tossing out a personal opinion based on her own filter. It was my heart friend looking closely at my children and me and being concerned for us.

And I listened.

And today as my mind has rolled her words over and over and sorted through thoughts and feelings that popped up while I went through boxess of family pictures and keepsakes, she is the one I texted.

When it comes to helping people on a personal level, there had better be a relationship.

If there isn't, the person will see the "concerned advice giver" as a judgmental busybody who is invading space where they are not welcome. They will not receive the person or advice as a blessing. Instead, they will reject the person and their words with a curse because the person is not speaking to them or their lives. They are simply giving their filtered opinion based on something having nothing to do with the hurting person.

Trust has not been established. Obviously there is no respect.

Honestly, it comes across as arrogance, and arrogance is never helpful.

A few months ago I served as a victim for an emergency response drill. While we were waiting for the drill to start, a female victim and I struck up conversation. While talking, the fact Rob had died came out, and she asked if I were dating anyone. No--and before I could say anything else, she informed me I shouldn't date anyone till the kids were grown, and they didn't need to lose another parent, and I owe my kids--

My palm shot out in a clear, "Stop right there," fashion.

"Excuse me, but you don't know me. You don't know my family. You obviously have no clue what you are talking about."

"Well, I just think--"

"I don't care what you think. I have no reason to care what you think. And you have no reason to think you have a right to dictate to me how to live or how to care for my kids."

You don't know.
You don't know my family.
You don't know how we live.
You don't know our story.
You don't care enough to learn it.
That means you don't care about us,
so why in the world should I care about your thoughts, feelings, or advice?

 If the best you have to offer is opinions from the cheap seats, keep your opinions to yourself. Be helpful by not being hurtful.

If you really want to help on a personal level, you have to get on the level of the person. Invest in the person. Write the texts. Send the cards. Clean the house. Buy the coffee. Listen.

Instead of saying you care, SHOW you care. Otherwise, they won't care at all.

A Better Answer--Part 4, The Power of Practical Presence

Chief Bill Waybourn of Dalworthington Gardens Public Safety Department has a great grasp on grief and healing. In all honesty, he probably has the most solid understanding of grieving of anyone I've met, including counselors.

In one of our meetings, he and I discussed the reality that most folks don't know how to interact with people who have experienced a big loss. We talked about some things people said that were hurtful, some you've-got-to-be-kidding "counsel" folks gave, and just how much damage well-meaning people could do. And he asked me, "What if someone simply said, 'I love you. I'm praying for you'?"

I answered a bit more bluntly than I intended. I said, "I don't care, and I don't want to hear it. You want me to believe you actually care? Get off your Christian butt and show me. If all you can do is tell me you care, you don't really care that much, and your words mean nothing."

He nodded. "So how do you show someone you really do care?"

Excellent question.

Helping people falls into two realms: the mental/emotional realm and the physical or practical realm.

When people think of the mental/emotional realm, they usually think about Part 3's post: encouraging others through words whether they be verbal or written, and as I said, those are precious offerings of help and kindness.

The practical realm is what typically comes to mind when people think of helping a window or a single mom...and hopefully a widower or single dad. This realm includes handyman stuff like mowing the yard, trimming trees, fixing a broken pipe, or helping with computer issues among other things.

A lot of folks simply ask: "What can I do?" And they are sincere. However, it is hard to answer that. Honestly, we don't want to bother people. We feel so utterly needy, and we don't want to wear anyone out because who knows but we'll need something later, and we don't want to use up all our free help tokens on things we can handle.

Let me tell you something most people won't confess: There are things we have the knowledge to do and we even have the tools to do or know how to rent and use the tools to do them. The ability is there. However, after someone dies, we are simply so exhausted due to the constant need to breathe, the requirement of getting out of bed, trying to remember to eat, drats!, have to feed the kids too, and simply continuing to live that we can't think about fixing that leaky pipe or even calling a plumber. Easier to let it leak. We can't put enough thoughts together to get a ladder and a saw, climb on the roof, and cut away the limbs and then have to bundle them! Good heavens! Do you have any idea what kind of focus that takes when you aren't able to sleep, aren't eating well, and are simply trying to get through the day while convincing yourself there will come a day when it won't be this hard?!

The honest fact is sometimes we need someone to take care of us.

We need someone to step in and say, "Let me think this through for you. Let me go to the hardware store. Let me find the phone numbers. Let me set up your computer. Let me...take something off your plate so you can have a break."

I had no idea how exhausting it was to go on living after a spouse died until I was the one left living. Anyone who took anything so I didn't have to deal with it...or deal with it alone...was an angel of God in my eyes.

The list of possible ways to help is infinite, but let me share some things that blessed me deep.

Friends came over and trimmed the trees from my roof, fixed the drywall in the kids' bathroom, and spent time just listening to me talk.

Two different friends have helped me with computers. One researched Wonder Girl's computer, went with me to buy it, and then set it up for her. While we weren't home, he snuck in (with a key) and had it waiting for her when she got home from her birthday lunch. Another friend has worked on our computers, helped copy things over, taught me some basic things that I had never had to do before, and did troubleshooting over the phone to keep me from taking computers to the shop for help.

Friends of ours recently brought us dinner at the hospital while Wonder Girl sat in the ER waiting for the declaration of appendicitus over stomach virus. Another brought me my computer and charger as well as my phone charger, and he drove over again the next afternoon in rush hour traffic because WonderGirl could not get into my tall vehicle after surgery, but she could get in and out of his car just fine.

My cousin took the kids Christmas shopping for me last year.

Someone else replaced my handles in my shower to stop the annoying leak.

We received two full weeks of meals, and on the fourteenth day, the coordinator, brought a freezer full of meals for us to keep for when we needed them.

One of the biggest "small things" we received were gift cards. These still leave me...stunned?...overwhelmed?...so humbled. We received over $600 in restaurant gift cards. Easily half of that from people we didn't know. Some of the cards came in our mail with notes simply saying, "You are in my prayers." No name. No return address. Just dripping love and concern from people who had heard our story and wanted to do something...anything...to help. And no words will ever convey just how much their kindness did help.

I am sure if I held this post up a couple of days, I would think of even more people, and I mean no disrespect to anyone I did not include. On the contrary, I still thank God in Heaven for every one of those people and how they blessed us.

It is easy to tell someone you love them, that you are praying for them, that you trust God to take care of them. It is a wholly different thing to be God in the flesh...to be the answer to a prayer.

A Better Answer--Part 3, The Power of a Kind Word

In A Better Answer--Part 1, The Power of Embracing Pain, I addressed a friend's question on how to help people who are hurting, who have suffered great loss, or who have endured trauma. I presented the simple truth: you will never be able to help someone through their pain unless you are willing to get right into the pain with them. To get through the healing, you have to start in the pain.

In A Better Answer--Part 2, The Power of a Wordless Presence, I said sometimes it is impossible to find something to say to someone who is hurting because there simply is nothing to say. It is then that one loves by simply listening.

But as I said in part 2, if all we are is silent, we send a message loud and clear, and it isn't what we really want to say. Silence echoes with abandonment, which is the exact opposite of what we are trying to communicate.

So what do we say? How do we find words when we know there aren't any?

Well, I can tell you some things that helped us.

I know it may seem impersonal, but emails, cards, and texts were God-sends. Even now, I remain amazed at the perfect timing, the perfect words, the perfect...perfectness of these precious messages.

Some people sent verses. Some people simply said they loved us. Some were honest and said, "I don't know what to say, but you are on my mind daily, and I keep you in my prayers."

Even when I was most angry and fighting it out with God, those words were gold. I kept every one of those cards. I would print out the emails and put them in my journal to read and reread and read again.

They are priceless.

Sometimes I read a verse or that someone was praying for us, and I didn't like it because God and I were working through things, but I knew one day I would read them and thank God. I knew the anger and fighting were part of the journey and eventually, we'd be--I would be--fine.

Some people wrote me memories of Rob, and I treasure those. I cried when I received them, but I've read them since. Cried some. Laughed a lot. Thanked God profusely.

And I keep thinking what courage it took to write those words, to write any words.

You know, it is perfectly valid to simply say, "I don't know what to say."

People would say that, and I would say, "I know. Me either." And I didn't. I knew these people were in shock. I knew they had lost a friend. I knew they were hurting too either with us or for us, and I had no idea what to tell them either.

People would say they were sorry, and I knew they were.

I've read the words, "I want to say something, but I have no idea what to say. Just know you're in my heart." Perfect.

Now, let's say you can't hide behind a computer or a phone. Then what?

First of all, I know you are afraid of saying the wrong thing. You are afraid of making someone angry or making them cry or...sticking your foot in your mouth huge.

I will tell you what I told a friend of mine who was finding her way through loss. I said:

"I'm going to say the wrong thing.
I'm going to make jokes when I shouldn't.
I'm going to be depressing when you need me to be funny.
I'm going to say the right thing, and you are going to cry anyway, and sometimes I'm going to cry with you.
I may simply sit and stare at you, not because I think you are crazy but because I think my words are useless.
I'm going to do something right one day, and it'll be wrong the next day, and you will scream at me and rage at me and wonder why you bother trying to talk to me.
Then suddenly your anger will be spent, you'll apologize...or not.
There will be times you thank God for me, and times when you tell Him what a lousy friend I am.
There will be times I miss the clue that you need me here. There are times I'll show up, and you'll wish I would really go away.
In all of it, I'm still with you."

And THAT is what you need to say, in whatever words you find. You need to say that you know this is the rollercoaster from hell, but you are in anyway.

I don't know what those words are. I can't give you exact answers to every situation. What I would tell you is don't react to the words. Respond to the heart.

Words are just words.

The heart is the fragile treasure.

I know. This did not give the definitive answers we would all like. As I've said, I've walked through some hard stuff, and I have learned a horrible unfair truth: Just because I understand pain doesn't mean I always know how to alleviate it, but I know how to stand there. I know how to apologize for missing it even when I had the best of intentions, and I know how to laugh at jokes that seem morbid to anyone who has not walked this road. I know how to hand kleenexes, listen to stories, keep my eyes dry in their presence and sob to God on their behalf in my bedroom. I know the courage it takes to ride the rollercoaster no matter what it looks like in any given moment on any given day...because even though the rollercoaster changes with breathtaking speed, only a coward walks out on a friend who is raging in their pain.

If they are courageous to get through, I'm courageous enough to walk through with them.

And the whole time I'm in it with them, I'm seeking and praying for words and ways to tell them one simple thing:
I know you are in your own personal hell, but I love you, and as hard as this is, I'm still in.

In the Middle of the Holidays

I've spent the day writing posts about grief and how to help others who are hurting, but I'm wondering, how are you?

How are you doing this holiday season?

Was Thanksgiving okay? Did you make it through alright?

I'm being serious. I know Thanksgiving can be...whew. Those empty chairs or broken traditions or the wrong person making the dressing. They can be...almost too much.

Shoot. Sometimes they can be too much. Last year was the first year without Mom and Rob. Before that, my family came here, and we had to add chairs to the table, and it was loud, and...I couldn't stand the thought of having no one here last year, so we didn't. The kids and I volunteered to serve dinner to folks who had no place to go.

Sometimes the past echoes too loud for the present to be bearable. When that happens, it's okay to say, "I can't do this." It is okay to change the tradition to do something new. To find a place to breathe.

In case no one has told you...
Don't be afraid to find your own place to breathe.

And what about those of you who have a few holidays under your belt? How is for you this year? Is it better? Harder?

The first holidays without Mom stung, but there was so much other trauma going on that my emotional and mental processes didn't really get clicking about Mom not being there until the second year. I was shocked at the difficulty of last year. Wow. I missed my mom.

And it was harder in some ways because it was the SECOND holidays, and we all know the worst ones are the first ones, right? After that, it should be SO much easier.

If only.

Sometimes the numb is still there the first year and the second year slams you like a tsunami.

I found it shocking, which was hard, but it was harder because I didn't want to say anything to anybody because I'd already heard enough of the "you should be over it" stuff. I didn't need more of that, so I mostly stayed quiet. Not sure that was the best answer, though.

How about you? Has that happened to you? Is it happening to you? If so, who are you missing? Want to tell me about them? About the pain? About the missing?

What about right now? Today? How are you?

Are you looking ahead a few weeks and trying to figure out how to get through that day that you are just sure is going to bury you? Or wondering how to get through better than last year? Or maybe you are like us and are actually very excited about the holidays this year. Feels good, doesn't it?

And for those who are wondering if you'll ever get to a place that actually feels exciting or happy or joyous again, if you keep walking through the grief, you will. It may not be next year, and it may not be the second year, but you will get there. I wondered if we'd get there because it felt like we'd never get out of the shadow of pain, but I can tell you we are joyful, and we are excited, and we really do anticipate good things. I know it sounds cliche', but time does help.

Or are you just trying to figure out how to get shopping done for the ones still here but aren't staying? And for some of you, the loss is so recent...the gifts have already been bought...and you can't take them back and you can't keep them and...Dear God in Heaven, what do you do? I don't know, but I cry for you, and I pray for you, and I ask Him to give you strength for today, for tomorrow, for this holiday and the ones to come.

You know, people might tell you that you need to do this or that, keep this or that tradition, whatever. They are afraid you're going to get stuck in misery and never celebrate again, but I think sometimes a year off is okay. I think sometiems it gives you a chance to focus your energies on healing. Sometimes it is good to let others take over and cover you. Sometimes it is good to just let the day go by without anything. Only you know what you are up to. Don't be guilted into anything, and don't feel like a failure if you just decide you can't do this.

 

Sometimes healing is enough to do.

The big deal is making it through this.

Sometimes, just getting through the holidays may feel bigger than you. When that happens, step out of something or step into something you need that feeds you in some other way.

For us, we stepped out of the family dinner at home and stepped into helping someone else. It was a good diversion. Friends invited us to join them, but really, we just needed to be us that day, and we were. If you need to just be you, give yourself permission to do that.

Really, the big deal is to get through okay. There is no right way or wrong way--okay, lots of booze or gratuitous sex is not a right way to handle things. But hopefully, you get understand what I'm trying to say.

Be kind to yourself.
Give yourself room to heal.
Give yourself room to grief.

It's okay to cry.
It's okay to be angry.
It's okay to hold those homemade ornaments and cry so hard your body aches.
It's okay to stay in bed a day or two. I know people will tell you not to do that, but I've talked to a lot of folks who have found a day or two in bed didn't end the world. There is something about just giving yourself a day to let the hurt work through, to let the missing wash out, to be empty...and not need to be anything else. It really is okay. Just don't stay there. :-)

And I give you my word, it does get easier. It isn't perfect, but it is easier, and I know you can get there. I know this year may seem like it'll bury you, but I believe you can make it. I'm praying for you. Don't give up. Keep going. Even if still going means going to bed for a day. :-)

In the meantime, I'm really wondering--how are you doing?

**If you would like me to pray for you by name, leave a comment with your name in it. If you don't want it published, just let me know, "Jer, I'd like the prayer, but I'd like it private." Or if you don't want to give me your name, that is fine, too. Just drop a line saying, "Pray for me." I will. The road this time of year can be mighty hard when you are walking it alone. I'm with you in Him. Blessings.

This Year's Story

As I sit here and write you, just over my computer screen I can see our Christmas tree, lights glowing. Wonder Girl is making hooks to hang our new ornaments, and Wonder Boy is humming in his room.

If you could see our house...oh my...

We have a stack of light strings that no longer work. I'm not even going to try to salvage them. Because....we have stacks--yes, I mean STACKS--of lights that DO work, and then we have a pretty large pile of unused boxed lights that have never even been opened. They are going to the women's shelter. <insert happy squeal>

We have a Santa who plays a saxophone, and two others that dance while he plays. We have candles shaped like hearths, ornaments, bells, and Santa himself.

There are multiple light up window scultpures, and a light up wreath for the door. We even have a projector to shoot pictures up on the garage door. The entire front of our house could be hidden by a glow if we wanted it to be.

That's only the shiny stuff.

Want me to tell you about the pot holders, hand towels, platters, candy holders, or Christmas figurines?

Yep, Christmas showed up and brought the whole 2000+ year old family this year.

But there is one box that is sitting in the corner unopened. It's the one marked "Family Ornaments".

It is filled with ornaments of Christma past, which the children do not want to see and most certainly do not want on our tree.

I understand.

But I miss them.

They are ornaments their dad and I picked out before we became parents and ornaments we picked when each child was born. There are ornaments for the children as they grew up and special ones Rob and I picked out together that reminded us of a season in our lives. There are ornaments that make me laugh every time we put them up...and some that I think of...and the tears come.

But the tears are okay with me.

Because the ornaments are my story. Figurines of my adult life put on a tree, reminders each year of the good stuff. And there was good stuff, and the good stuff is still good.

I refuse to let the bumps along the way define the whole journey.

Instead, I choose to see the journey for what it was...what it is...a story in the writing...and the story is good.

And one day that journey will go back up on the tree, and the young hearts in the house will laugh and smile, and the journey will feel good to their hearts. Maybe it'll even be next year.

But not this one.

And I'm okay with that, too. :-)

 There are ornaments on the tree, and they are the story of this year...

....and it's a good story. :-)

A Better Answer--Part 2, The Power of Wordless Presence

In my last post A Better Answer--Part 1, The Power of Embracing Pain, I stated to help someone you have to be willing to accept pain and not be afraid of it or the parts of life that cause it. Most people, though, want to know specifically what to say because words are the silliest things. We mean to say one thing, and it sounds good in our head, but when it comes out, it comes out totally not what we meant, and we hurt people, so it's easier to just be quiet, but that says something else we don't want to say, and...Jerri, can you give some kind of help here?

I think so.

The first thing I would tell you is sometimes you can't think of what to say because there is nothing to say.

It is my experience what trips people up is the desire or need to "help", but the way you want to help may simply not be possible.

We don't like people to hurt. We don't like people unhappy. We don't like people to be angry. We don't like "negative" emotions. We want to fix them. We want to get the hurting person to a non-hurting place.

That is our definition of "help":
Getting the hurting person to a non-hurting place.

As noble as that sounds, you're not going to do it. You just aren't.

What you can do is step into the hurting place with the person.

How do you do that with your words?

Honestly, sometimes you do it by just being quiet,
by realizing nothing you say is going to help,
so you just listen.

Believe it or not, people who do not talk about trauma get stuck in it. A certain amount of talking and processing is required for healing to happen. One of the best gifts you can give a person is to let him or her talk. Let them tell the story over and over. I had a lot of people tell me not to think about it. Do you have any idea how utterly stupid that suggestion is? I watched my mom take her last breath. I stared at my husband's dead body on an ER table, and I'm not supposed to think about those things? Others can't get soap opera story lines or the crazy high electric bill out of their mind, and that is normal, but thinking about the deaths of two key people in my life is not?

Let the person talk about memories. Let them talk about what happened. Let them talk about plans they had and don't know how to face now.

Multiple people told me I needed a counselor and antidepressants.

First of all, I was not depressed. I was grieving. HUGE difference.

Second of all, if I had a friend who would listen and let me work through the emotions and mental jumble, I wouldn't need a counselor. Sadly, most people don't know how to be that kind of friend. Understand, I say that as someone who has gone through some intense trauma and still struggle to know how to help hurting friends. So mostly, I just try to tell them I love them and am listening.

And when I am listening, I don't flinch at whatever they say. In fact, I may toss some things in they wanted to say but were trying to being politically correct about.

Rage doesn't shock me. Four-letter words don't shock me.

One of my very good friends who walked shoulder to shoulder with the kids and me through this is a pastor. I've known him over 20 years, and one day I vented. I think I may have used every four-letter word I know and made up new new combinations to boot. You know that man never said a word about my language. He told me he could not imagine the pain I am, could not imagine trying to pick up the pieces, could not imagine the pain of friends turned traitors, could not imagine how hard it is to be a single parent watching her children grieve for their dad. He told me he had no clue what to say to help, but he was still there.

And you know what I did? I kept talking to him and his wife. When life was the worst--when I was MY worst--I knew I could be real with them.

They gave me the gift of ignoring my word choices...

and hearing my heart.

When someone is hurting, the last thing they need is the pressure of a dog and pony show for people who know how to be religious but haven't the foggiest clue to how to be loving.

There is a reason people quit talking. It's because they learn people don't want to hear what they have to say. Whether it be brutal honesty or just telling about that last day together once more, they learn people don't want to hear it, so they don't say it. That is where they get stuck. That is where the healing slows...or stops. That is where they try desperately to be "normal" for everyone...where they look for drugs of whatever form to make them acceptable because being real only keeps them alone. And it is easier to medicate and be "acceptable" with people than it is to be real and work through the grief alone.

If you want really help, listen. Even when it is so real you don't know what to do with it. Unless you believe the person is going to hurt herself or others, just listen.

Listen to the heart of someone who is trying to figure out a new way of living. There is no "getting back to normal". Normal included a person who isn't coming home. Normal is gone. This person is trying to figure out how to live differently. They are figuring out a different number of people at the dinner table, a new schedule, what to do with the favorite sweater of someone they love. And it's hard.

For me, I found I really had a hard time with Sunday evenings. It took some time and a few emails to friends before I realized what it was. For years, every Sunday night I watched my favorite TV show, drank a glass of chocolate milk, munched on almonds, and ironed my husband's clothes. Then I no longer needed to iron clothes. I hated Sunday evenings for a long time.

And, just so you know, people are going to cry. One of the greatest gifts you can give someone is to sit on the other end of the phone and listen while they sob beyond the ability to even talk. You may think you aren't helping, but you are. Trust me. Sitting on your bedroom floor sobbing alone in the dark is mental and emotional hell. I thank God for the people who simply held the phone to their ear and listened to me cry and talk unintelligibly.

I've also been on the listening side. I've been on the other side of the table as one of my heart deep friends asked me, "Why? What is God doing?" and put her head on the table and shook with sobs. Everything in me wanted to say something...anything...to help...except I've been the one with my head down. I've been the one whose tears made a puddle on the table...and on the floor...and I knew. There was nothing I could say that could touch her pain. There were no words. So I sat right where I was...listening...knowing part of living in this world is pain unspeakable...and the only antecdote is someone loving in the pain.

Sometimes we have no words because there are no words. But sometimes just being there, listening, not trying to fix anything but loving right where that person hurts says everything they need to hear.