“Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.”
—Job 2:13
From the time I was old enough to leave my home, I have been in church. My mother was the organist and choir director, and having a baby just meant I heard a lot of church music. I fell in love with Jesus when I was five, was baptized, and have dedicated my life to being a follower of The Way ever since.
But that doesn’t mean it has been easy.
I was nine at the time of my mother’s sudden death. And I do mean sudden.
One minute, my Vacation Bible School class was standing up on the chancel area (stage, if you are unfamiliar with church verbiage), singing our VBS song, and the next, my mom—our teacher—was lying sideways on the front church pew, shaking uncontrollably. She was suffering from an aortic aneurysm.
My world shook. Apart.
Over the next 24 hours, shuffled between well-intending distant family members and friends, I felt alone. Finally, I convinced someone to take me home. Despite my parents not being there, I just needed to be in the sacred space of comfort and familiarity. It was there that someone came in to tell me that my mom would not be coming home.
(If you’re reading this thinking, “Wow, this is a f***ed up way to tell a 9-year-old her mother is dead,” you are correct. But I am convinced everyone did the best they could in the situation. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t f*ed up.)
My next memory is of someone handing me a poem that a cousin—who was a pastor—had written.
I remember exactly where and how I was standing when I read his well-intentioned words:
“Cry no more tears. God is near.
Your mama is now an angel in heaven.
Singing with angel choirs…
Do not be sad.
God needed your mama in Heaven, so this isn’t so bad.
The gifts she gave so many here, are now needed there…”
And frankly, I’ve blocked out the rest.
I didn’t know the “F” word then, or certainly I would have used it. But I do know my gut reaction, even at nine:
“If God is GOD, then how could God POSSIBLY need my mama more than I do? Does God not even know me??? She was my everything!”
But I loved Jesus, so I took that pastor at his word.
(And thank goodness our pastor was one of grace and love. No “God is mean” lectures—just words of peace and presence.)
What we say when someone is grieving matters.
In her book It’s Ok that You Are Not Ok, Megan Devine writes about how platitudes often do more harm than good. Do any of the following sound familiar?
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“They’re in a better place.”
“You’re so strong—you’ll get through it.”
“Just think of all you have to be grateful for.”
“Be grateful for the time you did have with them.”
“Time heals all wounds.”
“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
“You need to stay busy.”
“At least they didn’t suffer.”
“God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”
“You’re young—you’ll find someone else.”
“This should not still be causing you to be this sad.”
We mean well. We really do. But words like these don’t lessen grief. They often deepen it. They attempt to explain the unexplainable, to wrap pain in a tidy bow so it feels less uncomfortable.
But grief isn’t something to be explained. It’s something to be honored.
And sometimes the holiest thing we can do is just sit in the silence.