112 - On guessing that you know what it must be like.
A reflection on listening before assuming.
Welcome back (or welcome)!
Last week I said that this summer would be a little different. I said, “I’ll keep writing here, but it may not be every week. Instead, I’ll commit to writing when I have something that will be helpful to you and me.”
This seems helpful right now.
We may not know what our friend is actually grieving.
We say, “I’m sorry about your dad.” It’s a simple statement. It fills the space.
It’s possible that what we are sorry about is different than what the person is sorry about.
We are imagining a picture of the relationship that existed. We base our picture on what we know of the person. And on what we know about our own relationships. And what we’ve seen in movies and advertisements. What we’ve read in books. What we’ve been told about ideal relationships in church and in conversations.
The picture of the relationship is creative, wishful, hopeful.
And we are imaging a picture of grief. We base our picture on what we’ve been told by well-meaning friends. And what we’ve been told about grief in church. And what we’ve read in memoirs and novels. And what we’ve seen in movies and in the handful of people who write about their grief (and occasionally what you read here.)
The picture is creative, wishful, sad.
But the person we’re consoling knows the relationship that actually existed. They know the tensions and the unresolved expectations. They know the gaps between the public and the private. They know how much the relationship shaped them, wrecked them, pushed them toward doing a better job themselves.
They know the apologies that were never offered, the impositions that were never acknowledged, the lopsided lovingkindness.
The person we’re consoling may be indeed be sorry, but not in the way we imagine. They may be sorry about all the things before the death that were long and draining and unfinished. At the time of death, there may be a sense of relief or resignation.
And.
Or.
The person we’re consoling is aware of how much the lopsidedness was on their part, not their loved one. They know how they fell short, how they kept their distance. They are sorry, full of the apology they never offered.
And.
Or.
The person we’re consoling is stuck in falling short of their own expectations rather that what the relationship actually was. They wanted to be so perfect, unaware that they were good and faithful and loving. They are sorry, but needn’t be.
And.
Or.
The person we’re consoling knows how much they have been grieving for the days and weeks and years before this death. When minds fade before bodies do, mixed with the personal care is personal loss. Something about the relationship that was true isn’t true anymore.
The love persists, mind you. But at the time of death, there may be a sense of relief mixed with the grief.
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The reason for all the and/or is that relationships are muddled. Or complex. And so is grieving.
Perhaps the most helpful thing to offer our grieving friend is listening before consoling. Discerning their picture before trying to impose ours. Hearing their grief, not ours.
I don’t expect this of everyone, of course.
But you are here. So I offer these words to you who care.
Peace.
See you next time.
Jon
P.S. I am fully aware, of course, that the timing and the nature and the stage in life of the death are part of consoling as well. I’ll get there.