“Then Job replied:  ‘Listen carefully to my words; let this be the consolation you give me. Bear with me while I speak, and after I have spoken, mock on.’”
– JOB 21:1-3

When someone we care about is in the midst of great tragedy, we all ask the same question of ourselves: “What should I say?” We inherently know there’s nothing — no words that are ever enough to salve the deepest wounds of loss. The trouble is, we believe that there ARE some words that are adequate and we’re certain that because we can’t locate those words, that WE are inadequate. So, we choose to avoid, neglect, or try to minimize the loss.

But, that action (or, more accurately: inaction) winds up being about us. The hurting person then, lives with the experience of a double-loss: the impact of the tragedy itself and the sense of abandonment by those who can’t find the words. For Job, as the great sufferer of the Bible, he has endured loss. His friends come to him with a number of words in an attempt to bring his suffering to a kind of resolution that makes THEM feel COMFORTABLE. They talk. They blame. They believe their words are the answer Job is seeking.

Job has this insight for all of us: “LISTEN carefully to my words; let THIS be the consolation you give me. Bear with me while I speak…” I’m still learning, in the midst of being a pastor — one expected to have answers and reasons — that the great gift I can give is the use of fewer words, not more. I’m learning how to skillfully replace the question: “How are you?” with this: “It seems like it’s been really tough lately” and then waiting… and waiting… and waiting until they speak. I’m learning that a hug given in silence is a far greater gift than perfected words of wisdom.

In a world intent on expressing every thought with clever diction and winsome wordsmithing, silent support stands uniquely among all the ways in which we can care for the hurting. So, to those who hurt: the ones who have come in pain, the ones whose sorrow could not be undone in a single conversation, for those who have felt as if no one could ever understand, I apologize for failing to embrace silence with greater affection.

For as long as we dwell among other people, we’ll encounter pain — their pain and ours. Perhaps, we’ll continue to learn with greater and greater compassion and skill how to truly “be there” for those who hurt.

See you soon,

Jeff