Do you remember the story of Job in the Old Testament of the Bible? He was a man who had everything, sort of the Bill Gates of his time. Then, one day, all his earthly possessions including his family were taken away from him. He was in deep grief. He suffered all the stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. How did his friends comfort him?
The Bible says, “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.) According to Jewish tradition, those who come to comfort the bereaved should not speak until the bereaved speaks first. Job’s friends were driven by their religious and cultural traditions but what a great example for us to follow. So many times, we want to comfort the bereaved with spiritual words or insightful words but most times, it is just our presence that comforts the bereaved.
Same goes with depressed folk, with a slight swing. Not only do you get to sit saying nothing, a virtual impossibility in a “hyperknowledge” world, but you get to listen to the often repetitive voicing of self condemnatory statements in which the person attempts to grasp what it is that limits them from achieving that which they so easily promised when things were easier.
Listen and say nothing.
Our mind is working, albeit slowly. We face the embarrassment of having let people down. We’ve spent agonized hours telling the same things to ourselves, with the only lasting effect to grind us further down. You could make us tea. You could put sugar in without asking. You could sit or you could hug or you could read a book next to us without commenting on it . You won’t talk about how Sammy is doing so well, and what do I think about that?
I’m trying not to think.
Any attempt to engage exists on the other side of the wall I put there to survive and will beget only a blank stare. It’s not because I don’t care about you, it’s just that I’m trying not to care about anything .
In your being there, and in your listening, you are allowing me to shovel the droppings out of my psyche. In your silence you are offering a different perspective, something that does not condemn and doesn’t try to offer suggestions. You are telling me that there is a togetherness in facing this thing, that it is a thing. You are allowing me to perceive it as big, without lending an air of triviality to the experience I am interpreting as suffering. You are allowing my wounded soul to fill with bubbles of hope by merely being there, bubbles that will eventually help me float.
I have a reality in which the best thing I can do is not think. When you don’t engage I am able to keep the myriad of thoughts at bay. I find that it is OK to just be. There’s something about sharing a cuppa with someone. There’s much strength to be drawn from not having to catch your eye, or feel ashamed because I cannot.
I am in this place right now. I wish there were people like this in my world but it doesn’t seem to be. The folk from church mean well when they impart yet another Scripture verse that promises wholeness and the power to rid myself of demons. They don’t seem to understand that what I need is acceptance, and not the veiled threat that I’m letting myself be influenced by the dark.
Maybe that’s why the best person to have around is my friend’s dog. He loves me and doesn’t mind if all I do is rest my hand on his back. It would be good if there weren’t words. I need people and it is people who heal me. I don’t need the Word, your word, any word. Maybe it would help you as you pray quietly for the time to come that you are able to walk into my place of peace, here, behind my wall, allowed in because you sat by my side, and offered nothing.
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