When I was in first grade, I told my mother I hated reading. Then within a year I was devouring almost every library book I took out. I still remember the proud feeling I had, the first time I read an entire book in one day. For me, words are up there with chocolate and coffee.

I love words. I love writing them, stringing them together like beads on a necklace, hoping they will stand out from the page. But even more, I enjoy reading them. I am drawn in by finding myself in another person’s story or in a different world completely—all because of the power of words.

Yet there are times when I am not so eloquent. When in stressful, frustration filled moments, words come flying out of my mouth all sharp and pointy. When I am nervous and they come out all jumbled and insignificant. When words don’t seem to capture how I am feeling, or there aren’t enough of them to defend my cause. There are times when words fail.

But interestingly, I am finding that there are times when words aren’t necessary. I used to be in a profession (or I still am, it’s a hard one to shake), where there was a temptation to always have the right words to say, and to know the answers to everyone’s questions. I spent a lot of time sitting with people in times of doubt or need, and there was always the pull (from their desperation, or my own need to be needed), to be able to “fix” where they were at.

Believing it was expected of me, I tried to have all the answers for a while. Until I sat with a few people in circumstances where there were no bandaids large enough, and words felt hollow on my tongue. I learned rather quickly that these people did not need to hear my voice. An author once wrote that when we or our loved ones are faced with the most horrific situations, the only appropriate response is just one word, the F-word.

People need their pain to be acknowledged. They don’t need us to fix it, because ninety-nine percent of the time, we couldn’t even if we tried. They don’t need us to say the perfect thing because almost all words have been rendered powerless in the face of a tragedy. All people need from us is to sit with them and grieve. Many times, they need us to listen as they pour out their pain. Any attempt to do more than that, is more about us than it is about them.

Words are wonderful. Written or spoken, they are powerful. But there are times when a quiet presence brings more comfort than words ever could. There are times where being angry with those who are hurting, and spending an afternoon breaking unimportant things, is more beneficial than anything you could say. And there are times when bringing food over—even if those mourning don’t want to eat—speaks more love than any words we could ever craft.

In life, the most important reading we will ever do is reading the room. When tragedy or heart break strikes, we must take our cues from those most effected. Our job is not to be heard, but to seek to be present. Our job is not to fix, but rather to walk through unimaginably painful times with one another.

So, as we live in a time in History where suffering and pain is becoming a pandemic, may we make ourselves available to those hurting in our lives. May we seek to bring healing through our actions. And may our words be few.

Have you ever been in a situation where words failed?

Have you ever needed people to just be present?

 

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