Shannon, a bright young woman at work, lost her father in a tragic diving accident several months ago. He appeared fit, and his mastery of the reefs was legend, adding to the shock of her unexpected loss. Since his death, we have quietly supported each other in our grief as we navigate our oddly avoidant work culture that is bereft of emotional intelligence and interpersonal glue. I am still incredulous about a recent interaction Shannon had in the elevator with one of our C-level executives: “Shannon, you seem off,” the self-possessed C-suiter observed as the double doors glided shut. “You're not your usual sunny self. “Well, um ... uh, my father died suddenly last month,” she replied. “Oh, cheer up,” he quipped. “Don’t you know that the longer you grieve, the longer it will take for your father to get to heaven.” She was stunned and distressed. She felt the breath leave her body. “Well, it’s been hard,” she said, tears welling. Then, the doors opened, and she dashed toward the building entrance in the cold marble lobby. His words were disturbing on so many levels. He had managed to minimize her feelings, demonstrate empathic failure, make an inappropriate assumption about her spiritual beliefs, and say something insensitive about her father—all in one sentence. And he was a top-level manager talking to a subordinate. “I am speechless, and I ache for you, Shannon,” I said as I hugged her. “I can’t believe he said those words. I am here for you.” In that moment, I felt compelled to gather my thoughts on how to support the grievers we encounter every day. There are so many shattered hearts to comfort in these endlessly chaotic times, particularly in my home state of Texas, with the continuing aftermath of such overwhelming floods in the Hill Country. We must be intentional with gentle care. The weight of this tragic loss is beyond all comprehension. My heart is still breaking, and I pray our gift from the Elliot Everett Wright Tsundoku Fund will join others in supporting those struggling through this catastrophic event. Our family’s most personal glimpse of Guadalupe grace is Mo-Ranch, a sacred place in the lap of the Hill Country, where Elliot, Ian, and I spent more than a decade of summers with our First Presbyterian Church family. As I wrote to a friend, the ravaged river road that washed away in the raging deluge was like a vein to my heart. What an enormous loss. So many children gone, and so many parents heartbroken. When you lose a child, there are no words that can help. Period. It’s an agony that exceeds the capacity of language. You are a raw nerve that winces with the everyday pain of just being in the world, knowing the gaping hole in your soul will never be filled. This aggressive truth accompanies you everywhere, no matter what, sometimes like a small pouch attached to a cross-body strap and other times, like an unwieldy 250-pound metal trunk without wheels or a handle. Almost seven years since my Elliot’s unexplained motorcycle accident in Dallas, grief does not define me, but the out-of-order loss does. The threads of his absence, like the contrails I see him scribble across the sky, are sewn into the fabric of my being. As the years pass, I am gradually allowing myself to notice occasional glistening threads of grace peeking out of my messy weave. They sustain me. They hold me. Together. And whenever possible, they include Elliot’s brother, Ian. Still, I’m uncomfortable when people glide and skim over the razor-sharp edges of everything that matters, minimizing the awkward and gut-wrenching moments in favor of the illusion of ease. It’s called “dishonest harmony.” Like an acid eating away at the foundation of our relationships and emotional health, it can occur with casual acquaintances and those closest to us. It’s one of Western culture’s favorite survival mechanisms. Though 24/7 empathy might be a high bar for anyone, we can make the effort. You never know where the landmines are hiding. For instance, a new coworker might innocently ask, “How many children do you have?” Over time, I have become more accustomed to this question, but it still cinches my chest, flooding my brain with what to say, how to say it, or whether to say it at all. It’s like having two or three people arguing inside my head: Oh, no, Elaine, don’t bring the mood down; you don’t have the energy to get into this right now. Oh, just say: Two boys, one in Austin and one in Heaven. Go ahead and tell them. They’ll get it. I hope. If not, I can keep things moving. I don’t feel emotionally safe with this person. I will decide when the time is right … later. All of these thoughts bounce across my head like a carousel of reels on my Facebook feed. No option is ideal. Nothing feels right, but I have to choose. Something. Mostly, I have found that my relationships with other bereaved mothers are my refuge. Though we are members of a club no one wants to join, the connection brings unspoken comfort like no other, a profound understanding of how everything has changed. Like Leonard Cohen said, “There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Our stories are as healing as they are crushing, but sharing them keeps us functioning on our worst days. Finding the words may seem difficult in our grief-averse, get-over-it culture, as evidenced in my cringy office. We don’t practice social dialogue around death, so it feels uncomfortable and cumbersome. We continue to default to the perfunctory I’m so sorry for your loss. Why are you apologizing for my loss? Plus, I think “sorry” feels flimsy. It’s a word you say when you accidentally buy the wrong kind of ice cream, but it’s better than a disturbing cliché or aphorism. So here goes. This list is by no means comprehensive, and it’s full of contractions, but then, so is grief. It’s the ultimate amalgam of life and death. Let’s start at the top: 1. Nothing Say nothing at all. This might seem counterintuitive, but just be. It’s about being present, in the moment, now. That’s all. In the now, there’s no regret in the past and no fear about the future. It’s a hug or just sitting on the couch and watching The British Baking Show in silence. I think this is the ultimate comfort in grief, like the ancient mourning practice of sitting shiva in Judaism. You don’t have to offer cookies or tea or say a word. Be there. Present. Allow the pain to live and breathe without fixing, evangelizing, entertaining, cajoling, or minimizing. The divine is in the spaces between sentences. 2. I am here. I am with you. Saying I am here gives voice to the above. This response ranks high on the list. Grief guru David Kessler says, “Grief must be witnessed to be healed.” This is profound witnessing. Let the grief be. Breathe or sob. I am here. I see you. I hear you. I am here for you. I am here anytime, day or night. I am here when you need to talk or when you don’t want to talk. NO judgement. NO recommendations. This, too, is the power of presence. 3. I want to hear all about Elliot when you are ready. Tell me his stories. Casual acquaintances frequently shy away from saying Elliot’s name, as do some who have known me my entire life. And sometimes they visibly recoil when I do. Even some close friends don’t mention Elliot because they don’t want to upset me. I am telling you right now that the result is quite the opposite. You cannot upset me. That train has left the station. I love it when someone asks me to share a favorite Elliot memory or offers to recount one of theirs. As a bereaved mother, this reminds me that there is still so much more to discover and learn about life, even in death. These golden nuggets of memory somehow propel me forward. He doesn’t feel as gone—just here in a different way. For a brief moment, the air I breathe is less bitter than sweet. 4. I will never comprehend your pain. Every grief is different, as unique as every relationship and every loss. Though we may share commonalities in our stories, the essential pain and all its tangled tendrils are our own. Offering acknowledgement of this can be very comforting and healing, like a specially compounded ointment. I can’t possibly begin to know your pain or how you go on. I have no idea what you are going through, but I am here for you in any way I can be. I suppose this is a riff on I am here, verbalizing a layer of compassion. 5. I have no words. That lets you off the hook to just love. Just acknowledge what is true. You don’t have to fix me or my sadness. You can’t, but your willingness to share it and help me carry for a few minutes means more than you know. Holding space for how I am is the greatest gift, and something like this is never wrong: This sucks, but I’ve got you. A part of me always lives in the nadir of sorrow. Being seen and remembering Elliot are the only salves. He will always live in my heart and in the hearts of all those who adored him, the agony and the joy at the same time, all at once. I am not suggesting you memorize a script. Far from it, I would like to see us cultivate a greater ease and openness with loss and grief, allowing space for its enormity to expand. My best advice is to show up with an open heart. Recognizing each other’s pain makes this walk together a little bit easier. We are here on the earth to be in relationship, to be better at being alive in the hardest of times. Megan Devine, another one of my grief gurus, says, “Acknowledgement makes things better even when they cannot be made right. It’s a radical act to allow others pain and sit beside them with it.” In the end, the only language of grief is love. And the language of love is presence. ________________________________ VISIT: Faith & Grief to learn about workplace workshops to help normalize the grief journey, such as “Life Skills: How to Manage Grief.” You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Friday, 18 July 2025
I Don't Know What to Say
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