July 7, 2021
Often We Just Don’t Know What to say: A Prayer
O Lord, often we just don’t know what to say,
what to say
to someone who has received a diagnosis
that makes their knees go weak,
to someone whose husband or wife or
child or parent or friend
has died,
to someone who is overcome
with grief, sorrow,
managing only
to say
“I’m sorry,”
which sounds like such a
sorry thing
to say;
but what else can
we say,
words failing us,
failing me
even after fifty years
of doing what I do,
often just not sure
what to say.
But
must say something
especially
in a culture like ours in which
the word death is not even used,
so scary a word it is,
euphemisms much more comforting,
people preferring
pass away,
pass over,
pass on, or
transition,
to use the latest term,
as if people really
don’t die
(I wonder what the Jesus “who died
and was buried,
as the Creed has it,
would say?);
a culture in which
many won’t talk about being diseased with the diseased,
so dis-eased they are with disease
(especially you know what, so afraid
they’ll be next):
a culture in which
those who grieve have
three days to get over it,
so uncomfortable with grief
even best friends are;
must
say something
because
too many are left
to suffer
alone.
And maybe the place to begin, Lord, is with
what not to say,
which is what we often do say, because
we don’t know what else to say.
And so grace us
with sense enough
not to say,
never to say,
“It was God’s will”
(Tell that to the mother of the six-year-old
shot dead in her car
on the interstate); or
“He, she, is in a better place”
(Better than being with us? Thanks,
that makes me feel
real great); or
“It’s for the best”
(Oh, really? Then why does it
feel like the
worst thing ever?); or
“He, she, was ready”
(Ready to abandon me,
you mean?); or
“It was his, her, time”
(So the drunk diver
is not to blame?); or
“You’ll get over it”
(Why do I have to get over it?
I don’t want to
get over him, her); or
“Just have faith”
(So it’s my fault –
not enough faith?); or
“God is with you”
(That’s odd, I’ve never felt
so alone
in all my life); or
“Been there, done that”
(I’d highly recommend ducking
after saying that one, because saying
they’re not the only one,
what they feel is not that important,
center of attention).
“Me, me, me, now”
Forgive us
if we say
what we wouldn’t want someone
to say to us,
yet keep saying anyway,
the words slipping out,
because feeling
we need to say something.
O Lord, teach us what to say.
Teach us
to say, confess, to someone that
we don’t know
what to say
and then be silent
so that they can say
what they want to say
need to say;
just close our mouths
(or as I have said to myself more times than I care to admit:
“Jeff, just shut up!”),
not fill every silence with words,
no matter how uncomfortable silence makes us;
and listen
and not say,
never say,
“Oh, you really don’t mean that”;
or
“You shouldn’t feel like that:
or
“You shouldn’t say things like that”;
but allow them
to say
what they honestly feel:
the pain;
the guilt;
the anger (at themselves, the other, God);
the fear;
the sadness
And teach us
that a hug
can say everything
that needs to be said
in that moment,
even say
how sorry we are,
which is far better,
than all those other things we usually say.
And Lord, if we wonder not only what to say but also
what to pray,
teach us
to simply pray,
“Help them!”
Heal them!”
And if
we don’t think that that’s enough,
teach us
to pray
that you would
hold onto them
even if they can’t hold on to you,
even let go of you;
catch them
if they are falling;
cradle them
in their sadness;
calm them
in their anxiety;
cast out
their fear;
comfort them.
And pray it even if they don’t know what they believe anymore,
pray it any way.
O Lord, often we just don’t know what to say.
Teach us
that that is okay
and to forget ourselves enough
to be something of Christ to another
in whatever way we can,
even with our
sorry sounding
sorries.
Amen.