A little sugar

When I was a child, my mother used to tell me a little bit of sugar goes a long way.

Three months ago our family’s lives changed forever. Our boy, Nicholas, age 22, died suddenly. At that frightful moment, I entered a club to which no one wants to belong. The dues are exorbitant, the physical and emotional strain immense, but the club of grief is one we enter without an invitation and against our will.

The heavens smiled in the dear response of our church family, friends and family. Your help and support served as a lifeline in our darkest hours, and we will never forget the kindness and compassion. I would like to offer advice for interaction with those who suffer grief, as we don’t have a road map of how to approach them.

On this new path that Roger and I strive to take with grace, I see many signs of confusion, discomfort, and aversion. Whether it is arranging my mat in yoga class, or entering a social occasion, I know the look of discomfort in the eyes of people who want to say something; they just don’t know where to start.

I hope to give you assurance that avoidance is worse than saying the wrong thing. I am grateful for the wise words of Elizabeth Edwards, who is now reunited in heaven with her 16-year-old son. "If you know somebody who has lost a child and you're afraid of mentioning him or her for fear of reminding that person of their loss--you're not reminding them, they haven't forgotten. What you are reminding them of is that you acknowledge their child lived, and that is a ...precious gift."

In the painful days after Nick’s passing, so many people looked at me with incredulous tear stained faces and shook their heads dumfounded. That was OK, I did not need words; their presence comforted me.

People so fear saying the wrong thing to us, and in actuality, there is no guide for the right thing to say. I am in the middle of this mess, and still cannot advise on “what to say.” True, some words do sting, as no one has a manual of how to react to a person’s grief, but just as often, the expression of caring and condolence is a balm that takes away any sting from ill-placed words. Quite honestly, it just helps to feel someone else hoisting up a shoulder full of pain from our burden for just a minute or two.

I don’t think Nick would mind if I compared him to the elephant in the middle of the living room. I am sure he would prefer to be the alligator or frog, but that is another story. When we enter a social occasion and no one mentions our boy’s name, I feel he is the proverbial elephant that we all must peek around and painfully avoid.

While Elise was visiting over the holidays, we met with friends from our time in China. Each member of this extended family greeted us with a hug and a few words of condolence. With that small gesture, Nick, as an elephant bulging over the edges of the table disappeared, and we had the memory of our sweet son honored. Discomfort dissolved and conversation turned to laughter and stories of the shared memories we have of a place far away.

God calls us to be kind to one another. Sometimes showing kindness means breaking through the barriers of embarrassment and awkwardness to share the pain of those in grief. You have a much greater chance of giving their hearts a hug than hurting their feelings because a little sugar goes a long way.