When I was in college, a friend and classmate of mine lost his roommate to suicide. That was not the first time it occurred to me to wonder what you say to someone in such moments—but it was the first time the question had been so very pressing. I approached him awkwardly in the cafeteria and said something over the crowd-noise about being willing to talk if he ever wanted to. He never took me up on it directly, although, as the months went by and the wound became less tender, the subject did come up a few times. The difficulty of this question—“What do you say to someone in grief?”—was demonstrated to me amply.
Recently, I’ve had occasion to reflect on the question again. In this little essay I leave some of the thoughts I’ve come to. I offer them in the hope that they will be helpful to you.
(Note that they are mainly thoughts on what to say—on how to speak words which are more than just clothes for sympathy and presence, like a sort of verbal hand-taking. “I’m so sorry”, “I’m here for you”, and so on. As we all surely know, speaking actual substantive words is not the first thing you should do when your friend is in grief. But the time for it does come, and sometimes quickly. It is worth thinking about how to do it well.)
The purpose that is proper to speaking to those in grief is giving comfort. We’ll call this our first principle. Perhaps it sounds obvious. But, obvious though it may seem, our behavior sometimes suggests that we’ve forgotten it.
Note, for example, that comfort is not the same thing as distraction. Your purpose, when you are the friend of someone in sorrow, is not to stop the tears and get her laughing. You may sometimes have good reason to do that. It is not altogether impossible that she has been crying too much. But merely drying her eyes is not your purpose per se. Nor is your purpose to help her through her grief as speedily as you can, nor to furnish frequent breaks from it. You may sometimes have good reason to do that. Sometimes a person who is grieving needs to think of something else for a little while. But managing her psychological processes is not your purpose per se.
Then what is your goal? What is comfort?
Here is a characterization that will do for now. Comfort is, at the very least, a certain sense that things are alright. Note well: not a sense that everything is alright. (Clearly, at least one thing is not alright.) Only a sense that things—generally, plurally—are alright.
Comfort is not a belief that things are alright, nor anything quite so cognitive. It is a sense. Rational? Emotional? I don’t know. Probably both. I am not equipped to do thorough conceptual psychology here. I only want to say enough to show you that a comforter’s goal is to demonstrate a certain goodness to the one who is grieving: things are alright.
Comfort is not momentary, and neither is it a mood. In this way it is not like anger, but like bitterness; not like excitement, but like happiness; not like shock, but like grief. It is a manner of living over an extended time. It is a stable sense that things are alright.
Comfort is not always an all-encompassing, all-else-wiping-away sort of thing. It does not absolutely eliminate grief, in the same way that bravery does not absolutely eliminate fear. It is not a sense that things are as good as they could reasonably be—just that things are alright.
(Sometimes—it is true—things are not alright. Not even in general, in the bigger picture. Sometimes there just is no comfort to be had. Maybe you suspect what I’ve said so far entails that, in these times, there is nothing that can properly be said to a person in grief—not per se, anyway. You’d be partly right. But we’ll return to this with our final remark.)
Of course you will probably want to avoid actually saying the words “things are alright”. They sound rather trivial, and the one who is grieving might take you to be speaking of the tragedy itself—and that, obviously, is not alright. Normally we communicate this thought in subtler, less explicit ways: touch, gifts, idle conversation, and so on. But sometimes we must speak, not just the sort of verbal hand-taking I mentioned, nor just to have some activity in the air, but because there is the sense that something ought to be said. And then, what do we say?
Often, naturally enough, we reach for reminders of good things, in hopes of turning the grieving person’s mind in a more pleasant direction. “But remember how much time you had together”; “I remember how he used to…”; “She’s in heaven now.” Sometimes these thoughts are indeed comforting. Of course they are, when it belongs to comfort to see that things are alright. But we must be careful. Sometimes they are taken instead as unwelcome diversions: attempts to pull the grieving person away from thoughts of her sorrow. But isn’t her sorrow important, and does it not warrant her attention? Isn’t her grief in some ways an attempt to understand it, and isn’t her understanding helped by some pleasant thoughts but hindered by others? Not all times are times of gladness, and not all tears are an evil. A grieving person knows this, and she will insist on it, and it is right that she should.
So here is specific principle 1: if you offer reminders of good things, the reminders should be relevant and welcome—not mere distractions, not platitudinous or doubtful, not entirely orthogonal to the tragedy. Above all, they must not be rejections of the sorrow. They may add to it, but they must undeniably acknowledge it. And they must always be offered in the wisest and gentlest lovingness.
Often, we will try to offer some similar experience. “I know how you feel”; “I had a friend who was treated for that same kind of cancer”; “I lost my father too.” I suppose we probably do this because it is the pattern of normal conversation. But we must be careful. Our tendency for offering up our own stories far outstrips their welcomeness even in normal circumstances, and how much more in times of grief? Some people will be inclined to receive our stories well, wanting only to feel less alone in their sorrows. Others are not similarly inclined. They are more likely to feel like some evaluative comparison is being drawn. And that is not comforting: if your own suffering was lesser than your friend’s, the comparison will seem unjust or insensitive, while, if it was greater, it will seem like a minimization or a diversion.
Even so, it’s not as though this sort of thing can never be done well. And we arrive here at specific principle 2: the closer you and your friend are, and the better the comparison, the more worthwhile it is to make it. The one who is grieving will then be more inclined to feel companionship, and less inclined to feel evaluated. (Rightly so, because the more you really do know what she is going through, the more truly you are, to that extent, a companion to her.) If there is any doubt, it is best to avoid making comparisons. But if we do speak, we must take care to speak with the most obvious, most undeniable lovingness.
Often, we deny the very possibility of similar experience—or, at least, we acknowledge the sorrow’s gravity. “I could never understand what you’re going through”; “Oh, that’s so horrible”; “I can’t even imagine.” But we must be careful. Some people want very much to feel validated in their grief, and they will be inclined to receive this thought well. Others will be rather indifferent. For them it will register only as one of those polite things people always say, with no more substance to it than “morning, how’s it going?” or the “dear” that opens a letter.
Either way—and here is specific principle 3—offer what validation you can, but only what validation you can. Affirming someone who wants it is only a good thing if the affirmation is accurate. Affirm easily, but not with indiscriminate abandon. It is often said that there is no wrong way to grieve. That is patently false. To grieve too long and without hope can be greatly harmful to a person in the end. On the other hand, it is hardly ever your place to guide someone’s grieving process, least of all in its infancy. And offering affirmation to someone, even to someone who doesn’t want it, can sometimes be a good thing. Some people are inclined to ‘tough it out’ (if only in appearance), and to them it can be freeing and healthy to find that their grief is not distasteful to their friends. Either way, any validation you offer will come across well only if it is offered with the sincerest lovingness.
Often, we reach for advice. “You know, what really helped me was…”; “Just take it one day at a time”; “Have you thought about journaling [or exercise, or therapy, or getting into a hobby]?” We must be careful. Sometimes people really do want and need advice, and sometimes you really do have the right place in their lives to give it. But not always. If someone does not need (or think she needs) advice, or if she doesn’t need it from you, then she is likely to find it presumptuous, or patronizing, or burdensome. It is important to notice that phrase ‘needs advice’, because giving advice normally connotes just that: that the other person needs it. In other words, it conveys an implicit judgment not only that someone is in pain, but that (in some sense) she shouldn’t be. That may be right, and it may be well-taken—there is always some sense in which someone who is in pain shouldn’t be, and it’s not as though you should avoid that connotation at all costs. But it is difficult to make yourself properly understood, and even if you manage that, there is still the question whether your advice will be any help.
So here is specific principle 4: if you give advice, it should be your place to give it, and it should be good advice, both because it was needed and because it may actually help. And of course, any advice must be given with the most careful lovingness.
Often we feel a certain urgency, as if we must come up with something to say soon. Usually that isn’t so. As I’ve suggested already, the first thing we should do for those in grief is simply to communicate our presence and our goodwill, and this is done best just by being present to someone. Touch and closeness are a far older and a far more fundamental language than words. The truths they convey are deeper, and they convey them more reliably. If we feel a need to speak substantive words, we must ask cautiously whether we’ve felt that need too quickly.
So—here is specific principle 5—we should err on the side of speaking less and later, but more gently and more truly. And whatever we say in the end, it must be said with the most patient lovingness.
As we’ve considered some of our standard words to those in grief, a few broader themes have emerged. So here is general principle 1: make sure you know the one you are speaking to, what she is willing to hear and what she is not, what she needs and what she doesn’t. If she has a dozen other friends and family members coming around her for support, offering to get coffee with her will only make her feel guilty for turning you down. If she receives seventy-five concerned texts a day, she will receive one more only with weariness. Do not ask first what you are equipped to give. Ask what she needs, and what would be a help to her.
Here is general principle 2: make sure you know that you are well-positioned to say whatever it is you want to say. Let the tasks of help and comfort go first to those who will fulfill them better—the better listening ears, the better counselors, the better memorial service organizers. Ask (but second) what you are best equipped to give.
And here is general principle 3: speak truly. Do not think of the truth as some normatively neutral thing, to be acknowledged for practical purposes and ignored when it is painful. Remember that this very moment will not be the only moment of your loved one’s life. Reality, being entirely and exceptionlessly inescapable, will always reassert itself. When it does, if you have lied to your loved one, she will blame you justly. And in the meantime, to feel okay only because you believe a lie is more pitiable than sadness. Speak truly, then—but do not speak every truth at every time. Remember the first two principles. There will be other times to discuss the theology of divine judgment, or whether the recently deceased really was a good person. Now is not that time.
We should take a moment to note a few considerations having to do not with your purposes, but with the obstacles you will face on the part of the person in grief.
Here is obstacle 1. Grief weakens us. When we face great sorrow, we are less able to handle an abundance of texts and emails, less willing to go out to the places we would usually enjoy, less inclined to interpret everything people say with politeness and charity. As comforters, we must be patient, difficult to offend—impossible if we can manage it. I said above that we must not take a greater share of our grieving friend’s time than our relationship warrants, but if we are right to take her time, we must be resilient in our efforts. We must be courageous and loving.
Here is obstacle 2. I mentioned in passing that grief is partly a process of understanding. So, especially when that process is young, we speak with an understanding of it that is also young. We repeat ourselves often, voicing the same memories about what a deceased person was like or what happened leading up to her death, asking the same questions no matter how expertly they’ve already been answered, protesting the same injustice or stupidity. We say hasty things about never being okay again. In grief, even more than usual, we speak less to convey information and more to give some shape to our inchoate thoughts. As comforters, we must be understanding and loving.
Here is obstacle 3. Grief is an extended thing, and no one spends the entirety of those dark weeks or years being visibly sullen. It is not easy to determine how open someone is to talking by how often she smiles, or by the energy of her bodily movements. It is probably best just to be unmistakably available to her—to make it as clear as possible that you are open to talking, yet taking care not to imply that you are waiting for her to open up, lest she feel pressured. Eventually the moment may arise to ask explicitly how she is feeling. Till then, as comforters, we must be sensitive and loving.
By now you might have noticed my persistently repeated remarks about love. This is probably the single most important overarching point. Whatever you say, you must, you absolutely must, say it from love. And remember that to say something from love is not to say something to someone you happen also to love. We speak to our loved ones all the time in anger, callousness, selfishness… all sorts of things that are not love. But speak from love. Speak gently, not commanding anything but always simply offering. Speak wisely, not blurting out your first thoughts hastily no matter what they happen to be, but tolerating a little silence if you must. Speak humbly, remembering the other before yourself. Speak from love.
One final note, which hearkens back to our definition of comfort. Hope is important in grief. We all grow tired of grieving eventually, and we accommodate our lives to our loss one way or another. But we do not accommodate well unless we come to see our loss in some redeeming light. Not an undoing light, a whitewashing light, but a light in which the loss becomes a part of some larger story. And in that larger story, things must turn out alright.
Now, for everyone, it is true that things will turn out alright usually and ideally. People move on. Their lives return to order—sometimes a different order, but an order nonetheless. Every comforter, therefore, will be able to offer at least that much hope: a cautious and incomplete hope, but if it’s the best you have, you must give it, on pain of failing in your most central and most necessary task as a comforter.
But for some there is a stronger hope available. I am thinking here of Christianity, since that is my own tradition. If you also are a Christian, then you do well to offer the Christian hope to those in grief. I don’t mean the thought “This was all God’s plan”, or “She’s looking down on us”, or “He’s with Grandpa”. Too shallow. Too incomplete. Don’t leave it there. Remember the End. Remember the day that all will be changed, every tear wiped from every eye—when God himself will be with us and will be our God, and we will be his people. Nothing short of the remaking the world could possibly suffice, could really and finally suffice, to answer grief.
Of course you must not drop the book of Revelation in the lap of a new widow and act as though that settles the matter. But you also must not leave her too long in darkness, forgetful (as grief so often makes us) of the coming light. The light is not here yet, but it is coming. Our grief is not answered yet, but it will be. And that answer is comfort. It is the only truly immortal comfort.
If you can, help your friend to remember it—always with the sweetest and the most earnest love.
Anyway, if you are here for an immediate practical purpose, I wish you, and presumably your friend, the very best. (I say that in all seriousness, aware that just moments ago you discovered what I believe “the very best” means.) I hope this is not the only article you’re reading in your search. But I do hope it’s been a useful one.
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In case you’d like it, here is a nicely bulleted list of our principles.
- the most important overarching point: Speak always in love.
- your fundamental goal: Give comfort.
- first, generally: Know the one you are speaking to and what she needs.
- second, generally: Know what you are best equipped to offer.
- third, generally: Speak the truth.
- first, specifically: If you offer reminders of good things, make sure they are relevant and respectful of the sorrow.
- second, specifically: If you offer the companionship of shared experiences, be sure it is an apt and welcome comparison.
- third, specifically: Offer any affirmation that you can offer honestly.
- fourth, specifically: If you give advice, make sure it is needed and useful.
- fifth, specifically: Wait for the right time to speak.
- to the first obstacle: Your friend may be weakened; be patient with her.
- to the second obstacle: Your friend may be confused; be understanding.
- to the third obstacle: Your friend’s grief may be hard to predict; be sensitive.
- a final overarching reminder: Remember hope.