I have never felt comfortable at funerals. Perhaps no one does—unless they work in the funeral home. For me, funerals were always difficult occasions to attend, even before I started drinking. I had avoided them at all costs because of those awful feelings of awkwardness, sorrow, and fear of saying the wrong thing.
But now I was sober.
Now I cared.
Deeply.
I knew that in sobriety, we show up for life—and we show up for death. So here I was at my first funeral, speaking with my best friend and mentor in recovery.
“I hate going to funerals,” I began, “because I never know what to say! It seems like everything I try to say just comes out wrong and sounds stupid!”
He smiled and shook his head in agreement. “It all sounds stupid because it is stupid.”
I looked at him with one raised eyebrow. I hadn’t expected him to agree with me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, alcoholics are probably not very different from anyone else in these situations,” he began. “Except maybe they feel extra awkward. So we say what everyone else says, and that’s usually something we didn’t think through well enough, ahead of time. Some people say things like, ‘Well, at least now your loved one isn’t suffering…’ and that’s stupid because the one who’s grieving thinks, But I’m suffering!
“Others say thoughtless things like, ‘Well, they’re up in Heaven now, having the time of their lives,’ or ‘I guess God needed another angel for His choir….’”
His voice trailed off , and I thought to myself, Yep. The one who is mourning is probably thinking of how cruel God must be to steal their child from them so He could have another singer in Heaven….
I glanced back at him, then asked the obvious question. “Well then, what do you say to someone who is grieving?
My friend smiled, kindly. “There are only three things you can say that don’t sound stupid. And believe it or not, it’s all you need—or should—say.”
I looked at him expectantly.
“The first one is, ‘I’m so sorry.’ The second is, ‘I love you.’ And the third is, ‘We’ll get through this together.’”
He paused for a moment, and as his words sunk in, it felt like something profound had just happened. And I’m forever grateful he told me that, when he did, for it wasn’t long before someone I knew passed away.
I can tell you that I was pretty scared saying those three phrases the first time. I actually wondered if they would sound stupid… but the look of relief on the faces of those to whom I said them to told me everything I needed to know. They worked.
What else do we need to say at that moment? Sure, we can quote Bible promises. But the one who grieves needs God in human skin, and that’s our great privilege.
“Just be there with them,” my friend later told me. “Your job is to just listen, not fix. You just hold space with them in their grief, and if you do, you will be bound to them in a special way for the rest of your life.”
I often think of a meme I first saw many years ago. It is a picture of a man’s hands holding a round, smooth rock with the words You Are Enough painted on it. We all know how we have felt during moments of despair when someone just sat with us. Sharing our grief. Not trying to fix the unfixable. Choosing to suffer the weight and pain of that moment. Feeling powerless to take away the pain. They bravely stuck with us; sometimes for hours. We never forget their kindness.
As I’ve said many times, today I feel all my emotions. I don’t run from them, and I do not try to ignore or numb them away, either. I have no desire for that “chemical peace of mind” I got (for short periods) from alcohol and other mind-altering substances. Today I want to feel pain and joy; sadness and hope; and above all, the feeling of being useful to God to one of His children. Today I get to feel all my feelings.
I’ve learned that it’s always a good idea to station myself somewhere in the background, but in a direct line of sight from the one who is hurting. They have many people to talk to, but at a certain point, they will look up and see me, looking at them. Reassuring them that I’m here, I didn’t go away. I’m eternally grateful to those wise men and women who have learned these things and passed them along to me. And now, to you.
I don’t need to feel scared anymore. We all grieve.
Today I grieve well, and I know that God grieves with me, too.
His arms wrap around me, and He whispers in my ear, I’m so sorry. I love you. And we’ll get through this. Together.
