David Brooks in an op-ed writer for
the New York Times. He is one of
two so-called conservative presences in the regular cadre of writers who
provide a variety of opinions on a weekly basis. I mention his political leanings only because I happen to
disagree with him most of the time.
However, in his January 20, 2014 column he described the experiences of
a married couple who lost a daughter in her twenties in April, 2008 after being
thrown from a horse. A second
daughter riding a bike to work in 2013 was struck by a car leading to horrible
injuries requiring an ongoing and prolonged recovery. That daughter, Catherine, writes a remarkable blog post inThe
Sojourner documenting the ongoing and intense struggle of recovery. Her mother, Mary, has written in that
blog-site about the kinds of things someone on the outside of this type of
traumatic experience should or should not do to really be of value to those
undergoing the impact.
I
quote directly from his article:
“Do be there. Some people think
that those who experience trauma need space to sort things through. Assume the
opposite. Most people need presence. The [parents] say they were awed after
each tragedy by the number of people, many of whom had been mere acquaintances,
who showed up and offered love, from across the nation and the continents. They
were also disoriented by a number of close friends who simply weren’t there,
who were afraid or too busy.
“[The father], Ashley, says he could detect no
pattern to help predict who would step up and provide the ministry of presence
and who would fumble. Neither age, experience nor personal belief correlated
with sensitivity and love.
“Don’t compare, ever. Don’t say,
“I understand what it’s like to lose a child. My dog died, and that was hard,
too.” Even if the comparison seems more germane, don’t make it. Each trauma
should be respected in its uniqueness. Each story should be heard attentively
as its own thing. “From the inside,” Catherine writes, comparisons “sting as
clueless, careless, or just plain false.”
“Do bring soup. The non-verbal
expressions of love are as healing as eloquence. When Mary was living with
Catherine during her recovery, some young friend noticed she didn’t have a
bathmat. He went to Target and got a bathmat. Mary says she will never forget
that.
“Do not say “you’ll get over it.”
“There is no such thing as ‘getting over it,’ ” Catherine writes, “A major
disruption leaves a new normal in its wake. There is
“Do be a builder. The couple distinguish
between firefighters and builders. Firefighters drop everything and arrive at
the moment of crisis. Builders are there for years and years, walking alongside
as the victims live out in the world. Very few people are capable of performing
both roles.
“Don’t say it’s all for the best or try to
make sense out of what has happened. Catherine and her parents speak
with astonishing gentleness and quiet thoughtfulness, but it’s pretty obvious
that these tragedies have stripped away their tolerance for pretense and
unrooted optimism.
“Ashley also warned against those who would
overinterpret, and try to make sense of the inexplicable. Even devout
Christians, as the parents are, should worry about taking theology beyond its
limits. Theology is a grounding in ultimate hope, not a formula book to explain
away each individual event.
Brook’s sums it up beautifully. “I’d say that what these experiences
call for is a sort of passive activism. We have a tendency, especially in an
achievement-oriented culture, to want to solve problems and repair brokenness —
to propose, plan, fix, interpret, explain and solve. But what seems to be
needed here is the art of presence — to perform tasks without trying to control
or alter the elemental situation. Allow nature to take its course. Grant the
sufferers the dignity of their own process. Let them define meaning. Sit simply
through moments of pain and uncomfortable darkness. Be practical, mundane,
simple and direct.”
Just saying . . .
