No words

"When you lose a parent you're an orphan, when your husband dies you're a widow, but when you lose a child... there's no word for that."

So speaks Cate Banfield, a character in ER, when talking about losing her son to leukemia.  We watched this episode recently and her words resonated.

For a good while, my wonderful best friend has often said to me, "I just don't know what to say any more".  Over the years I have whinged and whined and cried and poured out to her many many words.  And she has often had incredibly wise, caring and helpful words for me in return.  But they have recently run out.  Not because she stopped desiring for us to have a family, not because she couldn't think of some trite nugget to say, but because she loves and cares for us, and knows we don't need trite nuggets.  Her reaction has helped me a lot.  It validates my own feelings - that enough is enough now and why isn't this happening - but also that I'm running out of words.

When people ask 'How's it all going?' I usually reply with very pragmatic things: I've stopped eating wheat, my cycle's got shorter, our next appointment is in November etc.  Because I've run out of things to say about my emotions.  Sometimes I bawl my eyes out and ask Why?  But most of the time I feel 'meh'.

But I look around and think that often there are no words.  Two families who are dear to us are going through situations which are so horrendous that what can I say?  I grieve for them, cry for them, pray for them, but I have very little to say.

And I think that's ok.

The writer of Ecclesiastes says: "There is a time to be silent and a time to speak."  Often a look, a hug or a bunch of flowers are enough.  After our miscarriage one friend brought me a big bunch of sunflowers and another brought a delicious dinner round.  I treasured those kindnesses.  They didn't need to say anything.

I don't think our culture is good at this.  We want to paste things over with "It'll all work out" or "Just be strong".  Our magazines have 6 easy ways to solve every problem.  Facebook distorts everyone's reality because we can celebrate publicly (with lots of photos and words of thanks and congratulations), but when someone mourns publicly it feels awkward.  So we keep our sorrows to ourselves and only present a picture-perfect image of our lives.

So when I tell you that I've had a rubbish week and am finding it hard to be positive, I don't need to hear, "I'm sure it'll happen one day" or "Just try to stay stress-free".  Actually, what I probably need to hear is, "Your situation sucks and I don't know what to say".

I love the Bible verse "Rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn".  It's pretty tough to do sometimes, but it's a lovely reminder that we don't have to respond to disaster, distress and disappointment with positivity, perkiness and platitudes (excuse the alliteration).  We can cry with those who cry, despair with those asking Why?  And then when it's time to rejoice with them, our rejoicing will be so much more truthful.  And our words will have so much more integrity, because we understand when is the time to speak and when is the time to be silent.