I am a “woman of words.” I’ve made a career writing them and speaking them. But I had a great lesson imprinted on me some years ago.
My favorite cousin’s college-aged son died in a tragic nighttime flight-training accident. I was numb when I heard the news. My husband and I arrived at the funeral home the evening of the family visitation. The first person I saw was my cousin’s stoic husband. In a gesture so out of character for him, he held his arms wide, inviting me for a hug. I stepped into his hard embrace and the only words I could find were, “I have no words.”
He looked at me with relief and said, “There are no words.”
And that’s when I understood there are times when words aren’t always needed. I’m sure he had dozens of people murmuring well-meant, but meaningless, comforts. “Time will heal.” “You’ll get through this.” None of those words made him feel better. Only the power of presence mattered in that moment.
He later told me his gruff, old neighbor, who hardly ever said much, told him, “I feel bad. You feel worse.” Acknowledging pain. Not trying to explain it away when there was no explanation.
Let me switch gears and tell you about another time when the power of presence was brought home to me.
Our oldest daughter, Rachael, decided to play fifth-grade basketball. Most of the girls on the team were the oldest in their families, so none of them had experience watching an older sibling play ball or even scrimmaging in the driveway. Green beans on the court.
Their first game was an away game. My husband and I got there early and found spots near the top of the bleachers. Warmups were a preview of what was to come. There was a lot of heart, with little in the way of making baskets. They were learning and had to start somewhere.
The whistle blew and the girls got to it. The ball changed hands a lot. Someone passed Rachael the ball. She took a couple careful dribbles and then threw it toward the basket with both hands. It went in!
The other nine players on the court hustled toward the other basket. Rachael, however, slowly jogged that way. She was busy trying to find us in the bleachers. Her eyes found mine. She gave me a big grin and an exuberant wave. Then she put her little tennis shoes into high gear and got back into the game.
In that moment, her first basket, all she wanted was to share it with us. The power of presence is joy shared.
Some years ago, one of my best friend’s mother needed heart surgery. It was going to be a tricky surgery, as she had other health complications. My friend is an only child, so there were no siblings to help share the arrangements or the worry. My friend lived several states away and traveled to North Dakota to be with her mom.
The hospital was 100 miles away from where her mom (and I) live. I told my friend I didn’t want her to be alone while her mom was in surgery. She insisted she would be just fine. I didn’t care what she insisted. If something happened to her mom, I didn’t want her to be alone. The day of surgery, I showed up in the waiting room and took a chair beside my friend. We didn’t talk much. We mostly just sat beside each other, reading our books, looking up each time the door opened, waiting for news. The surgery went longer than planned, which is always a worry. In the end, all was well. I can’t tell you how many times over the years my friend has told me how glad she was I took the time to sit with her. Once again, few words were spoken, but the power of presence has its own language.
My mom was 86 when she passed away. She had a good, long life, and she had been active and healthy until her stroke a year-and-a-half before she died. Still, at that age, one doesn’t have many close friends who are still alive. And that was certainly true of my mom. My mom served as a prime example of what a good friend should be as I grew up. She had many coffee parties. Brought homemade bread and caramel rolls to friends and new people in town. But by the time “her time” came around, almost all of her friends had gone ahead of her. I wasn’t expecting many people at her funeral.
The church, however, was packed. Friends of mine and friends of my sisters had driven many miles to be there. Local friends of ours filled the pews. During the final song, “I’ll Fly Away,” the joined voices seemed to lift the rafters.
My mom spread love and friendship her whole life, and she passed that gift along to us. We were surrounded by friends. Their presence said everything. No words needed.
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This is the first of a six-part series on encouragement. Roxanne (Roxy) Henke has a lot of practice sitting quietly at her keyboard. Your quiet presence as readers keeps her encouraged. You can reach her at roxannehenke@gmail.com.
