|
Being Present: A Homily
Reverend Brian J. Kiely,
Unitarian Church of Edmonton,
March 17, 2002
On Saturday morning August 11, 1987 I found a note pinned to my
seminary residence door. It read: "Call your brother".
And I knew. My brother was not prone to be profligate with his long
distance dollars. It could only be one thing. My father had died.
A few minutes later the news was confirmed. My Dad had been ill
for several years. His death had been anticipated, though not that
immediately. It was a shock. By noon I had booked a flight from Chicago
to Montreal at 4 p.m. I was left with two problems...how to get to
the airport and what do to with myself for the next four hours.
There was only one other classmate in residence that weekend. Wendy
lived across the street AND had a car. I called and asked for her
a ride. Within minutes she had put aside the things of her life
and came to my 15 x 15' room.
I can't remember anything I said, but I do remember pacing and pouring
out memories, stories, feelings and pain for the next two hours until
it was time to leave.
I also don't remember anything Wendy said. But that's because she
didn't say much, and nothing of significance. She didn't try to make
me feel better, she didn't try to take the pain away, she didn't
intrude on my grief beyond the occasional invitation to keep talking.
She gave me her sympathetic ear and then she gave me the ride I needed.
I couldn't have asked for more.
In the 15 years since I have yet to encounter a more profound act
of ministry. I don't think I have managed to match it either.
You see, Wendy 'got it'. She understood that nothing she could say
could fix me or bring my father back to life. The only thing she
could do was to be present to me, to sit in witness to my loss, my
pain.
Occasionally we are blessed with the opportunity to assist another
person in their hour of suffering. Sometimes we meet that challenge
with our best selves. Sometimes we don't.
Sometimes we see someone we like or love in pain and we want to
fix it. We want say the right word, offer the right touch, make the
right gesture so we can be the movie hero who makes it all better.
But it doesn't happen that way.
Sometimes we want to share our experience, our knowledge. We've
been there and so we think we know what it takes to survive and we
desperately
want to share our insight and wisdom. But it seldom helps in
a crisis. People aren't usually looking for or are they ready to
hear our good advice.
Sometimes we are uncomfortable with another's naked emotion and
we stand frozen like the proverbial deer in headlights. Maybe we
try to pat a hand and get away. Maybe we don't make the call or the
visit to the person in pain. We don't help them and we feel badly
later. But at least in our honest avoidance we don't turn their pain
to our purpose.
And sometimes we deny them their moment of pain by grabbing center
stage and telling them about our illness, our loss, our story, completely
ignoring their need. And that's just selfish.
Reinie Heydemann gave us a good demonstration of that a few moments
ago in the Care and Connections presentation. There was a fearful
woman who didn't really want an honest answer to her "How are
you?" greeting. When she got a real zinger in return, she tried
every technique and flight response to keep Audrey's pain at a distance.
In the end, she actually ran away.
When from a distance we look these avoidance strategies played out,
as we just did with Reinie and Audrey we see how desperately inadequate
they truly are. Sometimes they can even be laughable. But friends,
the three of us have all witnessed and experienced exactly the kind
of interaction you saw in this skit. There are a lot of people in
the world who are desperately afraid
of and uncomfortable with another's pain.
In all the scenarios I outlined above, the caregiver didn't 'get
it'. What didn't they get? That grief and loss and pain and suffering
belong to the people experiencing them. They are natural parts of
living that cannot be ignored or shoved under the carpet. People
must feel their pain and their grief and be given the chance to express
it and work through it. You don't overcome grief or rise above it.
You live through it.
The most dishonoring thing we can do is to try to impose our story,
our knowledge, our insight onto their pain.
Yes, somewhere in the days weeks and months of the grieving process
there is a place for empathy, understanding and even the sharing
of strategies, but they are not appropriate in the first flush of
feeling.
Perhaps it is helpful to think of it this way: a caregiver has to
earn the right to speak, to share their story. The way they earn
that right is by being present to the pain of their friend or loved
one.
Dr. Alan Wolfett, an expert in this field writes, "Listen with
your heart. Helping begins with your ability to be an active listener.
Your physical presence and desire to live without judging are critical
helping tools. Don't worry so much about what you will say. Just
concentrate on listening to the words that are being shared with
you.
"Your friend may relate the same story... over and over again.
Listen attentively each time. Realize this repetition is part of
your friend's healing process. Simply listen and understand."
In the months after my father's death I came to recognize the importance
of telling my stories about my father. I was fortunate to have
a large circle of people in several different cities at that time.
They all heard the stories, probably more than once. But I was
lucky. There were enough of
them that I didn't wear those good people out. In time the pain became
numbness and there even came a moment when I knew it was time to
retire those stories and talk about something else. But it was a
moment that would not have come so easily had there not been people
willing to be present to me.
What I remember most from that time was the silences. Oh, I know
people said things. Indeed, many shared their own stories of my Dad
and that was most comforting. But the words that didn't work were
the clichés: "Oh don't worry, he's in heaven now", "His
suffering is over," "You'll feel better soon" were
spectacularly unhelpful. They were phrases that said, "Stop
talking. I can't or won't deal with your pain. Please take it somewhere
else." Now, that may not be what people intended, but that was
the effect of their words.
In a few moments Audrey and Reinie will recreate their interview
using this idea of being present to the other. See for yourself if
it doesn't work more smoothly.
And here's a secret only caregivers know: When you are present to
someone, you don't lose yourself. You don't even give a piece of
yourself away. At worst, if the grieving soul is not ready to share,
you walk away even. But most times you gain. You receive the gifts
of fascinating stories. You get back the good energy of someone who
really, really needs you to be there that day.
You'll often receive their gratitude; perhaps even an apology for
taking up your time. But mostly you'll walk away knowing you did
a good thing.
And the best part is that it takes no magic words! It takes no words
at all.
Just listen. Listen with your heart. It's the greatest gift you
can give.
Back to Sermon Archive
|
