On Letting Them In
I’ve written a few times in the past about my favorite advice (including some sent in by readers), but it didn’t occur to me until last week that I hadn’t recognized what was likely the best advice I’ve ever been given. By recognized I don’t mean that I simply never put it in print, but that I’d never thought about or appreciated just how good that advice was.
I came to that realization through a small group I belong to at church. Our group meets on Wednesday nights, after dinner in the gym. For the past month or two, our topic has been on forgiveness. My friend Carolyn, one of the group’s leaders, thought I’d have much to share on the topic, since my ex and I have an oddly good relationship, in spite of all that happened between us.
Last week, the group’s conversation took a turn down one of those side alleys that often run off the main subject, and we got to talking about times when we’d felt let down or abandoned by friends. There were a few in the group who’d had to endure tough times on their own or with minimal support from their friends. But it hadn’t been that way for me.
It hadn’t been that way because of that one piece of advice.
I was (and still am) a sporadic member at St. Paul’s United Methodist. I’ve attended there, off and on, ever since my family first moved to Nitro in the late 60s. There were times, in my teens, when I practically lived at that church, then adulthood (or a reasonable semblance thereof) pulled me away until 1997, when my daughter was born.
Suddenly, the importance of church loomed large, and we started going again. Even so, I kept most of those there at arm’s length, perhaps afraid they’d try to pull me in and involve me in ways I wasn’t ready for. My schedule was tight and time precious. I guarded it jealously, unwilling to share.
Several years passed, and then there was Camille. My beautiful second daughter. When she was just four months old, we learned she was terminally ill. We were still reeling from the news when, the day after her diagnosis, the pastor of our church, Okey Harless, (now in Dunbar), stopped by. Along with his compassion and prayers, he shared his advice.
“People are going to want to do something to help. You’re going to be constantly hearing, ‘Is there anything I can do?’” Okey said. “Find something for them to do, even if it’s something really small. Just let them in.”
I remember thinking his advice seemed strange, that it was even sort of wrong for us, in our grief, to have to be thinking of others and coming up with ways they could help. But I trusted Okey. I let people in.
For a private, independent person, that wasn’t easy to do, but when a neighbor called asking if there was anything we needed, I impulsively answered, “Could you possibly get us some milk? I’m completely out and can’t get to the store.”
She seemed so grateful to have something she could actually do to help, and when she brought the milk, we talked for a bit. I welcomed the company, and enjoyed the opportunity to show off my so sick, but so healthy-looking little girl.
It gradually became easier to ask for, and accept, their assistance. My coworkers, neighbors, friends and relatives all pitched in. I didn’t carry the load by myself. It was spread over many. Many who grieved with us when her time came to go.
You would think, having been there, that it would be somehow easier to know what to say when a friend is going through a divorce, a parent’s long illness, a death. But it’s still just as awkward as ever. I want to help, to at least acknowledge what they’re going through, to not say the wrong thing. So I find myself saying those same words I heard time and again. Is there anything I can do?
Then I wait, and hope, they’ll tell me there is.
