You know the feeling. You fix a casserole. You brush your teeth. You stand at the door wondering how many times you should knock before giving up. No one answers, and you don’t mind.

You leave your offering (with instructions for heating) at the neighbor’s house and drive home feeling both light and guilty.
 
It’s not that you don’t care - you brought a casserole. You’re just scared.  Scared of saying the wrong thing. Scared of making the widow cry. Worse yet, scared of making her put on a smile, fix coffee and listen patiently to your grief stories. You never mean to make it about you, it’s just that you get nervous and it’s kind of good to talk to someone you don’t have to explain things to…  

I’ve been on both sides of that door. The anxiety is real.

There are so many ways to go wrong. As the bereaved, I made my visitors uncomfortable when I cried. Or laughed. Or didn’t laugh.

As the comforter, I make myself uncomfortable when I say things that try their patience.
   
So many things to be afraid of - especially the “why” questions - “Why did God take my child (or my husband, sweet Aunt Mary, or darling little Fluffy who’s always been there for me?”)

How do you answer these things? This is the time to speak up for God, right?

We’re supposed to explain… what? What He chooses to be silent about?  Why do we think we can do that?

When my kids were little, a scraped knee was a big deal. They ran straight to me, howling. The closer they got, the louder they got. But the surprise and unfairness of it all wasn’t aimed at me. They just knew where to go for help. And sometimes, “Help me” sounds just like, “Why are you hurting me?” Maybe every question isn’t looking for an answer. Maybe it’s just looking for the one who cares.

Whatever I know about grief, I learned the hard way. About 40 years ago, I woke up to find my husband looking exactly as he always did, but he was cold as ice. I called the ambulance somehow. They come even when it’s too late. When I heard the sirens, I had micro-moments to wake my children and tell them. Otherwise, strangers would make the announcement for me.  

I saw the world crumble in their eyes.

The sun was too bright. Voices were too loud. Or soft. Or faraway. Maybe drowning feels like this.  

Out of duty, I called my extended family of introverts. They did what they do. They stayed away. Anything else would have surprised me. My church family stepped in and answered phone calls and went with me to the funeral home and brought casseroles. They dropped off grocery bags filled with a disproportionate amount of chocolate chip cookies and Captain Crunch, all meant to feed something in a boy and two girls desperately hungry for a normal day.     

For two years, my Sunday School teacher checked my oil and repaired my nervous clothes dryer. A classmate bought us new tires. Bald tires didn’t even register on me, but friends were watching.  I was their daughter and sister now.  

What I’m saying is, these were exceptionally good people. But oh, those clumsy first days.

Visitors came by in a steady stream to cheer us up. God bless them all. The correct things were said and I responded correctly.  
“It was God’s will.” “All things work together for good…” “You’re young, you can marry again.”

All true. All too many words. The constant surprise was the question of the curious: “Was he a Christian?” I think this was supposed to lead to more comfort – like, “Just think, he’s in a wonderful place now!” My heart went out to them when I had to say, “I don’t know.” I felt for their embarrassment. Sometimes we create the cliffs we fall from.  

That’s why I always advocate letting the grieved guide the conversation. It beats looking for the right thing to say. The right thing is what the moment calls for. Which might include sharing what we are asking for when we talk to God about them. We say we will pray. But we seldom say what we will pray.

I usually ask for a manna kind of grace.  Fresh every morning and enough for the day. I pray for grace for when they need to be strong and grace for when they need to be weak. Grace to be with friends and grace to be alone.  

I pray they will understand everything they feel is normal. They are not crazy. They are not lacking in faith. They are on a roller coaster that requires holding on with both hands.     
 
I pray for freedom. Freedom to ask for what they need. Freedom to believe those who love them are praying to be asked. 

I say no more than I feel they can listen to. Listening is hard when you’re underwater. If I ask them anything, it’s about the kind of thing most people want to share. How they met. Their favorite memory of Aunt Mary. Or just what kind of crazy puppy Fluffy was.  

When the tears come, I remind myself they come with trust.    
 
And I always say the name. Because after a while – days, weeks or months - people stop saying it. Those in grief long to hear it. I learned that from Faith and Grief Ministries where I attended a meeting to write an article. They only allowed participants so I agreed to bring my tidy, handful of grief to the table.  My mother had died, but she had abandoned all her children long before. Something so broken would not make a mess anymore. They asked for the name I was there to remember. I hadn’t said the name in two years.  I choked when I tried. They waited kindly for me. I finally squeaked out “Rachael” and the floodgates opened. Healing began that day, in the company of friends.     
       
Don’t deny someone the chance to hear and speak the name.    
       
When you visit someone in grief, listen. Let your actions speak, especially in those early days of shock and confusion. Fix them a sandwich. Mow the lawn or change a cat box. Some things are just obvious. Come back and do it all over again when the dust settles and the visits dwindle.

If you must have an agenda, let it be this – let them lead you. God already told us what our part is.  Weep with those who weep. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Get under the burden with them so they don’t have to carry it alone. We know these things, we just don’t expect to do them all at the same time. And many times. If you go – go ready to be led.

You won’t have to work on your courage before knocking on the door. Neither will they.

I knew why she was at my door. I didn’t fool her at all.

She was a student in a practical ministry class on grief that I taught when I was a missionary in urban Australia. After she asked for a private meeting, I prepared to talk about ways to weather the storm -- though I suspected she was bringing it with her.

We sat on patio chairs in the shade of the pergola. She looked down at her long fingers and perfect nails. She was always so put-together. “She’s young,” I thought. “She has time for that.”

She took in a tight breath and held it for a moment.

“Something told me I can talk to you.”

Her words then wandered around, stopping at some graves. When she got to her father, her voice dropped to a whisper.

“After my sister married and left home ... he started coming to my room at night.”

I nodded slightly and waited, knowing there was more.

Her mouth moved as though the words were jagged glass.

“I was 12 … and my mother knew.”

She looked at me, waiting for a sign. Would I pull back? Did I get what she was saying? I placed my hand on her arm. She said she was sad when he died. That’s what broke her -- to feel sadness, and not just relief. She pressed her forearm against her eyes, walling in the tears. The flood ruptured around it.

I am not a counselor, but I can make tea.

Tea is about holding on to something. With both hands if you have to. You can sip it when you need to pause. My grandmother would give it to people in a blue willow cup so she could read the leaves that clung to the sides. I give it so there is less trauma in the telling.

To tell the story is to give it a pulse. Muscle memory lives right below the skin. It’s your stomach lurching at the sound of heavy boots on a wooden floor. It’s the smell of jug wine that becomes unbrushed teeth and sour sweat. It feels like dust trapped in cat hair on the linoleum under the box springs. A 6-year-old hides there, trying not to breathe so loud.

I reminded myself to exhale.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” she said. “I’ve seen a counselor for years. He still doesn’t know about it.”

I knew why she told me. I had sensed it, almost from the moment we met. She came to church every week, hiding under a carefully belted coat, shoulders hunched against an absent wind. That’s why I always put an arm around her at the door, pulling her in just a little, until she began to hug back.

I couldn’t read her mind. I never told her my story. But spirit bears witness.

We sipped tea for 12 weeks and explored the book that had helped me -- “The Wounded Heart,” by Dan Allender. We scribbled in our workbooks and put a voice to long-buried heartbreak. We even laughed when she felt safe to express something besides pain.

At our last visit, she hugged me hard. That was all. Our time was over, but something stayed behind, like tea leaves after the tea.

Years ago when I became a Christian, new life brought the moon down where I could touch it. I stood in its glow, clean, forgiven and a child of God. No longer a statistic, I was transformed. I was a new creation. I was not my origins anymore.

The old feelings came back when a women’s group asked me to speak to them. Welcome back, girl the other ones talk about.

“Joanie said she saw her in a cop car last week. That’s why she was absent. You don’t get black eyes from the flu.”
I gathered a breath and knocked on the door. It looked like a Tupperware party. Casual jewelry. Cheese. Crackers. I was supposed to bring the tears, like a covered dish.

“We need to hear this,” they told me.

Afterward, two women sipped coffee and looked at me, heads cocked like little birds.

“We would never have thought that about you,” one said. “You seem so normal.”

She meant it as a compliment, and I didn’t have the energy to tell her otherwise. It didn’t matter; my story wasn’t for them. It was for the one who would later motion me to a corner and make her confession, as if the sins were hers.

“That happened to me, too.” Always a whisper.

My story was for her and for the one who would be there for her when it was over.

I was the anti-Tupperware hostess. I didn’t tell them how to “burp the lid” and keep everything safe and sealed in. I told them the opposite.

“Your leftovers are rotting in there. This is how you let them out.”

But I was a good hostess. I left them with a simple recipe they could adjust to suit their needs.

“If this happened to you, talk to someone you trust. A counselor is a gift. A friend is a lifeline. Tell her exactly what you need -- ‘I want you to help me by listening to some things that are hard to say and hard to hear. I need you to be patient and let me get it out. Afterward, and maybe sometimes in the middle, I will need a hug. Can you do that for me?’”

That’s it. It’s a good rule for grief, and a good rule for healing from childhood trauma. I know, because I am my origins. I am my transformation. I make good tea.