I Need Your Presence Not Your Problem- Solving
Confronting the Awkwardness of Not Knowing What to Say
It’s a familiar experience. A friend or relative experiences a profound loss and setback and you are there for encouragement. “What do I say?” you wonder. “How do I encourage her without being superficial?” You fret over strained silences, faux pas, or worse, that your awkward attempts might be rebuffed. It’s easy to hesitate, pull back, and avoid the person in pain.
I have often heard the message that being present is enough, that entering a person’s pain is a more powerful message than words. This sounded like a cliché to me until I was on the receiving end. That’s when I learned of the power of presence. I want to share with you some excerpts from my memoir Life After Why on my cancer experience to illustrate the point:
“During the week in the hospital, the gift of presence sustains me. Two small wheels roll against the privacy curtain of my hospital room in the oncology unit. The hand that parts the curtain belongs to my middle son, Alex, and the wheels to his baby stroller. He sneaks in his three-month-old baby girl, Sage, to see grandma. A sunny person with a perpetual smile, she beams with joy. Her joy jumps into my battle-worn heart, soothing and healing it. Her brief visit on daddy’s lap kindles the fire I need to fight right now.
There’s also a picture on my hospital tray table of Sage and her almost three-year-old sister, Reese, that Alex and Andrea give me. It captures a moment of uncontainable joy as the girls laugh at something funny their mom does to get their attention. I hear it takes some cajoling to capture the moment. That picture is their presence whenever I wake up, before I’m wheeled out of the room, and throughout the day. This is my motivation, a symbol to direct me through acute pain and emergency surgeries. It’s a handhold on a vertical climb, a place to rest for a moment from straining and reaching along a sheer wall, a chance to catch my breath up the steep climb. Their presence helps me persevere.
Another picture is in my mind’s eye from a day earlier in the ICU. There’s an outdoor area just outside the room where families can meet and talk. Alex and Andrea bring Reese to that area, so I can see her out of the window. In my foggy mental state, I notice her straining eyes peering in, but I don’t think she sees me. I see her, my sweet young granddaughter with a heart as tender as a spring flower. The picture of her searching for me is snapped in my memory. I hope she seeks me out when she’s older. I hope she tells me about her day, confides in me when she has troubles, and shares her joys with me. I didn’t have a grandma watch me grow up, a grandma who participated in my daily life. I hope I get to experience that.
Later, she asks her mom how I’m doing and whether I’m feeling better. She notices the small things and remembers people well. She’s not even three but already has a heart full of love and compassion. For these girls I will fight this battle. For them I will win.
It’s the small things my family and friends do that keep me going during the weeks and months of recovery. It’s the visits, gifts, food, and talks. It’s mostly how they listen to me and want to know more. My family is kind, attentive, and caring. Rick’s indefatigable care and love, Andrew’s tears and how he holds my hand, Alex’s empathy from lengthy hospital stays as a teenager, and Nate’s compassion and thoughtful gifts get me through the hard days. My nonagenarian mother, unstable from a hip fracture, even hikes up the stairs to bring me food in bed. Alex often brings the girls over to see me during the long weeks of recovery.
Seeing the girls eases my loss, but I can’t hold them because of the surgeries. I can’t really touch anyone right now. For now, seeing them is enough. And it is good. Until later when the realization hits that I haven’t held my baby granddaughter almost half of her life.
People often underestimate the power of presence. Like trees, we are interdependent organisms. An aspen grove is an organism of interdependence. Contrast that with oak trees. I have two majestic oaks in the yard, each numbered and protected by the city. I marvel at how they sustain themselves in our dry climate with their deep roots. But oaks are solitary trees. In our area, it’s common to see a lone oak in a sea of dry grasses and brittle mustard plants that look like scarecrows. Aspen, on the other hand, are connected to ‘hundreds or thousands more by a network of roots so deep they can survive wildfires.’ That’s why author K. J. Ramsey describes herself as being ‘more aspen than oak’ (Ramsey 77). She knows the importance of interdependence from first-hand experience of ‘being allowed to be broken and hopeless’ (162).
Like Ramsey, I, too, don’t want others’ problem-solving skills, but their presence. How is presence a comfort and not a burden? It’s not through pity or solutions but being a witness to my pain. This releases the pressure to get better or put the disrupter behind me with a quick and easy, ‘Let’s move on.’ Witnessing validates the reality that ‘This too shall last’–at least for a time–to borrow the title of Ramsey’s book. It’s like being an eyewitness, the most persuasive role in a court of law, a role that validates my story. Validation, in turn, contains the seeds of change whereby sufferers look outside themselves for solutions and help.
The welcome of weakness is a profound paradox. When Paul summarizes his account of sufferings with the statement, ‘For when I am weak, then I am strong’ in 2 Corinthians 12:10, he is touching on an important correction in our individualistic culture. Weakness reveals the vast root system of connectedness to others and helps us look up beyond the canopy to God, a help that will not put us to shame. It starts with allowing others to notice our weakness. Sometimes we may even have to tell others about it. Being vulnerable is a weakness that makes us stronger” (Blackmon, 10-14).
Ramsey’s term “the welcome of weakness” is challenging to a self-reliant culture that celebrates success, but it offers a way to enter another person’s pain. Seeing myself as “more aspen than oak” creates a mindset that moves my body toward, rather than away from, another person’s distress and offer genuine encouragement by simply being a witness.
Blackmon, Sheri. Life After Why. Eugene, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2022.
Ramsey, K.J. This Too Shall Last. Grand Rapids, Zondervan Reflective, 2020.