The day started as any other; full of promise and opportunity…and of course coffee. The sounds of the children tinkering around in the kitchen and my husband shuffling around grabbing the coffee cups fill the air. I mentally review the list of the critical tasks for the day, and hope that I will have time to just enjoy one of the first days of Autumn.
As I take the first sip of coffee from my piping hot cup, I receive the news. My husband’s friend has been Killed in Action in Afghanistan.
The first thought I verbalize is “Are you serious?”, as if that is even a joking matter. Yet the thought was too abstract to be based in reality. Yes, I know we are a military family and we are aware of the risks and sacrifices we are prepared to make for our country. And, it seems completely out of place when the news comes. How could this happen. It just doesn’t make sense. They are too young.
It had been a few months since I had been updated on the family. As the pieces begin to unfold and I learn the wonderful news that their daughter was born healthy, pangs of happiness and heartbreak take me over again. Then I learn that she came premature and her father was able to see her via Skype and speak with his wife. What an absolute blessing and I celebrate the fact that they were able to share that moment as a family.
Then I learn that a mere five days later, the loving father and husband was killed in action. To be honest this news stopped me completely in my tracks. I could no longer hold it together; no longer able to keep the flood of emotions from filling my heart and soul. I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and offer comfort, but how? What do I say? How do I do it?
I thought about what I would hope for in a similar situation. I realized what I would want most is compassion. There are no words that will make today easier for their family, my family, or all their friends. Sometimes the quiet support speaks the loudest. I offered what I could…an ear, a shoulder, and a safe place to be one with their feelings.
During tough times there is little that anyone can say or do. Through coaching I have learned how to listen and provide strong support that encourages people to move through the toughest journeys. Sometimes the strongest support I can offer is that of supported silence. Saying no words, offering no condolence, simply holding a safe and quiet place for a person to reflect and explore their feelings can offer the most comfort.
Do you ever find yourself speaking to fill the silence? Perceiving the silence as awkward or uncomfortable? Have you considered how comforting the silence may be, especially when words are not enough?
