Showing Up for Those Who've Lost

Show up, and quickly.

Under conditions of catastrophic loss, everything, every one of the things, is threatened. The end of the world as you know it is truly ushered in. You're assaulted in every way, in every form, every manner, and every intensity. The assault is often hidden and personal as your internal auditor runs its algorithm. Everything is scrutinized, every action is reviewed, and every conclusion is questioned. At least, that's how it went for me.

Terrible questions echoed in my mind:

What will be left after the loss? Will anything be the same? Will anything survive? Did any of it matter? How do I live again? What is life now? How do I live a life I don't want?

From my experience, everyone struggles with what to do when loss occurs, not just the one experiencing the loss, but everyone around them. No one intrinsically knows what to do when someone they love experiences catastrophic, life-changing, horrific events. From my own loss-driven internal audit, I've come to a few hard-felt scraps of insight. I hope these might make us better friends and family for those who are experiencing loss.

Don't give them distance.

From close friends, family, acquaintances, and colleagues, I heard many times, "I want to give you space and time..." followed by thoughtful reasons why they did not want to intrude. Before going through catastrophic loss, I would have probably said the same thing.

But I'll say here among friends that I believe it is the last thing a friend should do. If I give a friend space in a catastrophic situation, I'm actually giving them more room for doubt and more time to dig the hole deeper. Loss naturally brings dislocation, disorientation, and disconnection. I want to avoid adding to it and do my best to controvert the natural occurrence. The best thing I can do is help ground my wounded and questioning friend, locate them, and stay connected.

A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

We all want to be that type of friend.

Don't say just anything.

Not knowing what to say is one of the greatest fears people experience when trying to serve another in a time of loss. But the awkward silences and rookie attempts at communication can be not only endearing but also life-giving. In the midst of the weirdness, the right kind of help builds, affirms, and reminds them that what is in front of them isn't the complete story.

I must confess that I have wished someone would have said nothing at all. I learned to brace myself each time someone would say, "I know there is nothing I can say..." and then go on for minutes saying things.

That's not to condemn the effort or concern. The good news is that we don't have to offer words. One thing we all have to offer, and the one thing each of us needs, is presence. Presence consists of the most precious gifts I can give: my time and attention.

There has been nothing better than when friends and family sit or walk with me. Even when it's awkward and uncomfortable, maybe especially then, our presence can be the one and only thing that grounds our friend and infuses the hope they need to endure.

Show up however you can.

After these last months, it's clearer to me more than anything that I want to be the friend who shows up freely and fully, in all the ways, shapes, forms, and times. In the expected and unexpected. In the anonymous, unknown, and unnoticed ways. I want to be there when I'm needed because I'm there even before the need arises, not bound by any sense of duty, but springing from abundance.

All of the resources necessary to support those you love flow through relationships, whether relational, emotional, or spiritual; material, monetary, or physical. I want to communicate in the moment when all seems lost and confusing that my friend is not alone, that everything matters, and that being with him is proof of that.

The manner and motivation in which I show up is just as important as being there. The best kind of showing up comes from a heart free from insecurity, obligation, and overthinking. My friend doesn't need me to show up shackled by my own fears.

Start helping.

I've learned to never ask "how can I help?" or say "let me know if you need anything." Doing so creates work for a tired and hurting friend and asks them to help solve their own problem, negating the purpose of my presence in the first place.

The onus to take risks, reach for answers, be creative, and simply hold up my friend should rest on me. While they wrestle with the fallout from whatever their loss, it is my responsibility to bear the burden of regular life: to find and implement solutions that allow them to rest and simply breathe.

Be prepared.

I have had to learn how to lean on others in new and greater ways. The sense of vulnerability I already feel will need to increase, which is hard to imagine. I already feel helpless, so being helped just confirms the reality.

I've learned that receiving help can feel a lot of ways, some of which depends on the state of mind when receiving it, and some on the manner in which it is offered. If I'm not mindful, my concern can feel transactional. In these particular seasons, I know that caring for my friend will be costly. It will be sacrificial and humbling, but that cost should be mine to bear, while the lasting rewards of deep relationship are shared between us.

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The greatest thing I can offer a hurting friend is to simply jump into the fray, not giving them space to figure things out alone. I'm just going to show up. I'll sit in the awkward silence. I'll be okay not knowing what to say. I'll lean in.

And then I'll brace myself, because my hope is that they'll realize it's okay to lean right back.