The Power of Being Quiet

The elderly couple went to the church almost all their lives. She was small and weak, and he was crippled from a stroke. But he still drove her to church, the store, and their domino games. One day, he went to get milk. He had just put the car in park when the heart attack hit, and he was gone in an instant. He was slumped over the steering wheel when they found him.

The ambulance picked him up and took him to the emergency room, where they pronounced his death.

When I got there, the new widow was in shock but surrounded by her church friends, many of whom were widows themselves. I’m sure they were a comfort, but they talked too much.

“It wasn’t your fault,” they assured her. “You didn’t cause his death by sending him to the store.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” said one woman, “that he was active to the last moment of his life.”

“How many people will be coming to the funeral luncheon?” another asked.

I didn’t think the new widow cared about who would be attending the luncheon. Neither did I think she needed to hear what was wonderful about the death of her husband.

The funeral home director entered. He was deaf and talked loud into her face. Anytime she tried to answer his questions, he replied with an irritable, “Haah?”I wanted to lay holy hands on him and escort him out of the room, but I didn’t have the confidence to do that, although I would now.

I wanted to shush them all but didn’t know what to say to her either. I wanted to share something helpful, but what wisdom or comfort could I give her? Should I read a scripture and say a prayer? That seemed inappropriate, too. 

For the first time, I did what I’ve done many times since then in similar situations: I said nothing. I knelt on the floor at her feet, took her hand, touched it to my forehead for a moment, then lowered it but continued to hold onto it.

A few weeks later, the widow told me she especially appreciated my being there with her, which surprised me because I had done so little. Since then, I have often felt inadequate during the critical moments of someone’s life, but over time, I learned never to underestimate the power of being quiet while sitting with someone in pain.