Feb 23, 2011
When you want to say, “I can’t imagine,” just try.
About two months ago, a friend at my church had a 35-week stillbirth. Her placenta just burst, and that was it. All her 35 weeks of
love
care
protection
nourishment…just over.
And while I know it’s not truly over, but that her son has true meaning and value in this life (and in the next), I feel the rawness of her loss sometimes as though I’m re-living some of my first days and weeks. It’s been a hard, but good, thing.
Here’s something I’ve been reflecting on the past couple weeks:
When we say to grieving people, “Oh, I can’t imagine” we might be saying “I don’t want to imagine.”
I say that because, if we took a few minutes and put ourselves inside that person’s situation, we would (in part) imagine.
And I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that anything less than that is not love or care.
Now, there might be people who say, “But I’m not a mom…” or “I’ve never lost a baby…”
“…when someone loses their baby, I really can’t imagine, because I’ve never been there.”
(I’m using my example, a stillbirth, as the example here. You really could fill-in-the-blank with any tragedy or heartbreak you’re seeing someone through.)
And while that’s valid on some level, it really isn’t the whole story. I have dear friends who aren’t married, have never been pregnant, and yet are extremely sensitive and caring about things they haven’t experienced. It just means that they’ve taken the time to enter into someone else’s heartbreak.
And no, you won’t imagine it perfectly, because it is what it is–an imagining…an image. You will probably never understand what it’s like to labor for hours with a dead baby. You’ll probably never understand how it feels to have terrors in the night, horrified that you forgot the baby somewhere or awakening to imaginary baby cries.
And I’m not trying to be overly dramatic here. These are real things that really happen.
I think another reason we shy away from imagining is that it’s not going to be pretty or comfortable. It’s often horrific and terrifying and depressing. But it’s your friend’s reality.
Real love gets into the trenches of grief and suffering. It imagines. It lets it’s mind’s eye linger. Real love will not avert its eyes. It won’t say, “Your disaster is too much for me.”
As I’ve watched friends walk through tragedies like mine in the past few years, or some others walk through tragedies very different from mine, I’m trying to be really mindful to not say, “I can’t imagine.” Because in some cases, it’s all I have. It’s the only window I have, with my puny little brain, into prayer, into continued love and care for that person–imagining their pain, imagining their grief or loss, imagining their ongoing need and brokenness.
Imagination is what will take you closer, even when you feel very distant from the situation.
I think we underestimate imagination. We shut it down too quickly, afraid we’ll either presume too much understanding or that it’ll just hurt too much.
You might be wondering
What do I say in that uncomfortable moment, when all I want to say is ‘I can’t imagine?’ What are some alternatives?
I think it would be okay to say, in the most heartfelt and heartbroken way, “I can only imagine.” And then go on from there, telling them some things that you’ve been thinking and feeling on their behalf, how it’s led you to pray, whatever. This communicates a love, a presence in their pain–even if from a distance.
Let’s gather the grieving in our imaginings. You might find it to be a powerful point of connecting, doing what you can to understand.
Good word, Molly. I’m sure I’ve said both to people, but will be much more careful in the future. Thanks for sharing. Blessings to you and yours.
I think there may be resistance to doing this because of commentary we’ve heard from those who are grieving, when well-meaning people say, “I know what you’re going through…” More than once I’ve heard them angry later at that statement. “No they didn’t…no one really understands what I went through.”
Saying you KNOW and are trying to IMAGINE are two different things, but I think many of us are so scared about offending the other person in the midst of their grief by trying too hard to make sense of it for ourselves (and in some ways, for them). Any thoughts on how to respond in empathy but also in avoiding those who are sensitive to protecting their experience as something that is solely theirs?
I think you could still say “I can imagine that would be really hard,” without taking away from their pain. And if you go home and *actually* spend some time trying to imagine, you’ve done a very loving thing by trying to get inside their situation as best you can.
You’re not trying to take away their unique experience, but you’re trying to join them in it. And if they can’t receive that right then, at some point I think they’ll see that what you were doing was a loving thing on their behalf.
As someone who has been offended by people claiming they know what I’m going through in response to infertility and then miscarriage, I thought Molly’s suggestion of “I can *only* imagine” was a good way of framing it. I think a lot of it depends on tone and motivation. Someone sitting with you, weeping, and trying to understand is quite different than someone telling you how you should feel or someone minimising (even unintentionally) present pain.
I would say, “I am sorry for your loss and I will keep you and your family in my prayers”; or “If you need anything, please let me know. I will keep you in my prayers”. That’s all you need to say. Keep it short because no grieving person wants to hear all of the other unnecessary statements. The heart is too fragile. Trust me on this because I wear my heart on my sleeve so I try to be extra careful with other people’s hearts.
This is a great post. It really challenged me. I am sharing it with my readers this weekend in my round up post because I want them to be challenged like I was.
Thank you.
A great post but it scares me. I´m 21th week pregnant with two quite early miscarriages before, showing only blood and placenta. It´s very nice that this present child is moving right now, though. Thank God for that.
Well said. All so true.
Thank you…this has helped me to even want to enter into someone else’s grief…because that’s what Jesus does. thanks again
This post in incredibly helpful. I’ve never had a stillbirth, but I’ve had a miscarriage. I remember how helpful it was for people to cry with me. It’s not that I wanted everyone else sad. It’s just that seeing someone else mourn my baby somehow validated her. It established value to her tiny life. For people to acknowledge the loss as a great loss, and not just a hiccup upon the road of life really helped.
It’s stories like this that haunted me when I was pregnant with all my babies. I have imagined, and it is a hard hard thing to do, and it was really hard to get out of that imagination. It’s a healthy thing to visit, but I cannot live there in that fear and function. I can only imagine how much harder it is to live that fear out. Being in that state of mind, though, makes me want to hug your friend and never let go.
Thank you for that angle on it. Those words were so helpful.
This reminds me of something I read in Total Church (tim chester and steve timmis): “Weeping with those who weep is not a pastoral technique to be learned -it is a heart response experienced as the Holy Spirit makes us more like Christ. Yet among God’s people more is called for and far more is possible.” Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for sharing this. I do often imagine. Then I get sick, immobilized, and emotionally drained. I also feel a lot of what you write about. I haven’t been sure how to word it to others though without sounding insensitive. True I didn’t actually experience it, but imagining what it would be like if it happened to me and taking into account everything I know about them combines into a very core/gut level horrific experience.
This post caused me to remember some of the ignorant things people said to me after I miscarried my first child. I was too polite to give a response that matched how I was really feeling about the comment. Goodness.
Also, I wanted to share that God is working with me on my own level of compassion for others. I have thrown prayer and theology up as a defense barrier. God is showing me how valuable it is to enter into someone’s pain with them. I am currently a leader in a Christian 12-step program where there are lots of hurting people. Great training ground.
Thanks for sharing this and being personal in doing so.
i feel like i’ve written this post in my head a few times, but never so thoroughly or eloquently. thanks for taking precious time to share a very good exhortation. love you.
Molly, Thank you. You are right. I lost a son at age 21 a couple of years ago. Those who have entered in, who have asked, who have imagined, who have let themselves feel the pain, are the ones who get it and the ones from whom my wife and I feel true love and concern. I can’t say it better than you, but I can echo it again for all your readers, “Friends, try to imagine, try to become a person of sorrow and acquainted with grief.”
Thank you for sharing, Molly. It’s good to know what the alternative is. When I’m talking with someone who is grieving, I never have wanted to pretend I know exactly what they’re feeling and risk insulting or hurting them, but then, I also feel this burden of grief and want to explain that I do hurt with them. It’s a relief to know. I hope I’ve never offended you in that way. I love you and miss you terribly.
I’m so glad you posted this. Every time someone I know (or kind of know) experiences a tragedy, I do just what you said–I close my eyes and imagine it’s me. I did it in Cambodia, when we sat on the floor of a gym that used to be a child brothel. Tears poured down my cheeks, imagining MY little girl chained up and being used by men.
However, I’ve used the “I can’t even imagine” line a LOT. And I mean it like, “I’ve only imagined what it’s like, not really experienced it like you have, and even THAT hurt really, really bad. Your pain must be so far beyond what I’ve even imagined.” Maybe I could just say all that.
I love you, friend. And I love the way you help us help those who are hurting.
This is a phrase that I have used and also something that I’ve consciously tried not using. I have two children and I know what it is like to be pregnant, give birth, and the love that I feel for my children is so deep that it physically hurts my heart more than once every single day. The reality is that I cannot actually imagine what that would be like, to lose a child. I can try to imagine and I have so many times both in night time dreams and cognitively (if that’s the word) during the day when I force myself, in the efforts of grieving with someone. The fact is that I probably do not come even close to what they are feeling. I’be felt my chest collapse trying to imagine what they might be going through and even if I try to think about it every day, I probably cannot make last long enough or well enough. When I have said, in the past, that cannot imagine, I truly believe that what I am imagining doesn’t even come close.
I appreciate the tips on what could be said instead. Thank you for that!
I just think those of us who are living normal life can let ourselves off the hook too easily with a “I can’t imagine” that we just forget to, and therefore do not weep with those who weep.
I want people to take the time to imagine, and not just give themselves a pass because they might not understand perfectly.
When we were in our first days after our loss, lots of people said, “I can’t imagine.” And I remember my husband just saying, “No, go ahead and imagine. You’ll get pretty close.”
Molly- such a timely post for me. An acquaintance at church had a stillborn son on her due date in the fall. I am feeling really self-conscious and sad about being around her with my healthy 2-month-old. I end up in line for communion next to her and I’m wondering what it is like for her hearing him fuss or cry or BREATHE (though I’ve had 2 miscarriages and 4 healthy babies since). I end up feeling paralyzed or afraid I’ll end up in an awkward puddle of my own tears. I appreciate your insight and sensitivity.
ps. I’m a friend of Kate V, hoping to meet you someday when I visit!
I think it’s appropriate to feel self-conscious and sad when you see her. Not in an ashamed way, but in a humble, all’s grace way.
;) (kate told me you love Ann’s new book.)
I think an awkward puddle of tears is okay, too. I really do! How else will people know that their child is not forgotten? He lives on in the hearts who remember him, and that’s all she has now. Tears are very appropriate.
Looking VERY forward to meeting you one day, Amy.
Thank you for all your attempts to help people understand grief and those who are grieving. What a taboo subject… but oh how those of us who are mourning or have mourned need others to understand and not be AFRAID of our pain. Thank you and bless your heart. I love the words God has put on your heart to share with us all.
I know every mama is different, but 7 years ago I had a 2 month old when a dear friend of mine had a baby die suddenly of an undiagnosed heart defect just 2 days after her birth. I couldn’t deny the reality of my baby in my arms, nor could I deny the reality of her empty arms. I reached out to her telling her I know how hard her breasts had to be hurting, and I could only imagine how it competed with the pain in her heart. She actually asked us to bring our babies to her baby’s memorial service, to remind her that God is still good, and so she could sniff baby’s heads and see baby’s smiles and yes, she even held my baby. [Incidentally, another friend had a baby die during labor last year and she also wanted to feel the weight of a baby in her arms, smell the soft smell and feel the soft skin-- so you may consider asking her if she'd like to hold your baby when you see her.]
This week was the 7 year anniversary of the passing of the first friend’s baby. I sent her a message, letting her know I was praying for her and remembering her baby- her little girl. She wrote me back saying she still was comforted by my heart during that time and she was so comforted to know I still think of her little girl, too.
Just an encouragement to you– I did feel self-conscious and sad, but I shed my fear and opened my heart to love her as best as I could. She had plenty of other friends who were closer to her who have walked alongside her through the years- I didn’t have to suddenly become her best buddy. We don’t even talk all that frequently, just once or twice a year, since we don’t live in the same city. I only did little things. Very little things. Every little thing can be used by God who makes it a big thing.
Thank you, thank you both. I’m encouraged to step in and reach out to this grieving mama and see what God does. Thanks for your good words.
(Molly- yes, LOVE Ann’s book. I’m reading it for the second time…slowly….)
Wonderful word. Just wonderful. Thank you.
When our daughter died…it was just helpful when people said….something.
Even something as simple as, “My heart is hurting with you”.
When you’re in such a deep place of pain, one of the hardest things is that everything else can seem so normal. Even now, 3 years later, just an extra hug on her birthday or a special glance when a particular song is playing…is such a special gift that her life is not forgotten.
It’s the difference between “they have 4 children” and “they have 5 children–4 here and 1 in Heaven”. Just like a parent doesn’t cease to exist when they die…it’s taking the time to acknowledge as Molly shared, “(the) true meaning and value in this life (and in the next)”
Molly, thanks so much for posting this. I have wanted to say this to people but thought I was being selfish. I’ve also wanted to comment here more but have refrained because I’ve fallen into the trap of, “I don’t know what it’s like to have a stillborn baby so maybe I should just keep lurking.” Thank you for exploding both of my misconceptions. :-)
Well said Molly. I have been a pastor’s wife for 26 years and have heard way too many things said that were unkind, uncaring, and thoughtless all said under the guise of “I just don’t know what to say.” Another way of not wanting to enter into the messiness and tragedies we all experience. It takes time to enter in to the suffering, it takes time to say something that is thought out. Weeping with those who weep takes time. Thank you for this encouragement to walk with those who are their deepest and darkest valleys. I’m in the trenches almost everyday as God has called me to love.
Thanks Molly. I love you. You’ve been such a comfort and help to me.
Thank you for this. Thank you.
This post shows me, again, how the ‘right thing’ to say to one person may bhe the ‘wrong thing’ to say to another. I am an extremely compassionate person, who truly is able to imagine and feel another’s pain. (I’ve been told this many, many times.) Yet, like LDH, I have been taught that saying “I can’t imagine what you are going through” is the RIGHT thing to say because it acknowledges that their pain is something deeper than anything I can even imagine – hard as I might try. I guess my point here is that we all need to extend grace – lots and lots of grace – to each other. Whether we are the comforTER or the comforTED, we have to realize that others may not say exactly the right thing. I am a single, never-married woman with no children, no nieces or nephews even. When someone loses a child, I feel that to claim to be able to imagine her grief discounts or minimizes it in some way. It definitely does not mean that I do not love or care for her. Not at all. I’ve learned that saying ‘less’ is ‘more’ … that BEING with another person, crying with them, and asking ‘How can I care for you?” is often the right thing to do – but not always. We have different love languages and sometimes, well meaning as we may be, we don’t say the right thing. May God give us all ears to hear, learn and hearts to extend and receive grace.
I have learned the same.. I hope my friend’s who I’ve walked through grief w/ see more through my tangible actions, remembering dates, prayers, tears, etc than my misuse of this phrase.
Very well said.
Excellent, Molly!! Thanks for challenging us to a higher standard! It reminds of what Beth Moore said a couple of Tuesday night Bible studies ago…a rabbinic proverb says, “My soul goes out to you.”
My grandfather and a friend passed away last week on the same day.
*Disclaimer* I don’t want this to sound confrontational. And this might not even be along the same lines as what you wrote about it. Because you essentially wrote about having compassion for those that mourn. But I have often wondered and said to myself and to others. “I can’t imagine what her parents are going through, what her husband is going through. My grief seems insignificant to theirs. I wasn’t as close to her as they were. Isn’t there something to be said about it not being my reality and it being theirs? I didn’t lose my daughter. And while I am weeping alongside them, I respectfully don’t know what they’re going through.
Does that make sense? I don’t want to belittle their grief by pretending to really know. I wouldn’t want the imagining to lead to fear. The loss their experiencing is not the valley God is leading me through. It’s a different one. I can weep with them and mourn with them, but I don’t want to take away from what their experiencing. I would love to hear your thoughts.
Respectfully,
Cheryl
I think that’s the whole point, Cheryl. You might never know the full extent of their pain. BUT, if we just are dismissive with “I can’t imagine” and never allow ourselves to *try* to imagine, then we miss the opportunity to love the person on a deeper level.
You said “I don’t want to belittle their grief…” You’d be doing the exact *opposite* of belittling grief if you take time, in the privacy of your own time and life, to be interrupted by their pain. To sit with it in your own prayer closet and *imagine* what they must be going through. There’s no belittling in that at all!
You also said “…pretending to know.” No, if you allow yourself to join them in grief, you are not pretending. In the months and years that follow, when you ask God to continue to put that person on your heart and mind and just burden yourself for a few minutes with their continued heartache, you’re not pretending. You’re imagining what it must be like for them to pass another anniversary, visit the cemetery (again), never get to talk to them again…
Thank you, Molly. Thank you for your wisdom and insight.
God Bless!
This is excellent, really excellent. It reminds me of Caroline J Simon’s book, The Disciplined Heart: Love, Destiny, and Imagination, in which Simon talks quite a lot about how crucial developing a virtuous/creative/redemptive imagination is for love.
At any rate, very helpful exhortation; thank you.
Two months ago (Jan.10th), our precious Grace was still born (40 weeks) because of a cord accident. We are learning to praise God through this experience and everyday is a new one for us. “I can only imagine” reminds me of the Mercy Me song and turns my heart towards heaven. Thank you for posting this Molly. I check your blog everyday because you sincerely care for your family, love God and have experienced a still birth. I have read the books you have recommended. A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows through Loss is excellent!
I will be praying for this dear family who is also grieving right now.
Yes, yes, yes. I could write a book of comments ranging from ridiculous to truly hurtful. The worst ones are the religious ones who believe in divine healing … Last month I began my own blog for parents of kids with CF to connect and question and whatever. I’m glad to “meet” you Molly and will check back often.
Warmly,
Allison
Molly,
Thank you for sharing your grief and how to be present and supportive of grieving friends. This post is particularly timely as a friend of mine gave birth to her daughter at 22 weeks, 3 days, and Naomi Grace lived 18 minutes on earth. My heart aches and I think of Melissa (the mom) all the time. I do imagine what it’s like for her, but I was afraid to say that because I know my imagination is not her reality. I appreciate your encouragement and suggestion that the best I can do is walk beside her as I imagine being in her shoes.
Julie
Hi Molly,
Thank you for this. You are so right on with these thoughts.
Today it is 9 years since my son’s skiing accident that left him
traumatically brain injured, just 4 months from his wedding day.
I thank God for the friend or two who have known how to enter my pain.
They have dared to imagine with me.
Jane
thanks so much for sharing this. i think it’s so necessary, and so worth it. you have probably voiced some of my own thoughts which i will write and post soon on my blog.
God bless you :)
I totally agree Molly. When I went through a difficult time I had a special friend I will never forget. She came up to me in church and hugged me and I could feel her grief for my grief. I asked her, “you’ve been crying for me haven’t you?” and she just said yes and we hugged and cried a little. That was it. There was no need for her to try to comfort anymore than that and she didn’t try to. I’ll never forget that moment and I was truly greatful to her for her compassion and comfort. This friend had never been through what I had been through, but she really loved me and in some of my darkest moments she comforted me with nothing more than a hug and a tear. I know she had imagined my grief and experienced it, and she didn’t even need to tell me. I also know that she was praying for me and loved me sincerely.
Molly, I’m a foster mom. And what people say to me that makes me mad is , “oh, I could never give up a baby.”. It feels like they are saying that somehow it is easy for me, and it’s not. I normally say that I didn’t think I could either, but if we aren’t willing to give them up, we don’t get to love or help or be loved by these little ones.
I thought your call to empathy is really good. We don’t empathize because it is just too scary. What if something is required of us we don’t feel prepared to give? Perhaps that is Jesus’ whole point when he tells us to weep with those who weep. We need to change inside.
Thanks for writing.
Nothing has ever rocked my faith as much as seeing some dear friends bury their daughter who died in the womb a few days before her due date. The song “Blessed Be the Name” had just come out and it helped me as I wrestled with God over what had happened. I wondered if He could really be good if He allows His people to go through something so terrible. A mutual friend completely walked away from Him in the process. If we could be so deeply affected by their loss, I can only imagine (thanks, Molly) how hard it would be as the mother or father. I’m sorry for your loss, my friend. Thank you for talking about this and helping us know how to support someone who is grieving.
Thank you, Molly, for expressing that so beautifully. I’ve never commented before but I’ve been appreciating your life and insight into grief for a while, now. This one was worth linking to. Hope you don’t mind. :)
This is really interesting to see how many people actually prefer this phrase! It’s the one I always want to use because I DO try to imagine and appreciate what hurting friends are going through, but I deliberately don’t because I have had several people respond to a compassionate “I can imagine…” with a heated and insulted “no you can’t! you can’t unless you’ve been here before yourself!”.
Maybe it has something to do with the grievers themselves what type of consolation they find most touching…
Love this. Thank you for sharing this so graciously! People need to know how to approach grieving friends. It’s not that they are insensitive (although, sometimes it is) I think it’s just more out of ignorance. I loved all of your blog posts on this topic! You are always such an encouragement! Thanks so much!
Good words, Molly.
The people who are dearest to us in our grief (we have seven children in heaven) are those who have tried to enter into it with us, even if they are only *able* to taste just the tip of the iceberg. The fact that they even attempt to enter it, and are willing to even try tasting it ~ blesses and encourages us.
Something that was once said to me: “I imagine it’s so much more devastating than I even imagine it is” ~ and I was so thankful for that tongue-tripping sentiment. It implied that she tried to imagine it, yet acknowledged that she could not fully grasp the depth of our pain.
Thanks for being used by God, Molly, especially for the sake of those of us who are suffering.
I am a mother to 5 miscarried children. I have living children too, but I was never allowed to grieve. The women who never had a miscarriage would say, “at least it was early” “you never felt him/her kick” “wasn’t really a baby yet, I mean I am pro-life…but at least you get to try again soon”
“there was something wrong with it”
The women who had lost a child to stillbirth, or shortly after birth, who had someone tangible to grieve would say, “you DON’T know what it’s like” “Miscarriage isn’t the same”
Our medical charts don’t read with the fragility of stillbirth or child loss, they say things like “fetal demise” or “spontaneous abortion” Most of the time we don’t even get answers except “try again, it just happens”
I don’t want to sound like “what about me?” But WHAT about US?!?! The women who grieve the invisible losses of miscarriage? What about us? We are looked at like we are over reacting when we grieve, when what REALLY separates us from our grieving stillbirth moms is a mere few weeks.
I was once asked to leave a grief group because miscarriage isn’t the same as a still birth. What separated my 16 week pregnancy from her 35 week pregnancy?
a few weeks.
I guess I am bitter and hollow. I just feel that we miss the boat on loving our moms with miscarriage problems (which often have undertones of another infertility issue as well.)
You were asked to leave a grief group because your baby wasn’t far enough along yet?!?! That is incomprehensible!!! How terribly hurtful to have your grief minimized like that. I am so sorry that happened to you!! Not on the same level at ALL, but I was in a Sunday School class one time for young married couples and 20 & 30-something singles. The name of the class? “Pairs and Spares”. I never went back. I am grateful for blogs like Molly’s that sensitize us and websites where we can find others who have walked a similar road. We need each other.
I’m so sorry. I am so very sorry for your losses. Your first sentence says everything. You are the mother to 5.
Nothing separates your baby lost at 16 weeks from a baby lost at 35 weeks. Nothing.
I agree with you. We do sometimes miss the boat on loving moms who have lost babies to miscarriage.
I have three babies in Heaven, all three lost during pregnancy, at different times and in different ways. But I don’t love my three babies any differently. I got to see two of my babies after they died. One I never saw, but that baby is just as real to me. Maybe to no one else, but to me.
I can bitter too.
I am sorry.
God sees our babies like the precious little gifts they are and though sometimes we want more (understandably) His validation and love are enough.
But I hope you know that they are women (and men too) that can relate to your pain and I pray that they come alongside you and walk with you.
love,
ebe
sometimes a miracle, i am so sorry that you did reach out for support and received the exact opposite.. i’m not married, and don’t have children so i don’t have personal experience in this – but i guess for me i wonder who thinks they get to decide what amount of grief is appropriate for circumstances.. i notice this happening quite a bit, across the board – where people minimize their own grief, or minimize others.. grief is grief, and this world is full of it.. if we can’t pull from the body of Christ when it hits us, then what really is the point? we are meant to carry each others burdens & i am so sorry you’ve had to walk through 5 losses alone.. whether they were 1 week or 40 weeks, God created the life for a purpose.. hearing responses like the ones you received remind me that we have such a narrow view/perspective of eternity, and how God will restore and redeem what we’ve lost here & in the meantime what our purpose is as the body of Christ..we are never meant to walk alone..
While I understand that you’re encouraging us to really grieve with those who grieve – I can’t help but feel a bit paralyzed by this post. I have heard quite a few people take offense when someone says, “I know how you feel.” It’s so awkward – it is hard to love someone who is hurting when you’re fearful of offending them with your very attempts to love them. Real, loving communication is so difficult, isn’t it?
Molly, as always your words touch my heart and soul. As a mother who has also lost a child, it is often hard to communicate to friends and family what you need/want to hear.
Blessings,
Amanda
Forever missing Gavin 4/7-5/3/08
Dear Molly,
Thank you for this kind and encouraging post. It spoke deeply to my heart today.
I love you!
:) Bethany
Molly, thank you so much for this post. It’s very timely for us, as you know. I remember the tears I cried as I read your story for the first time and I tried to put myself in the shoes of you and Abraham. I never thought it would be me going through an experience with so many similarities to yours. Obviously each of our situations is unique in its own way. As hard as it is to hear someone say, “I can’t imagine…” it’s probably just as hard to hear someone say, “I know exactly what you’re going through!” Because really, none of these circumstances are carbon copies of the others. But I can’t tell you how helpful it’s been to have those who’ve been through stillbirths reach out to us. We feel an immediate bond with these people that’s hard to explain.
I wrote a blog post a month and a half ago titled The impact of grief on the outside observer. I was reflecting on stories of grief in loss, including you, my brother, Mark and Meg Hintz, etc. I just read that post again and it’s so odd to read it from my new perspective.
In any event, thank you for this post and for continuing to help those observing grief from the outside as well as those experiencing it directly.
Molly-
What great insight, thankyou for sharing this. It made me think how true your words must be for sharing in the grief of others. How you can take that challenge to try to “imagine” what it is like for a parent to loose a child, or to be a Christian persecuted for their faith, or a family with a family member in the middle of a war, or a birthmother pursuing adoption, or all the myriad of places where there is pain that other people we know and love are facing and that we don’t want to confront as long as we don’t have to. I feel like I could do a whole lot more imagining that could lead to a whole lot more heartfelt prayer before my Lord. I’m hoping to start tonight.
Today is my due date to a baby we miscarried in August at 12 weeks. We expected to hear from family and friends today, but we haven’t. I feel like we are the only ones that remember our baby. Thank you Molly and everyone else for validating my pain and loss. I feel like I just received the hug I’ve been needing all day long.
That’s a really lonely kind of pain when no one remembers. I try to remember to send cards on the ‘first anniversary’ of a death – or the first birthday of a loved one after they’ve died. I will lift you up in prayer tonight.
Thank you Beth, that means more than you know.
Molly, you are so wise…thank you, I pray so much that those who need to be walking alongside hurting friends and family would COME and SEE, and “go there” with their friends, weeping and all. I think Jesus’ heart aches the most when his followers don’t take the “Blessed those who are mourn” call seriously…
Wow, this is so true. A year ago I delivered our little boy at only 25 weeks, and then buried him 3 days later. I treasure the friends who have walked with me and have done their best to imagine my/our grief and pain. Thank-you for this.
Thank you for your wise comments. We are presently grieving the loss of our baby daughter 3 months ago. I do know what it is like to wake in the night and think that I can hear her cry. I have some wonderful friends who have simply put their arm around me and wept with me. I hope that I, too, will be able to comfort and encourage others as you, Molly, have comforted and encouraged me through your posts.
Beautiful post. Reminds me of Romans 12:15!
Romans 12:9-18 “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. 10 Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. 11 Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. 12 Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. 13 Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality. 14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. 15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. 16 Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly. Never be wise in your own sight. 17 Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. 18 If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.”
I was thinking the same thing as Bina, it says “weep with those who weep” not “think about how sad your friend must be and then move on”. I’ve had several miscarriages & a lot of people’s responses were just to say “that sounds so hard I just can’t go there” which felt very isolating & weird. Looking over Romans 12:9-21, I realized that’s not how I should respond to them or anyone grieving. I agree with you though, even if you’ve had no baby trauma, there’s certainly been something really difficult, even if it was that your dog died when you were 7, for you that you can use to relate to them with.
Our son was born premature at 32 weeks, spent 23 days in the NICU, 4 months on an apnea/brady monitor and now is a perfectly healthy 2-1/2 year old. We are so blessed!
My husband’s co-worker had a baby at 32 weeks (1/19/11) who passed away of an inoperable NEC infection on 1/31/11. Our hearts are grieving with this couple! We share their pictures and videos–he looked just like our son–the same eyes, the same movements, the same skinny body, all the same tubes & wires–and yet somehow God allowed our son to live. . . We can’t understand.
People have been heartless. The guys at work have been taking bets on how long their marriage will last after their son’s passing.
Her girlsfriends “console” her by saying, “You’re young–you’ll have other kids!” (What????)
They still wake up crying every night.
We are trying to connect them tomorrow night with another couple from our church who lost their first son (last fall) an hour after birth at 32 weeks. . .
I look at my son and I can’t imagine. . . or as you said, I don’t even want to try to imagine . . . We’ve never been where they are, but we are keenly aware of what a loss it would be if our son had passed soon after his birth at 32 weeks. . .
As I share these couples’ grief, I feel increasingly humbled by how much of our lives really is in God’s hands. And I am struck by the importance of being surrendered to His sovereign ways and resting in His perfect love every moment.
Molly, I have a follow-up question for you: One of these moms mentioned that she will always be a mom, and she wants to celebrate Mothers’ Day for herself and other moms who have lost a child.
What would be an appropriate/sensitive way to recognize a friend who has recently lost babies on Mother’s Day, particularly if it was their first/only child? With three friends in that situation this year (all delivered and held their nearly-full-term babies for hours/days before they passed), I’m interested in your thoughts.
Im a nurse who specializes in Perinatal Loss and I dread Mothers Day just because of the stories I have heard back from my ladies. One year I did a virtual “Be nice to a grieving Mom on Mothers Day” event on Facebook and it went around the world.
I have worked with 500 moms, so I cant write each one a card on Mothers Day, but if I were her friend, I would send a vard and tell them “I think of you on Mothers Day…the love you had for your child and continue to have for them today is a loving testament to how valuable and treasured and important they were and still are to you and to others…please know you and (dad) and (baby) are not forgotten and I honor your MOthers Day in my heart.
What a great post! As a leader of a ministry at The Village Church that ministers to women enduring infant loss, miscarriage, and infertility I am often reading things to try to help me know better how to love on the sweet women that come into my life. Your blog has been a great resource for me. Thank you so much for sharing. The Lord is using your sweet baby’s life and your heartbreaking experience to touch the life of many, many people. <3
Amy, there is a wonderful new book called “A gift of time” written by some colleagues of mine. It deasl with pregnancies where the baby’s life is expected to be brief. It is very practical and not overly religious…I consider it a more secular companion to Angie Smiths “I will carry you”
Such a beautiful post, Molly. I agree with you. It is easier to imagine the pain than many think, but it is not an easy thing to undertake. It’s sad, scary and once you go ‘there’, it’s something you take with you. Every time you hug your baby, every time your baby cries, every time you walk past the person whose pain you tried to imagine, it’s like a weight around your shoulders.
But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. When Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, he asked two people standing by him to help him remove his funeral garments. He could have told Lazarus to do it himself, but he didn’t, he asked the people near him to help him. I think this can be used in many ways.
We need each other.
And sometimes we need other people to imagine our pain so they can help us and love us in our grief.
Thanks for sharing this. And thank you for being open to how God uses you in so many lives.
love,
ebe
Excellent post. Thank you for sharing.
Hi Molly,
Thank you SO much for this post. As a grief and loss therapist, I can say that sitting in the discomfort of grief is a unknown land for most people in our society. Perhaps they don’t want to, perhaps it is too difficult, but more often I have found that they just don’t know how. Everyone is so different and everyone needs different things when they are grieving. It is okay to ask the grieving person what they need/want. If they don’t know, it is okay to just sit in the stillness of the loss. Perhaps it is prayer, encouragement, or discussion that they need, but it might just be an understanding ear that doesn’t leave when the going gets difficult. I found it very helpful to find a group of women who had lost children when I lost one. It was those women who truly got me and it is those women who I continue to call in difficult moments. Our society uses so much distraction to avoid the pain of grief (work, drugs/alcohol, shopping, denial), that when someone actually decides to walk through the pain, it is a real challenge for onlookers. Thank you for your post. Hopefully it will breed love and compassion.
Many thanks,
Lauren
A friend shared this post and it resonated with me, as someone who has grieved. Of all the ways people cared for me in my grief, one of the most powerful, the one that still sticks with me, came from my always-upbeat, happy-go-lucky friend Heidi. She simply told me that she’d spent the previous night really thinking about what I must be going through and that she just cried. That was all she said, but to me it meant the world that she’d been willing to enter into my pain, just for a few minutes. Nothing has touched me quite as much.
Oh Molly, thank you for this blog! Earlier this week I received news that a friend’s friend, whom I don’t know personally, lost her baby girl to SIDs. She was 5 days younger than my daughter. As I read the news on my computer screen while my daughter napped nearby, I almost felt as if I were intruding on her tragedy as I set my computer aside and lay on the floor next to my baby and cried and cried, imagining how it would feel to drive an empty car-seat home from the hospital, to pick up her toys from the floor, not so that she could play with them again later but because they broke my heart to see….I could hardly imagine the situation, and my heart was still as broken as it could possibly be without it actually happening to me. This friend’s friend lives states away from me and there is little I can do to help her, but as one of your earlier blogs advised, being broken-hearted for/with someone can mean a lot.. Maddie (their sweet baby girl) always wore BIG bows, and her parents have asked everyone to send them a picture of their little girl with a BIG bow on.. I’m gonna make my Ginny a super big bow…for Maddie, and because it’ll make me slow down and thank God for my precious little girl :’) Because I can only imagine what I would do without her…
Molly,
This post is stirring up a variety of emotions in me. Thank you so much for writing this and provoking thought. I have always thought, “I can’t even imagine” is the acknowledgment that I do not know what it’s like to walk through their pain. I almost lost my daughter at birth. They were able to revive her and through a great NICU team, she came home a month later. She is nearing 7 and is happy and healthy. Yes, we had our bumps in the road in the NICU, she coded and had to be reintubated, etc… So, while I can understand very well the fear of losing a baby, my mind can not wrap around the strength you have to make it through each day. I remember laying my head on her isolette and pleading with the Lord to not take her. I remember laying in my room at the hospital, alone and scared while my husband was home caring for our other children, imagining the worst.
I sometimes succumb to the guilt of the fact that she is here and other families lost their little ones right next to her. I would never willingly be trite to someone walking through the loss of a child. The truth is, when it has happened, I DO imagine it. I look at every one of my children and imagine what I would do if I lost them. I should be more mindful of my words and just love them through the pain that the thought evokes in me instead of trying to cover it with words. Again, I thank you so much for this post. I had no idea that I could be inflicting pain. You are such a blessing and I am learning so much through you sharing your heart on your blog.
Once again you’ve put words to the emotions that I have felt so often. Grieving is such a complicated process, and many around me just aren’t up for going into it with me. They ask how I’m doing (quickly…not like they really want to know!) and then start talking about someone/something else.
There are a few very dear ones who REALLY ask how I’m doing, and who ask thoughtful questions that show they HAVE been imagining…and that has always blessed me so much.
Thanks for taking the time for this, Molly. Even I need to hear it, as those around me are facing griefs of many kinds.
This quote made me think of this post:
“The book of Job is not only a witness to the dignity of suffering and God’s presence in our suffering but also our primary biblical protest against religion that has been reduced to explanations or “answers”. Many of the answers that Job’s so called friends give him are technically true. But it is the “technical” part that ruins them. They are answers without personal relationship, intellect without intimacy…On behalf of all of us who have been misled by the platitudes of the nice people who show up to tell us everything is going to be all right if we simply think such and such and do such and such, Job issue and anguished rejoinder. He rejects the kind of advice and teaching that has God all figured out, that provides glib explanations for every circumstance. Job’s honest defiance continues to be the best defense against the clichés of positive thinkers and the prattle of religious small talk.”
Eugene Peterson
While I’ve never experienced losing a child, I have gone through the pain of infidelity. It was almost offensive {and I know they didn’t mean it that way} when people said they could not imagine…like it wouldn’t ever happen to them. I know it’s a completely different situation, but I think your point is SO true. I think it is somewhat comforting to know that they are thinking if it was them, how their heart would ache like yours is in that time of grief.
These are wise and humble words. In the darkest hour of my pain all I wanted was for sincerity- for someone to feel it with me. ‘I can only imagine’ is full of heart. Every day i pray the Lord never lets me forget the feeling of the dark hours- its what has broken me for others in their suffering- in many ways its become a compass of the soul. Thank you again!
Molly,
I can’t even tell you how your posts on grief have been a help to me. Last year was such a hard year for SO many people I know, and I literally used your posts as a “map” of some sorts in order to navigate my way through their grieving worlds.
I have a question though… I sent this post to someone who is in the grieving process right now.(She lost her sister 9 months ago.) I asked for her thoughts on it and she said that she didn’t know what she thought of it exactly. One thing she did know was that she was sometimes offended by those who would(will) try to compare their grief to hers. She said she just wants to say, “No, you didn’t know how me and my sister were. You don’t understand.”
I knew what she was saying, yet I almost felt like she was saying, “I don’t even want you to TRY to grieve with me.” I don’t think that’s what she’s really saying, but I don’t know? And since she has said this–how do I grieve with her at not offend? I NEVER want her to think that I’m grieving in the same way she is, because I’m not.(And never will.) But I do want her to know I’m grieving with her.
I’m just so afraid of offending. :s
Thanks Molly for this post. I have recently been following your blog and have found some realy comfort with your posts and your “realness” to what we go through when we grieve our children. I appreciate you being bold and honest and trying to teach others how to help. You have been an encouragement to me, thank you!
This is so good to read, especially from someone who has firsthand experience. I’ve never been bereaved before and I truly CAN’T understand what it is like. But I’m working on gaining the courage (and love) to try and imagine. What I do want to say though, is in defense (if there is any) for those who stick their foots in their mouths and say the ‘wrong’ thing to those who are grieving. I believe for the most part, people mean well and only want to help. I can’t imagine that anyone would deliberately want to hurt a grieving person, even if the words are imperfect and/or wind up being hurtful. Not everyone, sadly, has the inner strength to enter into another’s grief, but may still love (albeit in a limited way). I think of a friend who could not attend another friend’s mother’s funeral. She did not have the strength. Grace was extended to her, and no grudge was held. I said something VERY wrong and hurtful to a bereaved friend. She forgave me, thank God. Thanks for helping us all step closer to a deeper love.
Yes! So many of these comments seem to identify with a situation involving death but there are so many more scenarios where your advice would fit so well, too. As a young mom struggling with off and on chronic illness since my daughter’s birth at 24 weeks, I have been so blessed by friends who just show up with a meal because they “imagine” that cooking might be too great a challenge. If we only spent a little time imagining the possible challenges, we might know better how to fill in the gap. I have a new neighbor that was recently diagnosed with MS and I have been able to be a blessing to her by taking her daughter for a few hours a week. I didn’t need to imagine how to meet her need because I could relate. Yet, how many could place themselves in another’s place to see what life would look like with decreased abilities or how gloomy a Mother’s Day is to someone who’s daughter never speaks to her or even how difficult it might be for the wife of an unemployed husband? When I think of the verse “weep with those who weep”, I don’t imagine a group of people pretending to cry. I see people who have taken on the burden of the one who is suffering and identifying with the pain or sorrow, they shed real tears and offer real support.
thank you for that. i’ve always secretly hated that expression…i know it isn’t meant to, but it sounds sort of trite after awhile… (especially when it was said to me).
i really like your blog. thank you.
Friends of ours lost their 9 month old baby boy last week and I have been struggling with finding what to say (to not offend, but know I care).
Thank you for this post, it helps a lot.
Thank you SO much for this valuable and inspirational post, and for all the encouraging and insightful comments. I’ve learnt alot. God bless you all. Thank you for sharing.
Molly, you are exactly right. Yet at times when I have said, “I can imagine how hard that must be,” because I have gone over and over in my mind the awful scenario that the person I’m talking to has experienced, that person has said to me, “No you can’t–you just can’t imagine because you’ve never been through it.” But I guess that is part of grieving. Both sides of it.
I was truly blessed this weekend going to our church retreat. A discussion about pregnancy, labor, and delivery brought the two other women in my car with me to a place where they asked why my 6 year old was delivered early. I explained my history of losses, and of one of my babies born in the 3rd trimester who was perfect, just tiny, and lived nearly 4 hours. I didn’t discuss great details, but my friend asked me what the baby’s name was. That was LOVE. PLEASE ASK ME WHAT THEIR NAMES ARE!!! That is such love.
[...] writes, “When you want to say, ‘I can’t imagine,’ just try.” It’s true [...]