3 Words

It had been weeks since I had returned home to Kevin.  In God's goodness, I was able to stay as long as possible with Mom and Dad before we all headed back to try to live the lives that had gone on amidst our sorrow.  Now, I was home, with my beloved husband, so thankful to be with him and torn by the pain of what I had left behind forever.  It was hard to be back.  Things are so different in a place where you are still "new", and so brutally scarred by heartache.  Home was safe. Any departure from our home required a deep breath of gumption and intense concentration to steal against the onslaught of emotions I couldn't control in an environment I couldn't possibly predict.

I learned quickly that the, "I am so sorry. How are you doing?" comments that had been part of our daily survival in NY, would not be heard.  It is different.  I ached to be acknowledged for the pain.  Pain that I couldn't see past, look around, or barely push aside long enough to have eyes unswollen by tears.  I held to the thought that if my grief wasn't acknowledged, then surely I couldn't share what was happening inside.  This was a horrible spot to be in.  I longed to talk about Todd. I yearned to put into words the emotions that were swallowing me alive.

Into this ugly place in heart, God sent a friend.  One morning, with my heart steeled to survive the hours away from our house, I was taking care of errands.  A dear heart, upon seeing me for the first time after knowing we had lost Todd, spoke the words that brought an abundance of comfort and a measure of healing...

"Oh, Tara, I am so sorry."  I burst into tears, nodding, and saying thank you over and over again.  Thanking her for expressing this sympathy.  The only person who had in weeks of my being back.  She was concerned and upset that she had made me cry.  In the midst of my tears, I hurried to urge her that her words didn't hurt me more.  That I was crying because she had acknowledge my grief, and that I saw in her actions a blessing so abundant.  We cried together. She hurt with me. She shared from her life. I shared from mine.  We laid the burdens of sorrow at each other's feet.

The power of three words.  I am sorry.  So often I have thought, but I don't know what to say.  There is nothing right, pefect, or profound when you face someone who has buried their greatest hopes and dreams for a loved one.  Nevertheless, there is still something that can be said.  I am sorry.  If trying to not upset them, and choosing to keep silent is an often used choice, please consider that there is something better.  A grieving person hurts, aches, and has a troubled heart at all moments.  Nothing changes that.  Your words- I am sorry, might be the blessing in the crevices of torture.  It might be the one moment that they can return to again and again, knowing that you cared. That you cared enough to put yourself out there to offer sympathy.  They might need that knowledge to cling to on a dark day. I did, have, and will again.  Only 3 words, yet more powerful than any might know when speaking them.