People often struggle with what to say to those who are suffering.

They can struggle so much that they say things that sound really awkward and strange. Even worse, they can be so afraid of saying the wrong thing that they end up saying nothing at all. That’s understandable.

Reflecting on his own experience of loss and grief, Yale theologian Nicholas Wolterstorff (1987) said in his book, Lament for a Son,

Some say nothing because they find the topic too painful for themselves. They fear they will break down. So they put on a brave face and lid their feelings—never reflecting, I suppose, that this adds new pain to the sorrow of their suffering friends. Your tears are salve to our wound, your silence is salt.

Offering acceptance and encouragement to caring listeners, Wolterstorff described his own emotional and spiritual needs following the death of his son, Eric, who died tragically in a mountain-climbing accident when he was twenty-five years old. He said,

Your words don’t have to be wise, the heart that speaks is heard more than the words spoken. And if you can’t think of anything at all to say, just say, “I can’t think of anything to say. But I want you to know that we are with you in your grief.”

Or even, just embrace. . . . Express your love. How appallingly grim must be the death of a child in the absence of love.

Similarly, philosopher Havi Carel (2008) reflected on her experience of her own life-limiting respiratory illness, diagnosed when she was in her mid-thirties. She too noted some of the awkward sounding things people say in the face of illness, and she expressed what she needed to hear from others. “Several times,” she said, “when I told people about my illness they asked: ‘So how long do you have?’ The question always left me gasping for air.”

Alternatively, like Wolterstorff, she offered the following encouragement to caring listeners,

What I learned from my illness is that in times of hardship, grief and loss, there is no need for original, illuminating phrases. There is nothing to say other than the most banal stuff: “I am sorry for your loss”; “this is so sad”. Saying this—and listening—are the best ways to communicate with ill people. Or so I believe.

“What I need to hear from you,” Wolterstorff continued, “is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me you have to come close. Come sit with me on my mourning bench.”

“And later,” he said, “when you ask me how I am doing and I respond with a quick, thoughtless ‘Fine’ or ‘OK,’ stop me and ask, ‘No, I mean really.’”

Carel, H. (2008) Illness: The Cry of the Flesh. Stocksfield, U.K.: Acumen.

Wolterstorff, N. (1987) Lament for a Son. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company.