How (Not) To Comfort A Grieving Mom

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One year ago this month, nine days before Christmas, our only child, Graham Scott, was taken from this world. He was twenty-four years young. If anyone can tell you about the sustaining grace of the Comforter God, we certainly can. He’s good. He grieves with us. His love and glory is worth anything we must endure.

The real hero of the story is my wife and soulmate, Sandy. I’ve sat and watched in awe, witnessing the strength and grace of God move through her these months, like a symphony of quiet confidence, peace and contentment. Most do not have a full appreciation for what she’s gone through, not just through her only child’s passing, but in a long-running melodrama that surrounded his life – before and since.

And yet, recently, in the span of one week, two people who barely know her made suggestions that she wasn’t handling the process of grieving very well.

The first, her hairdresser who only knows her in a salon chair context every few months, mis-took Sandy’s sharing about Graham in the flow of ‘just making conversation’ and informed my wife she just “needed to move on” so she could get on with the business of living. It sounds meaner than it was.
As they say, she meant well.

But still.

The second, just a few days later, was her doctor who, because of changes in our healthcare, was newly assigned as Sandy’s general practitioner of medicine.

SIDENOTE:
The thing about my bride is, when those in highly influential or respected positions begin to probe her to open up about private matters, she becomes weepy. Say, when our spiritual father focuses on her with loving counsel, she’s apt to cry. Or, when my surgeons have met with her, she’s moved by their handling of me and becomes a puddle in the floor.

During her first meeting with her new doctor, whose name is pronounced “cruel” (but she is not), Sandy buckled when questions about her life probed into the soft tissue of her grief over Graham. And she wept.

Do you think you might need grief counsel?” the doctor asked kindly, but still wary and watchful.

Anything’s possible, of course. Lord knows, we’re open to whatever we must do to shed anything that holds us back from moving forward in our faith. But this…this…process has been so supernaturally kissed by grace. Grief counseling? Nope, not thinking that way, but, then again, one should never say never…

Listen, however you slice it, it’s been less than a year.

Yes, we still get sad. We weep at his grave. We miss him. Christmas Day might be a bummer.

And it might not.

We even laugh at his grave. We smile a lot as we remember ‘Graham stories’.

Isn’t this kinda, well, normal?

Move on?

That’s pretty much what we’re doing. Grieving is moving on. It’s when grief is drained of hope that you start regressing, and that’s not us. No sir, not by a long shot.

To tell you how good God is in His expert handling of my Lovely, a few days after this mystifying week for her, she treated her mother to her long-time dream of visiting the Billy Graham Library in Charlotte. During their visit, they were blown away by having the tour, complete with intimate stories of the Graham family, given by none other than the caregiver to Billy’s mother in the final years of her long life!

The stories of “Mother Graham’s” devoted life – her many sorrows and greater triumphs and exuberant faith throughout – stirred Sandy and she knew this was a hug from the God who saw these very things in her. And, of course, she wept!

One valuable resource Sandy reached for during the tour was a card-stock flier embossed with the title:

“What To Say To A Bereaved Parent”

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I’m sure you can write to the library and request this free resource – it’s wonderful! – but let me share some of its main bullet points with you, in closing:

  • What NOT To Say:

I know how you feel.”

  • Say Instead:

I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you.”

  • What NOT To Say:

Are you doing OK?” or “How are you doing?”

  • Say Instead:

How are you holding up?”

  • Other Things NOT To Say:

You’ll feel better before you know it.”

Don’t cry.” (or, “Be strong for your family.”)

God must have needed him/her in heaven.”

At least you have other children.”

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.”

Don’t let this rob you of your joy.”

[Don’t tell the person how they should feel; only respond to how they feel]

[Don’t share personal stories of how your grief compares to yours]

It goes on to suggest offering to pray for the bereaved; to talk openly about the one who has passed; share personal stories, use their name throughout (we can testify when people use Graham’s name repeatedly, it ministers to us); listen…and be comfortable with silence.

Finally, of the MANY meaningful cards and sentiments we received, Sandy was especially moved by our friend Ken’s words. He said while everyone was talking about and remembering Graham,

I don’t want to be remembering him, I want to (still) be knowing him.”

That’s how she truly felt.

And she cried.

Over To You:

What ideas can you add, as either what TO say or what NOT to say to someone who’s going through a difficult time?

Woodland Park: The Graham Posts


Let me tell you about a Sunday morning when Sandy and I learned we would become parents to someone else’s child.

I hope you’re sitting down because this could take awhile. It’s far more than an adoption story, but I’ve got to start somewhere. Let’s start here.

When it was finally in our power to do so, we named our child “Graham” (after Billy Graham) but the poor lad had to answer to several others. Gra-Gra. Gravy Train. Graham Cracker. Grambo. Bubby. But in the beginning he was simply, in the eyes of the court, “Baby Boy N___________.”

Permit me to give you some background: I wanted five kids – four girls and one ruggedly handsome, rough-and-tumble boy. That dream, however, came to a crashing halt when I was twenty-one. Because of a spinal injury I sustained in college I learned I would more than likely not be able to impregnate my future wife.

Technically speaking, I’m a complete paraplegic, the break of my spine happened at the 7th and 8th vertebrae, thoracic level. Draw a line completely around your torso, just above the middle of the back, and you get the idea as to where all my sensation ends. Everything below that line does not function normally. Sayonara, male potency.

The day I learned this I looked over at my mother. “Well, Mom,” I offered, “I guess you’re going to have to settle for an adopted blue-eyed, blonde-haired granddaughter.”

I remember how her face softened into a tender, doting, couldn’t-be-prouder ‘mom-face’ and how her eyes twinkled when she said, “Oh, I’d love an adopted granddaughter!” She might’ve even clapped, I don’t fully recall.

So when I heard that impossibly young voice say into the phone eight years later, “Congratulations, Dad, you have a son,” my heart, I must confess, gave a momentary whimper. I was pulling for a girl. Now, don’t you just hate me?

But wait, I’ve gotten way ahead of myself and need to back up a few city blocks. I married my college sweetheart, my best friend, and the most selfless person I’ve ever known. Sandy knew everything about me already, so she walked into our marriage with eyes wide, w i d e open.

She knew about catheters, pressure sores, bowel programs, ramps, wheelchairs, dysreflexia, and, of course, impotence. Sandy married me knowing there was a very real chance we’d be childless.

But we prayed. And prayed. Then prayed for six and a half more years.

Fertility clinics. Tests. More tests. Even more disappointments.

Sorry, Mr. Mitchell, you’re less than a man (what I heard, not what they said).

Still we tried. And failed. Then we turned to adoption agencies. We need your hard-earned moolah up front. All of it, if you please. Home studies. A baby abandoned at the hospital. Hope.

Oh, sorry…somebody else got to it first. A teen-aged girl is thinking about giving her child up…nope, the grandparents are going to adopt, sorry…

Hope-less.

So we prayed, and prayed some more. For years.

One Sunday morning in August I awakened to a pretty cool gig for a young preacher. Only twenty-eight, I was going to fill in for a well-known pastor at one of Chattanooga’s largest churches. It was a pretty big deal for me to be there, not to mention given both crowded morning services.

I can’t even recall the sermons I preached that day, but what happened in between those services is easily remembered. A tearful conversation between Sandy and a young woman changed our lives forever.

In between the morning services Sandy and I were asked to share our stories with a large group of single young adults. Our story is a really romantic tale which only deepens with time, and we love to talk about it.

Following our tag team sharing the moderator opened the floor for questions. Among those in the group that morning was a pregnant 17-year old, and as Sandy and I bantered, God was already beginning to write an epic story on her heart. And ours.

She said what?!?

I edged my wheelchair closer to the edge of the platform, completely caught off guard when I saw Sandy standing on the bottom step, unabashedly crying.

Oh no. What’s this? Did I say something wrong? When I left her, she was speaking with a young girl. Did I offend the poor girl somehow?

Sandy climbed up another step. I inched closer. I could see her eyes weren’t just damp, they were shimmering pools.

“Did you see that girl I was talking to just now?”

Her stage whisper seemed strained. I nodded carefully, dread and fear seizing me. She choked back a sob.

“Do you know what she told me?”

Here it comes. Steady, heart, steady.

“She said…she said…”

Her head dropped as she collected herself. Oh, dear Jesus…

“She told me she wants us to have…to have…(more soft sobs)…she said she wants us to have her baby!”

It was right then the dam burst in Sandy’s soul and the floodwaters got free. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

God bless that petite young vessel with the large blue eyes for being the answer to our prayers. God used an obedient stranger to interrupt the narrative of our lives and, on a single Sunday morning, flipped the script on our roller-coaster razor-thin hopes.

Our blessing with a cute round belly was 17-years old and seven months pregnant. She’d been eyeing another couple for her baby’s placement but couldn’t get a fixed peace in her spirit. She heard one thing in our Q&A and all of a sudden she knew why.

As our time with the young adults drew to a close, someone asked us about children. I thought the inquirer wanted to know if children’s ministry was included in our calling. I said no.

“No,” she pressed, “I mean, do you yourselves have any children?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I answered, slightly embarrassed. “No, unfortunately, we don’t have children…”

Sandy broke in. “But if you’d like to know if we want children…Oh yes! We’ve been praying for over six years and we’re still hoping for a miracle –”

My handlers were already coming through the doors and moving in my direction so that would have to be the final question. Someone prayed a quick benediction and hands gripped my chair’s push handles while another cleared a path. I turned toward Sandy and started to mouth something when I noticed a young lady who was obviously pregnant swoop in and pull my wife aside.

In very short order I’d be exchanging one very puzzled look for quite another when my wife met me at the bottom steps of a church platform on a Sunday morning when everything changed.

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