My supervisor poked his head into the office and said, “We’ve got a tough one down in the ER.  It would be good to have two of us … will you join me?”  As we walked, he shared what little he knew. 

A 39-year-old woman had been found unconscious by her daughter.  An ambulance had just arrived with mother and daughter.  The father had been called and was on his way.  The parents spoke only Spanish, so a medical translator on staff had been alerted.

We entered to find the mother intubated, with the ER team performing chest compressions.  The father had arrived and was standing to the side with his daughter, watching helplessly.  An ER staff member introduced us to them and guided all of us into a small room nearby to gather basic facts.

The daughter, Aracely, spoke English well.  She toggled between languages as she explained to us and to her father what had happened.  She and her mother, Maria, cleaned houses together, and had been working in different parts of a large home.  She called out to her mother for something, and when there was no response she called her cell.  There was no answer, so she went looking and found her on the floor of the bathroom she’d been cleaning.  Aracely thought Maria might have been there for a few minutes before she found her.

The other chaplain spoke Spanish, so he tended to the father, Juan, and I engaged with Aracely in English.  While teary, she remained remarkably composed, focusing on the family members who needed to be notified.  She had one sibling, a younger brother still in high school; she decided to hold off on contacting him until they knew more.  She placed a call to her uncle, Juan’s brother, who she knew would be a great support.

There was a knock on the door, and an ER doctor and translator entered.  The doctor explained, through the translator, that Maria had had a severe heart attack and also had brain damage from lack of oxygen.  She said Maria’s heart was still pumping and her blood oxygen levels were adequate, but she did not think Maria had a significant chance of ever regaining consciousness or of being able to breathe on her own if taken off the respirator. 

Juan asked what caused the heart attack—how this could be possible, she was only 39?  The doctor compassionately explained that she didn’t know, that this can happen for a variety of reasons, but none of that would change Maria’s status.  With great sadness, Juan gave permission to withdraw life support.

We all returned to the room where the team was caring for Maria.  At the doctor’s direction, they ceased their routine, made room for Juan and Aracely to come to Maria’s side, and stood reverently as they bade her farewell.  The staff then removed Maria’s respirator and, as expected, she died peacefully.

Juan went outside to the ambulance bay to make calls, and my supervisor motioned for me to follow him.  I stood at a respectful distance, with a cold wind blowing through my shirt, and listened as he poured his heart out to loved ones.  I speak only a few words of Spanish, but the language of grief is universal.

Juan finally turned toward me as if to come back inside.  I have rarely felt more at a loss for words, but words were not what Juan was seeking.  He walked straight into my open arms and let me absorb his weight while he sobbed uncontrollably for a couple of minutes.  When he was finally ready to let go, he simply turned and walked back into the ER.  No words.

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In my experience, people often avoid engaging directly with someone who is suffering because “I wouldn’t know what to say.”  They think that “someone who is good at this”—a therapist, a pastor, a chaplain—would know the right words to say to ease the person’s suffering, but that they themselves don’t know those words.  They fear that, in their discomfort, they might say something wrong and only make the person’s suffering worse. 

So they decide to send a card instead, and browse the card rack, hoping once again that someone else will have the right words.  Eventually they find something that comes close enough to expressing their feelings, perhaps add a “Thinking of you …” and send it off.

I don’t mean to belittle this process—God knows I’ve done it many times myself.  But so often we can do better.  Most of us have been on the receiving end of such cards, and we know what that can feel like.  “Well, it’s nice that they sent something,” we think, or “I’m not sure I could bear to be with this person right now anyway.”  But sometimes we think, “I would love to have this person by my side, or talk to them, but I’m too depleted to initiate something myself.”  And an opportunity for caring is lost …

When someone who is suffering longs for your presence, they aren’t looking for a person with the right words.  They are looking for you, the authentic you, whom they love and appreciate for exactly who you are, not the Hallmark version of yourself.  Your fear of saying the wrong thing might not be misplaced, but there is a solution right at hand:  say very few words, and let your presence speak for you.  Words may come, from the other person or from you, but if they don’t, trust the silence.  There may simply be no words adequate to express the emotions being felt.

Several years ago, a young man named Griffin, just out of college, who had grown up in my Quaker meeting and was beloved by all, died suddenly from an undetected heart defect.  Many of us quickly gathered at the meeting house, mostly in silence, but after a bit people shared precious memories of Griffin, and their shock and grief at losing him.  When the time felt right, our youth pastor rose.  “If we’re ready, I’ll say a few words to close our time together.” He began, “Dear God …” then stood silently for a full minute.  Finally, he said, “There just are no words.”  I thought it was the most authentic prayer possible in that situation, and perhaps the only helpful thing he could have said.

As I stood in the ambulance bay with Juan as he made his calls, I felt discomfort at the language barrier between us, wishing I knew enough Spanish to say a few appropriate words.  Then I remembered the experience with Griffin’s death—sometimes, there just are no words.  And that’s OK.  Compassionate presence alone may be the most powerful gift we have to offer.