After my partner of 22 years died two years ago, I was consumed by grief. There were times I would reach out to people, knowing that I was drowning and hoping they would throw me a lifeline. The response I usually got was, “Is there anything I can do?”
I know they meant it sincerely. They would have done anything I asked them to do. What they didn’t understand was that my world was so shattered and dark that I couldn’t name what I needed. All I knew was that I needed something. I really needed someone to help me figure out what I needed because I couldn’t.
There was a night when I called a friend from the cemetery because I knew, deep down, that I shouldn’t be by myself. If anyone had asked, “Are you safe?” I would never have answered honestly. I didn’t want to die. I just didn’t want to live without her. I wanted to be close to her. I wanted my life back.
Instead, I sat at her grave, grief pulsing through every part of me.
When the person I called said, “What can I do?” my answer was “Nothing.”
And then I hung up and cried for two more hours, sitting there alone. I didn’t know what would help. I needed that person to carry me and think of something I could not, because grief had robbed me of any sense of hope.
Sometimes, the most loving thing you can do for someone grieving is offer your presence and the normal parts of life.
What I really needed was someone’s presence. Someone to sit by her grave with me. Someone not afraid of the dark within and around me. I needed to be moved out of the place of despair and kept safe. Even the most capable, independent, faith-filled person can reach a point where they can’t navigate for themselves. When someone is grieving that deeply, they can’t imagine, decide, or plan. They need someone to gently take the reins for a moment and lay out a few small options.
“What can I do?”
“Do you need anything?”
“I’m here if you need me.”
Open questions sound supportive, but in that moment, they’re too big. They require clarity and imagination that grief has already stripped away. To the grieving person, they can even sound like, “There’s nothing I can really do for you.”
Instead, offer small, concrete, doable options:
“Can I come sit with you?”
“Want to get a piece of cheesecake and coffee?”
“Come have dinner with me.”
“Let me pick you up for church.”
“I’m on my way to get takeout. Can I eat it with you at your place?”
“I’m going to my daughter’s play tonight — want to come with me?”
“I’m headed out for a haircut. Do you feel like getting one too?”
Simple. Tangible. Nothing fancy.
Sometimes, the most loving thing you can do for someone grieving is offer your presence and the normal parts of life. Doing ordinary things that give some sense of order and stability to life. Nothing extravagant. When grief crushes my will, it is good to have someone guide me back towards the path with kindness and empathy. When I can’t feel God’s hand on me, I need yours to put me back in touch.
