I go to a church where there is a time in every service given over to sharing joys and sorrows submitted by people in the congregation. Guess which category gets the most entries?
We’ve all heard the expression, “Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone.” But what I’ve witnessed is that when joys are shared, people respond with little smiles. When sorrows are shared, something deeper happens, having to do with empathy and caring and a desire to help.
I worry sometimes that people feel they need to hide their sadnessess, not only because they think it might make others feel bad, but because it reveals a vulnerability in them. To this I say: Here’s to vulnerabilities. Here’s to what lets me see you as a human being, and here’s to your being brave and willing enough to share something that gives me a chance to give something back to you in a meaningful way.
I conduct writing workshops now and then, and the whole idea in these workshops is for people to tell the truth, whatever that truth might be, and to tell it in whatever form it requires, including fiction. It may sound counterintuitive to say that fiction tells the bigger truths, but I’ve found it to be so. Whatever you’re writing about—a bird, a ship pulling away from shore, a kid standing before at a bakery window—you will subconsciously shape the material to reflect a certain truth. I believe telling the truth heals and exhilarates. And I think that bringing sorrow out is what makes room to let joy back in. I have a collection of lovely hankies, and in my workshops, I offer them freely. I don’t think I’ve ever had a workshop where someone didn’t cry, and whenever that happens, all of us at the table lean forward, an almost involuntary expession of compassion.
This is not an exhortation to be a Debbie Downer. One does need balance in one’s life. But one also needs to at least occasionally open one’s heart to others when they are hurting, and in that way say to them, I hear you. I care for you. You are NOT alone.
One last piece of advice, which was offered by the fourth graders in the congregation, who were being celebrated today. For them, the way to move through life centered on three things: Eat. Breathe. Love.
Nothing I can add to that except to say I hope your Sunday is fine.
I lost my younger daughter in 1995, after a very long illness, and I know you are right. Only a few years later, my husband died after a battle with lung cancer. As I stood in our old country church one Sunday, and the choir was singing the closing hymn, I was suddenly overwhelmed with grief. Members of the choir moved to surround me, put their arms around me and continued singing. It was such a comforting moment and I will never forget it. I made a vow to always reach out when I know someone is hurting. I now live in a retirement community where, for more than 10 years I helped organize a special Compassionate Friends Service each December in memory of children who have died too soon.
I would add Hope. It is often what sustains us.