Someone recently asked me: “What do you say to someone who suddenly loses someone they love?” His close friend had just lost his father. And he said that when he went to visit him, he didn’t know what to say. So he did not say anything.

I told him saying nothing was probably the best thing that he could have said. For how many times do people say things to us when it would have been best if they did not say anything at all?

People are oftentimes guilty of being quick to speak and slow to listen.  I know I often am.  It is surprising I can even speak at all as often as my foot is in my mouth. We have all been guilty of saying stupid things. And we have all had stupid things said to us.

When Lori and I lost a child during the twenty-third week of her pregnancy, people shared with me some of the most stupid and hurtful words I have ever heard.  Words like:  “It’s just God’s will, and you will somehow have to deal with it.” “God knows what he is doing. He doesn’t make mistakes.” “Maybe God knew that you are not ready to be a father at this time.”

Instead of providing comfort these words only stirred me to anger: “Did God want us to lose our baby?! Did God take our baby because I was immature? If so, why are teenagers who are hooked on drugs having babies daily?!”

Oftentimes it is best to keep our mouths shut. However as Christians, we often feel like it is our obligation to say something. We feel that we must be a witness. And we feel that we must especially be a witness during times of crises and pain. I believe that we must learn that oftentimes our best witness is to be silent, ESPECIALLY during times of crises and pain.

Many of us perhaps avoid funeral homes and hospitals because we simply do not know what to say. Perhaps the best advice is: “Do not say anything.”

Simply go and be there. Offer a warm embrace. Let them know through your presence that you are suffering with them. Shed a tear. Shake a hand.

For oftentimes our best witness is a silent witness.

Henri Nouwen beautifully wrote:

When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.