I stumbled across this blog post about a woman seeing another woman she knew in the grocery store a few weeks after her daughters death.

It was written so honestly and genuinely that I couldn’t help but want to share it.

I feel like SO MANY TIMES we just don’t know the right words to say,

so instead we SAY NOTHING, and that hurts….like really bad.

Because guess what?!

All the other people you know are also feeling that way and SAYING NOTHING, so you are left with grief and sadness and there is NO ONE THERE.

This is the story of saying SOMETHING, even if that is only, ” I don’t know what to say” and acknoledging the person.

Because when it comes down to it, isn’t that what we all want?!

To know that we are seen and wanted!?

________________________________________________________

Article Below:

I stood in the produce section of my local grocery store, my hands comparing the weights of cantaloupes. Heavy enough, I thought.

I sniffed its stem, searching for that sweet spot, while my palms rubbed over its rough netted surface. My breath froze when I glanced up across the piles of lemons and avocados to see her handling the tomatoes.

I stared at the cantaloupe. I hoped she hadn’t noticed that I noticed her.

I didn’t know what to say.

She lost her teenaged daughter in a horrific car crash several weeks earlier — five teens died on their way to school.

This mom was forced to give up the gift God had given her seventeen years before.

I felt heavy, as if my feet were rooted to the floor. I placed the cantaloupe in my cart and strained to take a back step towards the broccoli — so my back was to her.

She probably knows I am here.

I was uncomfortable. I fiddled with the Brussel sprouts. Now what do I do? I questioned. Coward, I thought.

When bad things happen, people fear they may say the wrong thing — even when they are trying to be helpful.

I remember the depths of my emotional pain many years earlier when I miscarried my twin girls. God held their tiny bodies in His arms before I did. Even though well-intentioned women whispered, “You’re young enough to have more,” I knew they cared because they arrived by my side, wanting to comfort me. Most often, their comments came with soft eyes, a nestling hug.

What I found worse, though, was when people avoided me, and said nothing at all.

One of my own brothers never called. Months later, he sent me a letter, asking for my forgiveness. One friend dodged me in Kmart. From the corner of my eye, I watched her dart down the automotive aisle. Another woman, pregnant, turned away from me in the church parking lot and began a conversation with someone else.

They could have simply listened for a minute, helped me heal.

Now the jagged edges of discomfort gouged my heart because I’ve been just like the women at Kmart and church, dodging people I didn’t know how to talk to. I’ve neglected to send the card, pick up the phone, pay a visit, or approach them in the store.

I took a deep breath.

Her baggy jeans and oversized flannel hung on her thin frame. Hollow eyes replaced the stubborn jaw I remembered.

I walked up to her, acting surprised to see her. I think she was on to me, but she didn’t draw attention to my cowardice.

I found the courage to say “Hello.” My arms jockeyed my cart so I could get closer to her. I tried to find words that wouldn’t get between us. The words I found were the only ones I knew how to say. “I don’t know what to say. I am sorry.”

We hugged. Eyes welled.

Silence.

Now what do I say? I wondered.

“Therefore encourage one another with these words. {1 Thessalonians 4:18}

In His most subtle of ways, the Lord guided me.

I used her daughter’s name — Tonia. “I’m sorry I never thanked Tonia for her incredible work with the school sports program. She taught my sons so much about life and basketball! They spoke highly of her.”

These simple words brought her face to life.

“Let me tell you a story about Tonia,” I offered. It was a funny story, one she didn’t know — one my sons had shared with me months earlier, when she coached their summer basketball camp.

Her eyes held mine, asking for more — more of her daughter. It was as if she were saying, “Please, keep her alive.”

I listened, and remained alongside her as she shared. I prayed it was healing for her. It was for me. We stood there talking for a long time, as shoppers walked by.

The original article was written by Sharon Gibbs on her blog, (IN)Courage