Dear Friend,
While I was writing #15, “Grateful On Purpose,” I found myself mentally back at the scene of that highway pileup.
Three lanes had narrowed to two through a construction zone. The lower speed-limit signs seemed to have made very little impression. Drivers darted from lane to lane, trying to get one car farther ahead. Whenever I left some space in front of me, someone swerved into it.
Then came the collision, and I found myself caught in a multi-car pileup.
In that earlier letter, I wrote about finding reasons for gratitude in the aftermath. But remembering the accident brought something else back to me: the different kinds of people who arrived at the scene.
There were the gawkers. They wanted a look at the carnage, preferably from a safe distance. They could see that something terrible had happened without getting involved in the work of helping.
Then there were the police. They took charge of the scene, wrote their reports, assigned blame, and issued citations that would have to be answered in court. They had a necessary job to do, and I’m grateful there are people trained to do it.
And there were the paramedics.
Their questions were different. What hurt? Where was I injured? Was there anything in my medical history they needed to know?
They wanted to help, and they were careful about how they did it. I was already injured. They wanted to be sure that nothing they did added to the damage. My history mattered. They needed to know something about the person they were treating.
They assessed my injuries, gave the care they were equipped to give, and got me moving toward people who could do more. They understood both their responsibility and their limits.
Remembering those people brought an uncomfortable question to mind: When I come upon the wreckage in someone else’s life, which group do I join?
Perhaps you know what it feels like to be on the receiving end.
Something happened in your life that you could barely bring yourself to talk about. When you finally told someone, you needed them to listen long enough to understand why it hurt.
Instead, they had questions about how you let it happen. Or advice that made the whole thing sound so much simpler than it was. Perhaps you found yourself explaining, defending, trying to supply enough of the story to persuade them that you really had tried.
You went home wishing you hadn’t said anything.
I wonder how many people have stopped asking for help because of a conversation like that. How many have learned to give the short answer at church, keep the difficult part to themselves, and get through another week without letting anyone know how much they’re carrying.
If that is familiar to you, I’m sorry. It takes courage to let another person see where your life hurts. You gave them something tender to hold.
Perhaps you can also remember someone who handled it with care.
They let you finish. They didn’t seem frightened by your tears or impatient with the parts you struggled to explain. They asked a question that told you they had been listening. You could tell the truth without having to manage their reaction to it.
You may remember very little of what they said. But you remember that, for a while, you could breathe.
I want to be careful with what I ask of you here. If you are still in the middle of something painful, you don’t have to turn it into a lesson for somebody else before you have had room to recover. You are allowed to need help. You are allowed to tell someone that you’re hurting, and to hope they will treat that knowledge gently.
And as I think about the people who have trusted me with their own pain, I have some examining to do.
Have I let them finish? Have I asked enough to understand? Have I ever been so eager to offer an answer that I missed what it cost them to ask the question?
I would like to believe I have always been one of the helpful ones. But I need to leave room for the possibility that someone has walked away from a conversation with me wishing they hadn’t said anything.
That is a hard possibility to sit with. I think I need to sit with it anyway.
Paul gives me a clear place to begin: “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2). In the verse immediately before it, he describes restoring someone caught in a transgression “in a spirit of gentleness,” with a warning to watch ourselves lest we also be tempted.
That matters because the person Paul describes has actually done something wrong.
So there is room here for the question you may already be asking: What if the person helped cause the wreck? What if a foolish decision, a deception, or a sin brought them to this place?
Paul’s instruction still calls for gentleness. He names the transgression and directs the helper toward restoration. There is truth to face, and there is a person to handle carefully. His warning about our own vulnerability leaves very little room for standing over someone else as though we could never fall.
Of course, illness and loss are not evidence of some hidden wrongdoing. I would never want this letter to suggest that every wounded person has brought the trouble upon himself. But even when someone does bear responsibility, cruelty contributes nothing to the work of helping him face it.
The police at my accident scene had authority and responsibilities that belonged to them. In another person’s crisis, I need to ask whether I have been entrusted with a responsibility—or have simply appointed myself to the position.
Sometimes helping will involve a difficult conversation. Sometimes it will mean protecting someone from further harm, involving the proper authorities, or helping a person find professional care. The paramedics’ example leaves room for all of that. They took my condition seriously enough to act, and understood when I needed more than they could give.
I don’t have to be able to repair an entire life before I can offer something useful.
I can listen without asking for details merely to satisfy my curiosity. I can keep a confidence. I can bring supper, make a call, offer a ride, or sit beside someone through an appointment. I can say, “This is beyond what I know how to help with, but I’ll help you find someone who does.”
And I can ask about the history before I offer my prescription.
That reaction I don’t understand may have years behind it. That hesitation may come from having trusted someone before and paid dearly for it. I may be meeting a person in the middle of a story whose beginning I have never heard.
I want to remember that.
I also want to remember that gentleness is among the fruit of the Spirit Paul describes just before these instructions. I need His work in me if I am going to become safer with someone else’s pain. My own impatience, pride, and appetite for an easy answer need attention, too.
Perhaps one person has come to mind while you’ve been reading. Someone whose trouble you know about, though you haven’t known what to say.
You could begin with something small and honest.
“I’ve been thinking about you. How are you managing?”
Then give them time to answer.
If they tell you something difficult, you don’t have to hurry past it. You can let it matter. You can ask what would help. And before you reach for advice, you can consider whether you have understood enough to offer it.
I keep coming back to those paramedics. I was injured when they arrived. They wanted to be sure I wasn’t worse off because they had come.
When someone lets me close to a wounded place in their life, I want to remember the trust that involves.
I would like them to be glad they told me.
Grace & Peace,
Pastor Neal Letteney <><
The Pastor’s Hearth
For Your Reflection
When someone trusts me with a painful part of their life, what tends to come first—curiosity, a judgment, an answer, or a willingness to listen?
Is there someone I may have hurt while trying to help? What would an honest apology require of me?
Who could I come alongside this week, and what specific help could I offer without assuming I understand the whole story?
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