Sitting with Suffering

As I meet with people under the bridge in Aberdeen, as I minister on the street, I often think of how important it is to learn to sit with suffering. Sometimes the hardest thing we do is watch people we love suffer—be it friends, neighbors, family members, or simply another human being.

And we want to fix it. I want to get people off the street and into stable living situations—damn it, I would be ok if I could just find a few warm beds for the guys standing around in our circle with trembling hands in the cold. We are always looking for the right things to say and do, always looking for a fix. And, that is a good impulse. It is good that we are able to feel the pain of another and good that we want to fix a society where it is the new norm for a good 1% of our population to be on the street (that’s 3.5 million people in the U.S, folks!).

And, yet, sometimes our rush to find a solution, a fix, is a reflection of our own need to feel ok. Our own discomfort at suffering. An effort to make ourselves feel better. We tell our friend whose father just died nice platitudes because it makes us feel better that we have “done something.” We hand out supplies and coats and food to people on the street, perhaps even things they would not ask for or want, because we are the ones that can’t stand to watch someone else suffer. As I stood today in a little circle with a few guys, sometimes in silence, I realized again the value of just being with a person. 

I learned something of sitting with suffering early in life. I remember confronting death many times as a child, but it was when, in the course of a few shorts months, a dear 14 year old friend and my grandfather died that I learned most about grief. I was at my granddad’s bedside when he died and I sat with my dad afterwards, with his own great, silent grief between us. I got an early morning call that Ashley had died, a friend sobbing on the other line, two states now between us. Both times, I was overwhelming struck with my inability to do anything or say anything to assuage the grief of those around me—and I found myself deeply annoyed at the platitudes I was given about angels in heaven and drinking with St. Peter and God’ will.

This experience and others since have taught me that the best friends and mentors in my life have been those who have been willing to sit with me. Have been willing to feel my pain, knowing full well that they cannot fix it or fix me. Their example of selfless love has been my inspiration, because I would not be here without them.

And so I stand on the street in the cold, unable to fix anything. Unable to meet all the overwhelming needs that meet me. And the great paradox is this: in letting go of the need to assuage our own discomfort with suffering, we give our greatest gift. The gift of presence. The gift of standing with and alongside another in their greatest need. And sometimes it is the greatest gift that can be given.