On My Heart: They come over and sit.

Last weekend Matt and I spent our Saturday night in. We cooked dinner, we cleaned the house a little and then we laid in bed, ate Thin Mints and watched Lars and the Real Girl.

If you have never seen the movie, please forgive me - this post might spoil it for you. The story is about this incredibly quiet, socially awkward guy named Lars who orders a lifelike adult sized doll and introduces her to his family, co-workers and community as his Brazilian, wheelchair bound, former missionary girlfriend Bianca. Lars lives in the garage of his childhood home and his brother and sister in law live in the main house. When they meet Bianca they freak out and take him to a doctor who says that he is coping with something through this delusion. The doctor tells the family they have to treat Bianca as though she is real.

They do and weirdly the community embraces her as a real person because they care about Lars. It doesn't make sense, but they know it's the right thing to do. At the end of the movie, Bianca falls deathly ill (according to Lars) and a few older women from the local church show up to Lars' home, send his brother and sister in law to a movie, fix Lars a plate of dinner and conduct a sewing circle in his living room. As he sits down on the couch, his plate full of casseroles and jello, he looks around and the conversation goes something like this:

Crocheting Lady says, "We brought you casseroles."
Lars nods and says, "Thank you." He looks around at the other two women - one is doing needlepoint, the other is knitting. Then he asks, "Is there something I should be doing?"
Knitting Lady says, "No, just eat."
Crochet Lady says, "We came over to sit."
Needlepoint Lady adds, "That's what people do when tragedy strikes."
Crochet Lady says with a smile, "They come over and sit."

Over the last few years as tragedies large and small have struck so many of my friends and family, I have often wondered what to do. I've had grand ideas at times - fundraisers when money is needed, gifts, extra time or effort spent in the way the person probably most needs it but isn't asking for - but I have been paralyzed to move more often than not. Maybe it's because I feel I might be overstepping some invisible boundary, or causing offense by trying to help when the person is clearly not asking for it, or inadvertently hurting them, or making a bigger mess of the situation.

But the real reason I don't respond the way I really want to is because I am afraid. I am afraid that it's going to be uncomfortable, and awkward, and painful and weird and not helpful at all. I am afraid that by just being there for the person I love that I will make it harder for them then it should be, or make them feel like they need to accommodate me. I am afraid of the sacrifice loving them in their time of need will require. I am afraid to fail them and in my fear I fail them anyways through my inaction.

The truth is no one likes to be close to pain or sadness, or doubt or death. All of those things bring our reality into a harsh focus, amplifying the very things we wish we could forget. But if we really love someone, we must do the hard thing - be there even when it's uncomfortable and yucky.

When our adoption failed a year and a half ago, that is what our friends did for us. They loved us in whatever way they thought best. They asked questions. They didn't ask questions. They cried with us. They didn't cry with us. They hugged us, they patted us on the back, they kissed our heads. They said the wrong things. They said the right things. They cursed God with us. They prayed.

The point is there were there for us and they did the best they could. They loved us in the worst of times and I will never forget their kindness. I will forever be indebted to them for whatever love they showed us in our time of need. It wasn't perfect, but that didn't matter - they were there.

Last weekend our pastor talked about the women who waited while Christ was crucified. They stayed at the foot of the cross until he took his last breath. They watched him suffer and die. They loved him after all, so they chose to be there for him, all the way until the bitter end. To them, all hope was lost, but they stayed. They helped prepare him for burial and watched the stone roll over the entrance of his tomb. Then they sat and mourned. They did the hard thing. They were there for him when the worst was near.

Their story and the kindness of our friends reminded me of what we are called to do for one another - to be the sort of people who love deeply even when it's hard and it feels weird and awkward and messy and not helpful at all. I want to be like those women in the Bible and like my amazing friends and like the sewing circle in the movie.

They knew what to do when tragedy strikes - they come over and sit.