My mother and father were both from the same tiny little place Kentucky. It was ‘down home’ all the time I was growing up. My mother’s brother and his wife lived just down the road from us and when everyone was together they talked about ‘down home.’ It always seemed odd to me. The small town I had been raised in was ‘home’ to me. If we were away somewhere and it was time to go home, my mother or father, or aunt or uncle, would say, let’s go home. But when they were talking about where they had grown up, it was ‘down home.’ They had gotten away from ‘down home’ as fast as they could, but it was still spoken of with reverence.

            Folks from ‘down home’ had their ways. I always assumed it was just my family. Two of my mother’s sisters lived in Indianapolis and one lived in Louisville. They all got together at least once a year. When I was an adult my grandmother had left her home ‘down home’ and had gone to live with one of my aunts in Indianapolis. My mother drove a school bus in Ohio and it got to be that about a week after school let out I would take two days off from the church I pastored and take my mother to Indy. A couple of weeks before school started up again I would take two days off and go get her. During the huge evening meal the night I would be there the four sisters would all be together and I would sit and listen to some lively conversation. That conversation tended to revolve around two things. The happenings ‘down home’ and different individuals they knew who were dying of some ailment. I asked them once if they knew any happy stories, a story about someone actually recovering and living. I found out that this was an offensive question to ask. They all got a little huffy, my cousin Steve looked at me like I was an idiot to go there and I concentrated on my aunt’s turnip greens, which were really good.

            Again, I just figured it was a family thing.

            Then, this past Friday I was at Duke Memorial in Peru IN waiting to have a stress test. An older lady was sitting close by. I had gone into the back so they could inject me with the radioactive isotope and when I came back up the lady said to me, “Well, you didn’t get one of these?” She was pointing to the IV lead in her arm. I held up my hand and showed her that I had mine in my hand. That set her off. The last time she had this done they had put it in her hand. Her hand had swollen up to three times its size and had turned black. Then she started telling me about her open-heart surgery and how I had better pray I didn’t have what she had. She told me how they had split her chest wide open and later how the swelling had refused to go down and the pain was horrible and she went on and one. Her husband had a bad heart and it killed him, just like it did her sister. Marsha was sitting there horrified but to me, it was just like growing up and even in the adult years, listening to my mother and my aunts talk about death and destruction. Even the accent was the same. Finally, when she stopped for air, I asked her where she was from. Turned out, she was from ‘down home,’ Columbia KY. 13 miles from where my mother grew up. I had an uncle who had a farm just outside of Columbia. When she found out my family was from ‘down home,’ she started talking about the people who had died there. Evidently it wasn’t a family thing, but a regional thing. They finally came and took her for her test.

            To me, it had been kind of nice. Like listening to my mother and aunts in conversation. But to Marsha it was appalling. What good could come from talking nothing but death. I had a lot of time to think after that, waiting for one aspect of the test or another, and my mind drifted to all the wrong things I have heard said at the wrong times. People always seem to think that they need to say something. A woman’s husband leaves her a young widow and at the funeral someone comes through the line and says, “Honey, you’re young yet. You can get married again.” Or a young mother loses a child and a well-meaning person says, “Thank goodness you have two more kids!” You might be thinking those things but to say them to a grieving person is cruel. Another young woman going through a divorce and someone coming up and saying, “What’s it like to have your marriage fall apart?” Or, telling someone who is facing a possible life or death situation about people they know who did die. And then there is the very worst one, in my opinion. Someone has died and someone says to a grieving survivor, “I guess God needed them more than you did.” One exchange I heard was a woman in our church was told by doctors that her illness would likely take her life. In church, after the sermon, she told the church what was going on. Of course, people came up to her and her husband to express their feelings. One woman asked the lady who was ill what it was like to know you were going to die. Then she turned to the husband and told him not to worry, when the wife died he would not have any problems finding another wife.

            Years ago, I started asking people who said such thoughtless things why they said them. They didn’t see it as harsh or cruel. As one person said to me, “Well, you have to say something!”

            Actually, you don’t have to say anything. Nothing at all. When Marsha’s Dad passed away we were serving a church about sixty miles from where her Mom and Dad lived. At the calling hours, we were surprised at the number of people from our church who made the trip to lend her support. One such couple was Larry and Helen Stahl. The same age as our parents. They came in and went straight to Marsha. My wife was wearing a dress that had a bow on it. Helen walked up to her and, without a word, straightened the bow, put her hands on Marsha’s shoulders, looked her right in the eyes and then wrapped her arms around her in a compassionate and loving embrace. Helen never said a word, but it was what Marsha needed to strengthen her so she could be strong for her family.

            Words aren’t always needed. Just letting people know you are there, that you care is enough. Taking someone’s hand, a little physical contact, even a light kiss on the cheek. For me, words come easily. I have been in hundreds of situations with people. But, even so, I prefer to let them talk. Words can crush the spirit if used poorly. But rarely is a hug or a quiet touch out of place.

            The best rule of thumb that I can suggest is; think before you speak, then don’t speak. It is not about you, after all.