When a 19-year-old college student from our church went missing, our entire community sprang into action. Search parties were assembled, prayer teams were gathered, and social media campaigns were launched. Hundreds showed their support, and together we mourned when she was found dead some weeks later. The letters, prayers, condolences, and casseroles poured in. Her family's grief was massive, and we knew that their need for support would not be short-lived. Less obvious was the pain suffered by others who knew her closely and led the rescue efforts, like her Bible study leader and college campus director.
This happens so often when illness, accidents, or trauma strikes. Our focus on the immediate needs of the people most affected can lead us to overlook their close supporters, who bore their grief through the tragedy. Sometimes they themselves don't realize it until months later.
In their helpful article "How Not to Say the Wrong Thing," Barry Gold and Susan Silk suggest a way to discern what is appropriate to do or say in a traumatic event by situating the people involved in a series of concentric rings. The person suffering the most is in the middle, and those closest to them—spouse or parent, for instance—are in the rings immediately after. The further out the ring, the further the person is from the tragedy. These rings establish a Kvetching Order: those in the inner rings can complain about anything or say anything about the crisis—as long as they voice their remarks to someone in an outer ring. In other words, the person in the center can complain to anyone. But someone 3 rings out should not say, "It's so hard to see you like this," or "I don't know how I'm going to cope" to the person in the middle.
The corollary of Silk and Gold's thesis to "dump out" is that we should "comfort in" by offering our support to those in inner rings. Traditionally, we are good at focusing on the people in the center: we know they are hurting and so we organize meals, write cards, and make sure to include their names on prayer chains. However, we tend to overlook the people in the inner rings. They are the first-line receivers of pain being "dumped out," and yet when comfort comes in, it often bypasses them.
In her book Warrior in Pink, author Vivian Mabuni details her battle with breast cancer and describes the role her husband, Darrin, played during her treatment. He had cheered for her, sacrificed for her, even shaved his head with her. Towards the end of the book, Darrin shares his perspective: "Viv, you talk about how battling cancer was like a marathon run. Well, while you were running the marathon, I also ran right along with you on the outside of the race tape — only I carried a huge backpack. No one cheered me on. No one held up signs."
The difficulty for Darrin and others supporting the one in crisis is that they are so busy meeting needs that they are sometimes unaware of the toll caregiving has on them. It took months after the death of our missing college student for some of the search team leaders to realize how devastatingly that event had affected them personally. "I was so busy caring for the family that I couldn't see that I needed care, too," said one coordinator. "But then again, even if I had seen it, I don't know how I would have been able to receive it at the time."
Perhaps part of the challenge of supporting caregivers is our strange human proclivity to compare our suffering with another's. We minimize, or even trivialize, our own struggles by comparing them with the suffering of another: "But they have it so much worse; what do I have to complain about?"
And so it happens that caregivers seldom complain, and those around them are unaware of the toll it takes on them. In an effort not to burden the grieving widow or the victim of a crime, we seek out the caregivers and ask in hushed tones, "So, how's so-and-so doing?" But often, we fail to also ask, "So, how are YOU?" forgetting that the person in the know is also most likely the person in the fray. Recent medical research bears testimony to this fact: caregivers endure a psychological stress that causes cells to age in a way that non-caregivers' do not.
As churches take seriously the scriptural mandate to "weep with those who weep" (Rom. 12:15), training such as that provided by Stephen Ministries is invaluable. Stephen Ministers are lay-people trained to provide high-quality, confidential, Christ-centered care to people who are hurting, such as those experiencing grief, divorce, or illness—and, increasingly, caregivers supporting those in the inner rings are seeking support, too. Those who are "weeping with those who weep," are, in fact, weeping themselves and, in turn, need others to bear their burdens with them (Gal. 6:2).
Those supporting a loved one in crisis are in need of our care. A note of encouragement, a listening ear, a prayer just for them, or a supportive hug can go a long way toward bolstering those who are pillars of strength to someone in crisis.
I am reminded of the story in Exodus 17:10-13, when Israel faced battle against the fierce Amalekites. Moses sent Joshua to lead the army into battle, and then took up his intercessory post on the hill. As long as his arms were raised, Israel won, but when his strength flagged and his arms lowered, the battle turned against them. We are told that Moses' companions Aaron and Hur found a rock for him to sit on, and then stood beside him holding up his arms until the battle was done.
Scripture records that Moses' arms were tired. But having carried sleeping babies in my arms until my neck locked into spasm, I have a new compassion for Aaron and Hur, who stood all day holding Moses' arms but whose fatigue went unmentioned. No doubt they, too, were exhausted and hurting.
