Grief is an air horn blowing in my ear.
I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can’t act. All I can do is cover my ears and wait for the curséd blast of sound to stop.
Only then, when the overstimulation has ceased – when the blessed quiet has recovered my senses – can I even begin to listen to what you have to say.
So, in the deafening squall of grief, don’t speak. Just sit with me. Listen to the sickening racket. Join me in begging God for it to stop, and, if you dare, put yourself between me and that revolting wave to absorb some of the sound.
Then wait. With me. For God to restore the peace.
Then, I will know that you care.