I’m leading a Bible study on grief as I write this. A few days ago, I was preparing a lesson that included a portion of Lamentations chapter 2: “My eyes fail from weeping, I am in torment within; my heart is poured out on the ground. . . . What can I say for you? With what can I compare you, Daughter Jerusalem? To what can I liken you, that I may comfort you, Virgin Daughter Zion? Your wound is as deep as the sea. Who can heal you?” (vv. 11-13).

In these verses, the author looks at the devastation and grief all around him and speaks specifically of the children starving in the streets. He sees them fainting in the streets, begging for anything to eat or to drink “as their lives ebb away in their mothers’ arms” (v. 12).

The author has seen awful, unspeakable horrors. Yet the condition of these women and children has affected him deeply. He struggles to find the right words. I’m so thankful the Holy Spirit led these inspired words to be included in Scripture. If here, in this setting, a man going through suffering had difficulty finding the right words . . . well, then, maybe I can give myself a break for all the times I can’t find them either.

In the earliest years of our marriage, my husband and I kept our struggles with infertility to ourselves. We just were not ready to share that grief openly with others. You can imagine the sting of the well-meaning comments and questions made innocently by people who were unaware of our struggle. Once we decided to pursue adoption, we began to share more openly. In some ways, it was a relief. The every-Sunday-morning chorus of “You’d look good with a baby in your arms” came to a swift end. In its place we received encouragement and support that were specific and meaningful to our situation.

It’s okay not to know what to say.

But still, I was surprised at how some relationships began to shift. There’s an awkwardness, a distance that can occur, when we walk through something that our loved ones can’t understand. It’s nobody’s fault. It happens because there’s this big gaping hole where we can’t relate and we don’t know how to communicate. We love so much, and we don’t want to cause pain with our words. We don’t know how to fix it. We don’t know what to say. So we pull away a little.

This summer marks 12 years since we traded the awkwardness and loneliness of infertility for the awkwardness and loneliness of parenting a child with special needs. I’ve learned a lot in those years. Not much offends me anymore. I’ve healed a lot of the early grief I carried, clearing space to see the good intentions of others and to take words and actions in the kindest possible way. But writing this article challenges me to take a step beyond how I process the words that people say. This article challenges me to help people choose better words.

I thought about all the well-intentioned words that have secretly stung in the past two decades. I thought about all the nuances of language.

I thought about the other side of it—all the times I thought I was helping and later learned that I was hurting.

I thought about times I so badly wanted to help someone, to be able to comfort with just the right words, but I couldn’t figure out how so I said nothing at all.

I realized I do not want to take this opportunity to correct and refine those who are already trying, who are putting themselves out there, who are doing the best they can to “encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11).

Instead I want to take this opportunity to encourage those who, like the poet in Lamentations, feel at a loss for words. Whose “eyes fail from weeping” and whose hearts are “in torment within,” but who feel stuck. Who feel they can’t help, because “what can [they] say for you?”

To you, I say it’s okay not to know what to say. It’s okay not to know how to fix it. It’s okay that you can’t make it better. Sometimes, the most perfect thing to do is to show that you’re willing to sit down in the muck with people, put an arm around them, and say, “I see that you’re hurting. I’m sorry it’s so hard right now. I’m praying for you.”

I think this reaches far beyond parents of children with special needs or women struggling with infertility and applies to so many hurting hearts. I don’t need to be fixed—I need to be seen. I don’t need to be shown a solution—I need to be shown my Savior. I don’t need to be pulled out of the muck—I just need to know you’re willing to sit in it with me.

As I worked on that Bible study lesson, my daughter’s school aide messaged me that they were having a hard day. I popped over to her message and started brainstorming and trying to fix it. It took a minute, but I realized what I was doing and deleted everything I had written. I wrote instead, “I’m sorry to hear you guys are having such a rough day. It’s so hard when all you’re trying to do is help her and she’s pushing you away.” Send. The aide told me later that those words were exactly what she needed to hear. She felt seen and understood, and that empowered her to keep pressing on.

I also may have promised her a margarita after school gets out. Margaritas—and chocolate chip cookies—never hurt, either.

Megan Redfield

“[Jesus’] disciples asked him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned,’ said Jesus, ‘but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him’ ” (John 9:2,3).

Parenting a child with extra needs is usually not planned. Parents may encounter extra needs with an unexpected diagnosis, an accident, or an illness. Extra needs vary from physical disabilities like cerebral palsy to developmental disabilities like autism or learning disabilities like dyslexia or mental disabilities like anxiety. Each unique situation may involve grief and joy, love and heartache, all mixed together. As Jesus described the glory of God being displayed in the blind man’s life, we glimpse God’s perspective, as his plans may include displaying his works through his miraculous creation, his never-ending grace, his complete control, and his ultimate goal for his children—living for him now and in eternity!

Empathetically try to imagine yourself in their situation but avoid assumptions.

As we support our fellow Christians impacted by special needs, we can remember a few basic principles.

Ask the parents about the child in humble and sincere terms. How are they, the parents, doing? Strive to appreciate the situation sincerely. Rather than pity, ask how you can support them. Praying, delivering meals, watching the child while the parent runs errands, assisting during Sunday school, offering a listening ear. . . . Don’t forget to ask the individual with extra needs too! Speak with him or her in a way that shows you care.

Listen to their answers without judgment. Empathetically try to imagine yourself in their situation but avoid assumptions. Be ready for their worries, hopes, and dreams. The parents might be grieving as they see delays in reaching developmental milestones. They might surprise you as they celebrate what appears from the outside like a minor accomplishment. Most important, listen to the individual with extra needs.

Include family members in event planning. Incorporate supportive measures that will help the child participate to the greatest extent. Remember them in your prayers, asking God to be with them in every daily challenge. Include them in service projects, especially causes that are important to the family. Recognize that the individual with extra needs has gifts that God will use to bless others.

Adjust the environment to improve accessibility. Modify your expectations and time frames. Extra needs often require extra time. Evaluate your mindset, thinking of the person first before the disability.

Think out of the box to allow yourself to be open to accommodations. Try to understand things like different developmental timelines and the impact of disabilities on daily life. Be sensitive when sharing all your child’s milestones, as families may be celebrating very different ones. Think about how you can connect with the individual with special needs.

Love one another. God will display his glory as you reflect his love.

Brenda Wagenknecht

“God will never give you more than you can handle.”

These well-meaning words occasioned by 1 Corinthians 10:13 are often shared with parents of children with disabilities. They are spoken by empathetic friends and echoed by compassionate acquaintances—repeated almost as much as the lyrics of Taylor Swift’s latest song on a pop radio station. The delivery may be different, but the foundation of the message is always the same: God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.

I agree with the sentiment insofar as I believe that God is faithful. I have full trust in him. I have confidence in the life God has chosen for me, in the vocation he has chosen to be mine.

But I would be lying if I said there were not days when I felt pushed to my limit, because, simply put, being a “medical mom” is hard. It’s really, really hard. And there are days (many days) when I wonder why exactly God chose me to handle this particular challenge.

Why did I have to be the one to bear this burden? Why couldn’t my neighbor or my coworker? Why couldn’t the person sharing this very sentiment?

That sounds harsh, and I don’t mean for it to be. I love my child deeply, but being a medical mom is not something I would wish for anybody.

It’s not that I want you to bear this instead of me—it’s that I want to know why it has to be mine in the first place.

And I know that’s something you cannot help me with. That is a question only God can answer. But I don’t necessarily want to be told that “God will never give me more than I can handle.”

What I would like is a reminder that God doesn’t need me to be strong or valiant. He doesn’t need me to act tough or pretend to be brave. He doesn’t need me to exude warriorlike confidence.

God doesn’t need me to have it handled. Because he does.

He has it handled—even as I’m frustrated or anxious, worn down or broken.

Share that with me. Share the pieces of Scripture that invite me to come to God when I’m feeling weary and burdened—the ones that focus on God’s strength rather than my own.

Offer words like the ones found in 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

Take the focus off me and place it all on him.

God doesn’t need me to have it handled. Because he does.

Share the words that let me give this battle to God—that allow me to put down the shield and drop the sword.

Give me the ones that will send me running into his everlasting arms.

Because I promise you, more often than not, those are the ones I need the most.

Megan Neisius

Author: Multiple authors
Volume 111, Number 08
Issue: August 2024

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