A story is told about newlyweds that had their first fight. The husband felt terrible and desperately turned to his rabbi for advice. The rabbi advised that he buy a large bouquet of flowers and present it to his wife the second he steps in the door.
As instructed, the young man dutifully complied. When he handed over the bouquet he said, “My rabbi told me to buy you this.”
I wonder if this story is true, but I am certain of the veracity of the following. A close friend of mine died suddenly, and during the shiva someone asked the widow, “How long has your husband had a weight problem?”
These two anecdotes bring to mind the advice that Rabbi Joseph Telushkin often offers in the name of the late Jewish humorist Sam Levenson. “It’s not hard to be wise. Just think of something stupid to say and don’t say it.”
I have encountered many people who would benefit from this advice. What got me thinking about this was a lecture I heard from military historian Dan Carlin concerning Operation Galvanic (the Marine invasion of Tarawa in the Central Pacific) in November 1943. The landing was a catastrophe with a staggering ratio of casualties to time and territory gained; nearly 1,000 Marines killed and over 2,000 wounded in just 76 hours of fighting for an island half the size of New York’s Central Park.
The military planners had assumed that dropping six million pounds of ordnance on Tarawa would have done the trick, but when the Marines waded through the water with their rifles over their heads, they were mowed down by 100 Japanese machine guns crisscrossing the water. The soldiers who miraculously made it ashore over the jagged coral reef and through the barbed wire that encircled the island had to contend with eight-inch guns trained upon them, with no dense jungle, boulders or shrubs to conceal them.
Western Union telegrams were sent to 985 families beginning, “The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret…” The follow up letter often said that the marine casualties on Tarawa will end up saving marine lives later in the war by teaching invaluable lessons regarding how to conduct amphibious warfare.
What cold comfort this must have been to the bereaved families and the 2,193 wounded! The proof is that Admiral Nimitz received many letters saying, “You killed my son at Tarawa.”
The heartless insensibility of the War Department is quite a contrast to what we described in our podcast Teller From Jerusalem (Season Four, Episode Two) entitled “Casualty Ambassadors” in our interview with Rabbi Steven Weil, CEO of Friends of the IDF. So how best to comfort those undergoing hardship? Caveat: I am neither a therapist or a pulpit rabbi, nor have I consulted or researched books or manuals; I am proposing common sense.
Oversimplification into a “silver lining” can never justify or compensate for a loss. Telling a grieving family that their son’s death “helped improve military tactics” is insensitive, even if factually true. It’s a telling example of how technically accurate statements can be emotionally tone-deaf.
Comforting means focusing on the present grief rather than on future benefits, which is why consoling over a mishap by offering that it is a kappara or “This will make you stronger…” is ineffective solace. Likewise, after a promising relationship curtails, commenting “There are plenty of fish in the sea” is no consolation at the moment. Validate emotions first before offering solutions or perspectives.
In most cases, people don’t desire us to fix their problems or provide perspective, they wish us to acknowledge their feelings and show that we care about their experience.
Address the specific disappointment, rather than pontificating generic statements. Better to say, “Please tell me about Nechama” or, “I can pick up your kids today if that would help,” rather than the amorphous, “Let me know if you need anything…”
When a colleague experiences a career setback, callous comments would be, “At least you still have a job, look at it as a learning experience, it’s not the end of the world,” while a positive remark would be, “Oish for your frustration, what support would be most helpful right now?”
Remember to avoid minimizing and don’t compare their situation to others or suggest, “At least it’s not…”
What if someone trained hard for a race and finished with disappointing timing? What if a hostess diligently prepared to entertain guests and the meal was undeniably not tasty?
In both instances a tactful response will acknowledge the effort and intention, “I know this wasn’t the outcome you wanted, but I admire how you pushed through;” “Thank you for putting so much effort into hosting us. It means a lot that you wanted to share this meal with us.”
Do not minimize the disappointment, find genuine positives without being insincere, show appreciation for the attempt rather than just the outcome, and do not offer unsolicited advice. Poor responses (and they are limitless!) would be: “At least you finished! There’s always next year; It’s the thought that counts,” or pretending it was delicious when it wasn’t.
The mindset that it is an art to say the right thing at the right time, allows people to think that just as they aren’t an artist, they do not posses this skill set. Most everyone is endowed with common sense.
I have a book of true stories (It’s a Small Word After All) composed of people who knew how to say exactly the right thing at the right time. Here’s one that should have made it into the collection.
Decades ago, there was a wedding in Brooklyn and the father of the bride commissioned an artist to make a stunning ketuba. The cost was exorbitant, but it was a piece of art, precisely what the kallah and her father desired. The mesader kiddushin glanced at the ketuba summarily and disqualified it.
According to Reb Yossie Oestrich (who I met in Camp HASC and who had witnessed the event) there appeared to be smoke emerging from the father of the bride’s ears, his face was explosive red – not the ideal frame of mind for your daughter’s wedding.
Rav Pam who was present predicted (as did everyone) the convulsion that was about to erupt and went over to the father and whispered something in his ear. In a flash there was a reset and he resumed being a joyful father at his daughter’s wedding.
Oestrich simply could not contain his curiosity and asked the father what Rav Pam had said to him? He replied something to the effect that “This is your omen that there will never be a need to write a second kesuba for your daughter.”
