I still have the note I began taking during the call.
Nov. 21.
3:59.
Tom.
Chris has been shot.
Before those words, I thought I knew why Tom was calling.
He ran a motorcycle shop with his twin brother, Tim. I knew him as a friend of my son Chris. He had called before about Public Service Announcements for a fundraiser his beard club was doing. With Thanksgiving and Christmas approaching, I assumed this would be another one of those conversations.
We had people at the radio station that afternoon recording Advent devotionals. Local ministry leaders were lending their voices to messages we would air throughout December. It was familiar work, with familiar people, centered on sharing hope.
Then the phone rang.
When I returned toward the main studio, Laura looked at me through the observation window. I motioned that I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t concentrate, either. I wasn’t sure what to do next, or what I ought to stop doing.
My son had been shot. He would not survive.
I’ve been revisiting that afternoon while working on a book. Writing about it reminds me how quickly an ordinary conversation can become the dividing line between the life someone knew and the life they must now learn to live.
It has also made me think about the people standing on the other side of the window.
Most of us will eventually be there. Someone we know will receive the diagnosis, lose a spouse, bury a child, or discover that a relationship they trusted has fallen apart. We’ll see their face and realize something has happened that we cannot fix.
What do we do?
We often worry about finding the right words. That concern can become so consuming that we say nothing, make no call, and quietly give someone space they never asked for.
Romans 12:15 gives us a remarkably practical instruction: “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”
Notice how much that asks of us. Mourning with someone means allowing their sorrow to interrupt our day. It means listening without steering the conversation toward our own experience. It means accepting that we may leave without having made them feel better.
There are useful things we can do. Bring a meal. Offer a ride. Handle a task. Ask, “Would you like company?” Then follow through.
And remember them after everyone else returns to normal. Grief rarely follows the schedule of the people watching it.
I’ve spent much of my life communicating. Words matter to me. But some of the most necessary things we communicate arrive through a chair pulled close, an unhurried visit, or a phone call that doesn’t require the hurting person to reassure us.
Think of someone whose life has changed recently. Reach out with one specific offer of help this week. Give them permission to answer honestly, including saying no.
You don’t have to understand everything they’re carrying to help carry something.
Their world has stopped. Your willingness to stop beside them can make a difference.