A Bottle of Care

We stopped hugging and shaking hands in church a couple weeks ago. It was the most loving (and wise) thing to do. But, a hug or reaching a hand out seems to communicate care in ways that I'm not as good at with words. I need to find out ways to do that better with words. I need to do that regardless of coronavirus, because some people don't like to shake hands or hug and I want them to know that I care about them too.

I feel this similar inadequacy when people are grieving. I don't have nothing to say, but most of the time the words I can think of just fall short and feel trite. I am good at being empathetic. I cry regularly when other other people are sad. But I try not to let them know that, because I don't want to steal their time to be sad. I think of them often and try to imagine what they are going through and the complexities of their loss and all of the subsequent losses, but that seems like a weird thing to tell someone who is grieving, and again, like you're trying to steal their grief that rightfully belongs to them. But I do wish I could bottle up the love and the care that I have for people and then just hand them that. Because a card doesn't quite do it. Or a phone call. Or even a hug. Or a serious look on your face. It's all trite. I'm not saying we should stop doing those things. We shouldn't, they're the only things we have. But, it would be really nice if we could just put all the love in a mason jar and hand it over with a flower. And then, when they'd open it up, they could just feel your love and gratitude and empathy and sypathy and care and then they'd know that you're with them. Maybe you could set it on a timer for a certain amount of seconds. The less touchy feely people would probably just prefer a card, or like a 1 second care-bottle.