Billy Crystal recently mentioned that he has stopped communicating with God, saying, “No, ’cause I don’t trust Him,” during an interview with a CBS correspondent. This comes after his home was destroyed in a fire in the Pacific Palisades, and the tragic murder of his longtime friends, Rob Reiner and Michele.
If you were there in person when he said that, how would you respond?
We often approach someone in grief with our own judgments before truly understanding their story. We offer our solutions and then move on, leaving them still in pain—and perhaps now burdened with guilt for feeling the way they do.
I posed this question during my radio show, as I believe there may be others who might eventually feel comfortable sharing their hardship with us. Perhaps a neighbor who has lost a child, or someone who has sat vigil by a hospital bed only to return home alone. Would we truly listen to their pain, or would we simply begin to formulate our responses?
For the past 40 years, I’ve been caring for my wife, Gracie. Her struggles began long before we met. Throughout her life, she has endured numerous surgeries—98, to be exact—and has lost both legs. Along this journey, we’ve encountered many who’ve felt compelled to tell us how we ought to feel or what we should believe about God, with some seemingly oblivious to the burdens we carry.
Rush Limbaugh once coined the term “drive-by media” to describe journalists who swoop in, sensationalize a story, and then depart, leaving others to deal with the aftermath. Are we at risk of doing the same with our ministry?
We come to others’ griefs armed with conclusions before they’ve even begun to share. We provide our answers and then leave, often leaving them to wrestle with their emotions alone. It takes significantly more effort to sit down and listen.
Job’s friends got it right, at least initially. They sat in silence with him for a week because they recognized the depth of his suffering. Most of us would have trouble giving someone even seven uninterrupted minutes.
The Bible acknowledges human sorrow. David writes in Psalm 13, “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?” Those feelings are valid, and it’s essential that we provide space for others to express similar sentiments as they sit across from us. Ultimately, David remembered God’s unfailing love, yet the psalm resonates with his sadness along the way.
During my time in a prosthetic clinic in Ghana, I learned firsthand the challenge of truly connecting with someone in pain. Through Standing With Hope, created by Gracie after her own losses, we’ve been providing prosthetic limbs in Ghana for over two decades.
In one early visit, a young Nigerian man came in wearing a prosthesis. Since our team was busy, I ended up sitting with him. There was a language barrier, and finding an interpreter proved difficult. I gestured for him to take off his prosthesis and the liner covering his residual limb.
The odor hit me hard. My eyes watered, and a colleague, standing several feet away, moved back. I was worried about potential infection, but nothing was visibly wrong. The issue seemed to stem from a lack of proper hygiene. My attempts to explain what he needed to do were going nowhere.
I learned he was Muslim, which made me reflect, especially in the context of recent events not long after September 11. I didn’t know if he held animosity towards my beliefs, but I did know he was in need of help with his prosthesis.
So, I found clean water, soap, and a towel and demonstrated how to clean his limb and liner. While doing this, my own discomfort from the initial smell turned into tears as I contemplated the enormity of Christ’s sacrifice for me.
In that moment, I realized that my own shortcomings were far more significant and required something much more profound for relief. It was only through His grace that I could be cleansed.
Being present with someone in pain can often leave us feeling inadequate. Whether they are facing physical or emotional trauma, our instinct may be to fix things or propose solutions. However, their sorrow might last far longer than our words can address.
When Jesus approached Lazarus’ grave, He wept, even knowing He would raise him from the dead. This event should influence how we interact with those whose emotions are laid bare before us.
I deeply desire that those who are grieving come to know Christ—the Savior who carried our burdens and triumphed over death. And as I share about Him, I want to reflect on how graciously He has dealt with me in my own moments of weakness.
Frankly, I don’t understand why Crystal’s home burned or the circumstances surrounding his friends’ deaths. However, hearing his story makes me want to pull up a chair, look him in the eye, and say, “Tell me about your friends.” Then, I want to listen—truly listen—until I understand.
This requires a commitment of time and perhaps even a greater emotional investment than we anticipate. My decades beside Gracie have shown me that some pain will still exist long after the conversations end. Yet, the motivation to continue showing up remains strong.
He didn’t just drive by; He chose to come close.
