FROM THE PULPIT: When words are not enough

IT WAS 1989. Anfield Football Ground. The aftermath of the Hillsborough disaster. Ninety-six lives had been taken away. Words are scarce. Phrases started, but rarely finished. Sentences had ceased to exist.

People said it with flowers. Flowers placed reverently, lovingly, gently, tearfully on the hallowed football pitch.

They started at the Top End. In the goalmouth. On the terracing. Cheering had long died. Dancing had turned into mourning. And still the flowers came, covering half the pitch.

Relatives of victims, witnesses of Hillsborough, fans, and Liverpudlians paid their respects. Silently walking around the pitch.

Some sat on the terracing, heads bowed. Others held a hand or embraced a friend. Many offered their most precious possession as a gift - their red and white scarf.

There were sacred moments, aware of a greater presence. Some would have recognised God there. Many instinctively prayed who never entered a church.

My role was with the bereaved, the survivors, the shell-shocked. It meant coming alongside the distressed fan, sharing the numbness of someone who had lost a friend.

I asked them: "What did happen? Why them?" realising with them: "It could have been me!"

In the players' lounge counsellors, clergy and footballers mixed with the shocked and grieving. We sat at tables searching for words, struggling to express unformed thoughts. What use could we be to them?

1999. A hospital bed. A woman is dying. A mother? Grandmother? Wife? Sister? Daughter? Friend? Her family have gathered. It's only a matter of time.

Unable to communicate, her eyes are closed. She is rarely conscious. Someone strokes her hair. They hold her hand but it no longer responds. Every last breath is silently monitored.

The anticipated end is still a shock. It affects every people differently. One person is overcome, openly expressing grief. Another is numbed, struggling to take it all in, unable to respond.

A third is matter-of-fact, busy with practicalities, hiding hurt in activity, determined to check emotions in until after the funeral.

Each copes differently. One appears to cope, suppressing pain, but suffers the effects later.

To each, life now feels incomplete. The emptiness is unavoidable. Life will never be the same. To accept reassurances that they "will get over it" would seem disloyal to the departed.

They struggle to make sense of it. Something deep within fights the conclusion that this is it, life over, oblivion meaningless.

How could we help?

Firstly, being there for them. we will never find the right words. Words cannot take away the pain or remove the loss. But efforts to acknowledge them and their grief are appreciated.

Grieving people can often feel ignored, not because of their embarrassment, but ours. But don't smother or intrude.

One salvationist at Anfield just opened his arms wide. He lovingly enveloped a whole family in a caring hug. If God had arms I think he would do the same. Maybe they were his arms.

Secondly, listening - but without trying to provide solutions. At Anfield Britain's costliest footballer sat alongside mourning relatives in genuine compassion, honesty and humility.

To think he had come to them and was listening meant so much. If God came to us in Jesus Christ, then he knows about human loss and tears.

Thirdly, providing hope. We need to acknowledge the past and the future. Hearing about what happened, the past and the person is vital.

But the present has to be lived and eventually the future anticipated.

Liverpool Football Club acknowledged the value of those ninety- six lives. Their names endure. They are also part of its present and future, a memorial plaque gracing their modern stadium.

People live on - in our lives, in their influence and legacy. But there is an eternal, spiritual dimension.

The Bible says so, but something instinctive within us says it too. Contrary to what some people think - death is not the end of life or hope.

They may think its all over. But it's not.

Copyright 1999 MGN LTD
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