Giving Comfort
Oct 30 2010


You sit at the side of the bed
fuss with the covers
reach for the pale hand
that feels like a tiny captive bird,
hollow-boned
resting limply.

You are unsure what to say
why you came
who is this person, really?
And when can you make your escape
not seem ungracious.

You want to give comfort.
You were told your presence alone
was enough.
You remember how hard
it is to take;
so why isn’t giving
easier?

You watched the tears roll down
the smeared makeup,
how she would not brush them away.
Remember the salty taste
that burned, almost sweetly.
Still feel bruised knees
and awkward hugs,
stiffening up
with manly resistance.

You hate hospital visits.
The friends of parishioners
you are asked to see,
people of little faith
who want to believe.
You wish you were as generous
and forgiving
as you preach.
Not a hypocrite, so much
as somehow incomplete.

No wonder
a man like you
has such meagre comfort to give,
who hardly feels comfortable
in his very own skin.


I was listening to a talking book version of Marina Endicott’s “Good to a Fault”. (I apologize if I misspelled her name.) One character is a very conflicted Anglican priest, who has had a recent trauma in his personal life. This poem began with him in mind.

I like this idea of giving comfort simply by being there. Sometimes, we agonize about doing the right thing, when all that’s really needed is being present.

I also like the idea that it can be harder to take comfort than to give it. After all, taking any offering, any gift, should be easy. But pride and shame can get in the way. While, on the other hand, the magnanimity of giving can more than repay the giver. (Altruism, after all, has been programmed into us by thousands of years of natural selection.)

The man in the story is not comfortable in his own skin. And generosity to others is impossible if you are incapable of being generous (acceptance, forgiveness) to yourself.

I suppose it would seem odd for me – a militant(!) atheist – to be inhabiting the persona of a clergyman. But this is the kind of clergyman I like: more prone to doubt (even if it is self-doubt) than sanctimonious conviction.