Breathe in Deep

It's June 14! my student exclaimed. It doesn't rain in winter; how does it rain now?

He stood by the narrow French window that opened sideways, peering out at the midsummer downpour. 

Can you smell the ground when it rains, Miss?

I smiled. Yes, it smells good.

He was worried the rain would last through lunchtime and they wouldn't be able to walk home after class. I reassured him that it would soon pass; I could see patches of blue off in the distance over the city's skyline. After a couple more moments of gazing at the rain, he returned to his seat to finish typing his cause-effect essay. 

I leaned against the wooden desk and breathed in deeply. This time, the falling rain didn't hint at African summer. Instead, I was transported to a misty Netherlands, looking out the bay window in my uncle's rijtjeshuis, as the crisp air filled my lungs. It smelled clean. 

I missed the Netherlands. I really really missed the Netherlands. Going back and forth for so many years, there for summers, holidays, I didn't understand the strong bond we were building until I went there with a boy. We signed civil papers in front of my two sets of aunts and uncles, danced a Kurdish dance with my 95-year old Oma, ate Dutch apple pie with whipped cream, and whisked through 5 countries in 10 days on our Airbnb honeymoon. 

It was only then that I realized. The Netherlands was my home. 

Will I end up resenting it when I go there? I wondered. I'd returned to Lebanon after so many years, only to find that I could not live here. Would I feel the same if I went to the Netherlands? 

I couldn't know for sure. I just knew that I ached to be there, walking the cobbled stone uneven sidewalks, pedalling with the week's groceries in saddlebags on each side, boiling potatoes and green beans to serve with gravy and applesauce for supper, and breathing in the crisp cold fall air. 

But we still had 7 years to go. Seven long long years. I'd made it through 6 here but the last 18 months had felt impossible. Could I manage another 7?

A glimpse of a life I had not yet lived flashed by. It had been a long time since I'd updated my bucket list. Maybe now it was time. Maybe this time, it would only include a few simple things. A small girl, a miniature bicycle leaning against potted plants in the window display, a smiling content husband. And lots of clean fresh air. 

 

Green Eggs and Spam

Grocery stores are out of bread again. On the way to do the weekly shopping, I pause at a bakery we'd stopped at the week before. They bake bread fresh every hour so I grab a couple of bags, add a few more new items to try, and head to the checkout. 

A little more than 120,000 lighter, I am about to head out when I remember they sell manaeesh here. I turned around and head to the back of the bakery where, behind a counter, little rows of savoury pastries beckon. An older man with a cane hobbles ahead of me to the cashier, there to pick up the order he'd called in before. I wait patiently. 

The cashier goes behind the counter to retrieve the paper bags of treats, stapled shut to keep the warmth inside. He starts to ring up the older man's order when I notice a man with his young daughter off to the side. They've just arrived and, before the older man's order is finished, the father starts giving his order to the cashier. I stare at him, surprised that he would so easily step around me and start ordering. Does he not see me standing there? 

I continue to stare at the man. He looks back, meeting my gaze, with a blank look. I know he knows he's done wrong but he refuses to acknowledge it. I stand there for 10 seconds more, then something inside me snaps. 

I don't have to put up with this, I realize. 

So I don't. 

I turn on my heel instantly and march out of the store. I've been out of the house for less than an hour and already I've reached my limit for the day. 

But it's not over yet. 

At the grocery store, I scan my receipt after checking out and realize the 25% cash back is not showing up. I hand the bagger a 5,000 tip and wheel my unwieldy cart over to the customer service center. There aren't many people there so I move into line behind a young man and wait patiently for my turn. 

Then suddenly, things are happening very quickly. The small area fills up with a rush of customers, there to buy a pack of cigarettes, a couple of Cadbury creme eggs, to redeem points for a yellow Lipton mug. And they are all pushing past me, each one eager to be next as soon as a customer service rep is available. 

Amidst the maelstrom of pushing, shoving people, I realize I must collect myself and move forward. Or I will stay there all day. I reposition myself, this time behind a lady who is nearly done with her request. I take a step forward but a young man with his mother are half a step ahead of me. I turn and firmly say, Excuse me, but I was here first. They step back, surprised someone would interrupt their forward momentum. 

After waiting for what seems like an eternity, a representative arrives from the frozen foods section. He takes one look at my receipt, spits out It must be a computer problem, the only thing we can do is refund you and hurries off again. I stand there, wondering why it must be so difficult to deliver on the promise they had plastered all over their vegan products section, in bold black letters, proclaiming 25% Cash back on Vegan Deli. I decide it must be because either 1) they didn't specify clearly which vegan deli items qualified and it must have been only the more expensive ones, or 2) they are lazy and can't be bothered. Most likely it's the second. 

Now I must wait again for the customer service rep who first helped me as she has decided to multi task and help the next person in life. Finally, she rings up the refund as I turn to see a couple of teenagers standing next to my cart, one of them leaning casually on the handle as if it belongs to him. Excuse me, I say as I glare at him and maneuver my cart away from him and closer to me. I mumble to myself, This is not your cart. 

Finally, I have my refund and I can go to my car and head for home. It's been just another day of madness in this Dr. Seuss world that I cannot find my way out of. 

1, 2 Buckle My Shoe

What he said, my student grinned as I waited for him to give an example of an effect of people quitting their job. It was summertime and my students and I were stuck inside a classroom for 2 hours a day 5 days a week doing our best to get through the Advanced Writing curriculum. I was at my wits end to figure out how to challenge and focus 3 teenage boys, two of whom insisted on giggling or trading barbs a good part of the time. Every time I asked F a question, he would grin lazily, appear to be thinking for a moment, then reply, What's your answer? or look at his counterpart giggler B, who was always first to answer, and say, What B said. 

I always started a semester with a more lenient attitude as I got to know my students and figured out how best to teach to their learning and personality styles. This time, however, it was not the best of ideas. Once they realized I would let them chatter away, they started to take advantage of it. By the second week, my patience was thinner than a tightrope walker's lifeline. 

Then the rope snapped. 

F was turning on the a/c and somehow it struck him as funny so the two started giggling again. S was trying to give his answer and I couldn't even hear him over their laughing. Suddenly, I got very serious and my tone of voice changed. 

Guys, this is enough. I need you to focus. S is speaking and I cannot hear him. I feel like I am in kindergarten. You are giggling all the time. 

But Miss, Miss, F said, interrupting me as he tried to reason why they were giggling so much. 

I am speaking now, you do not need to speak at the time as I am speaking. You need to be quiet and you need to listen. I spoke firmly and clearly. We just have 2 hours every day. You can get up and walk around; go to the bathroom, get a drink of water. I know life is difficult outside but for just these two hours you need to be in the classroom and you need to be present and focus. Even if you don't want to be here, you have to sit in the classroom for these next 5 weeks, I'm trying to give you as much information as I can to prepare you for your academic classes. 

I looked at them and solemnly declared, I've reached my limit. 

S sat quietly in the front, an embarrassed smile playing in the corners of his mouth. He knew he wasn't to blame. F and B were shocked into silence; surprised that their easygoing teacher had suddenly switched into a strict one. 

Luckily, it was breaktime, so I informed them that they had a 10 minute break, not 13 minutes like they had dragged out the day before, I grabbed a granola bar, and I left the classroom. Usually I would stay inside as it was cooler and I would check my phone or catch up on some emails. This time, though, I headed through the parking lot to the volleyball court. There I marched about the court, munching furiously on my granola bar as I sent a long voice message to my supervisor. Just the day before, she'd been telling me my students loved my class but I was frustrated and I needed to know if it was only me.

My supervisor was quick to answer and by the end of the break I understood that it wasn't only me who had faced this challenge with F and B and that being firm was the only way to go. I headed back to the classroom where three quiet subdued boys worked studiously on finishing up their reaction-response essay for the rest of the class period. 

The next day, though, while the giggling had disappeared and the taunts had been reduced to a manageable minimum, the decided effort not to participate became even clearer. I prided myself on being the type of teacher that went the extra mile but in this case, the extra mile was being scoffed at. I showed them a 5-minute video of a flash flood in Papua to illustrate cause and effect, the next type of essay we were going to learn. When it came time to discuss, F, who was sitting in the back of the classroom, yawned and said, I wasn't really focusing. I gave up. 

At the end of class, I handed out a worksheet with small illustrations under which they had to circle "cause" or "effect" and then list 3 of them that corresponded to the photo. F started laughing. Where is Seder? he blurted out, referring to the toddler who often accompanied his father who worked in maintaining the campus lawns. B started to whine. Why can't we watch a video?

Because we watched a video at the beginning of class and now it's time to do the worksheet. After a couple of minutes, they finally settled down and started to work on writing in their answers. 

Over lunch that day, I told my husband, That's it. I'm done. I'm done trying to make the class interesting. From now on, I'm just going to teach the book. No more videos; no more worksheets; no more Jeopardy vocab games. If they feel bored or want to make fun of what I'm giving them, let them see. I will challenge them; let's see how they really do. 

They were intelligent; I knew that. The problem was that they thought they knew more than they really did, they didn't want to be in class, and they had a pretty good idea of how they would teach the class which they were constantly telling me. It was wearying. Tiring to put in effort to make the class interesting, tiring to keep bringing them back into focus, and tiring to keep asserting my place as teacher and authority both in the classroom and on the subject of writing. 

Until now, as a teacher, I'd been learning curriculum instruction, integration of spiritual with the academic, content, and organization. Now, I was learning the very valuable yet perhaps most difficult lesson of all—classroom management. I was having to shift very quickly from being the likeable teacher to the firm one and it was not a fun feeling to have. But I knew that if we were going to make it to the end of the summer session, it was essential that some form of order was established, so I accepted the challenge. It was time to learn. 

In Only a Moment

Crash, crunch echoed through our small living room as I watched the ornate burgundy saucer shatter into 4 large pieces and a thousand splinters more. 

What is wrong with me? I sat down helplessly on the gray blue sofa, tears immediately appearing. Two days ago I broke the glass charcoal bottle and now this. I wasn't usually this clumsy. Was it because I was under a lot of stress lately? I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry. 

My husband reassured me that he could fix the saucer and not to worry about it. His mother had sent us a set of 6 the year before when his sister had gone home for the summer. I'd carefully placed them in a place of honour in the cupboard and brought them out each time we had a cup of tea or hot chocolate. They had survived tea around the bonfire and countless trips from the kitchen to the living room, and now this. 

I was reaching for the bag of nuts to refill my bowl when it happened. It was movie time and we were having our usual snack of the evening, this time it was mixed nuts a friend had so kindly given us when they dropped by to visit and pray for my sister-in-law who was still in the hospital. After our first round, I wanted a few more nuts but the bag was on the other side of the coffee table. As I grabbed it, the bag swung out, pushing the small saucer right off the table and onto the cream tile floor. It never had a chance. 

Just like she never had a chance.  

Two days later, my husband sat down at the kitchen table, heavy duty glue in one hand and the broken saucer in the other. We'd retrieved the large pieces and found a couple more fragments and he set about to try to patch them together. I remembered the story of the mended teapot my friend who'd lived in Pakistan wrote about. The teapot that was purposely broken, then fit back together with metal staples that was then sold as a thing of beauty. Would the glue do the trick?

Ten minutes later, after rearranging and holding the pieces together, my husband stared at his attempt to fix it. There was a nicked edge whose piece we could not find though we had searched under the sofa, coffee table, and bookshelf. The saucer was so delicate that the glue ended up pushing the pieces apart instead of holding them tightly together. Finally, he admitted defeat. It won't work, he said. Let's throw it away and buy another one. 

I sat with that saucer in my mind. Like the saucer, my sister-in-law had shattered in large pieces with fragments scattered about. She was missing a piece of her that, like the sauce, wasn't essential to holding her together but now marred her internal appearance. Here was where the resemblance ended, however. 

Though the saucer could not be repaired, she could. I held on to the promise of Matthew 8:2 when a man with a serious disease came to Jesus and asked to be healed. If You are willing. . .he had pleaded with the only Healer he had hope in. 

Jesus' response? 

He reached out with His hand, touched the man, and said I am willing. And in that moment, instantly, the man was healed. 

My husband could not wave a magic wand and instantly restore the broken saucer to its original perfection. Similarly, doctors could not perform a few surgeries, administer some medications, and my sister-in-law would be walking and talking and breathing like before. 

But there is a promise. And there is hope. Whether this promise will be realized in this life, we as yet do not know. But we can hold on to the knowledge that Jesus is willing for her to be healed. And one day, in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye, He will reach forth and then, then she will be restored. To perfection. Forever.  

I close my eyes and I can see, the numbers march incessantly

1 avocado, 35,000
1 carton of milk, 37,500
1 package of cheese slices 39,900
1 bag of tomatoes, 62,500

I scanned the receipt, checking and rechecking the prices to make sure we were not paying more than we should for the paltry items sitting in the grocery cart. The cheapest fruit, other than oranges, was 52,000 for a kilo so we'd put 4 round-top peaches and 4 hard nectarines into a plastic bag and headed to the scales to weigh and price them. We can eat the apples we still have in the fridge, my husband said sadly. 

But what happens when we finish eating the stores of food we have? I wondered. Two years ago, we'd started the dance of stocking up. We'd bought up enough rice, pasta, and oil to last us several months. Last summer we'd calculated how much we'd need of all the dry staples and bought what we would need for 6 months. We were still using the oil but once we'd run out of the other staples, we had started to buy only what we needed for the next week or two. Now, everything was so expensive it made no sense to stock up anymore. Our local currency was just enough, if we were careful, to get us through the month with the basics. There were few luxuries. I calculated and recalculated item prices constantly, my longsuffering husband knowing by now that if I had to buy tissues, I would check whether the 200 pieces or the 300 pieces were cheaper and we were not going anywhere until I had satisfied myself that we were buying the most economical packet of tissues. 

How much is this suitcase in dollars? my husband asked, as he pulled one off the shelf to examine its make and quality. I pulled out my every ready smartphone and opened up the calculator app, only to stare at it without understanding. I don't know, I don't know how much the dollar is right now and I really don't care I said, as I closed my phone and headed to the personal hygiene section. 

A few minutes later, I was calculating tins of chickpeas to see which ones were cheaper when checking the drained weight. My husband spotted a good deal, but I remembered throwing out several of those tins when we'd last bought them because they were not preserved well. I reached for the next cheapest option. 

By the time we'd reached the bread section, my patience had run out. I'd been irritated from the moment I'd walked into the mall, as my husband, trying to cheer me up, had suggested we walk around the mall. There were too many people, most of them not wearing masks and breathing everywhere, and they were making too much noise. I stared straight ahead as we walked, wishing the time to pass quickly so we could get to the store and make our purchases. I hated the mask; it was too tight and in the summer heat it made it harder to breathe on top of making my face all sweaty. 

The cashier rang up our purchases agonizingly slowly, one by one. I'd never seen a slower cashier but I understood why the young man was not moving any faster. He, like me, had given up on life. He'd lost hope and was now simply existing. Why bother to be quick? It wouldn't change anything and it was probably taking all his energy just to do the basics. I wanted to say something encouraging but even I had run out of the will to perform. 

We went to the next grocery store. This one was quieter and cooler but the sticker shock still ran deep. I found my favourite granola bars on sale and put 10 of them in the basket. Some small consolation for the impossible task we were having to face. Again, no bread. 

On the way home, we spotted a bakery. Let's try there and see if they have bread, I suggested. My husband parked in front of a little business that was closed and we crossed the not-so-busy two-way street. Inside, we found bags of bread so fresh, the steam had just escaped the pillowy white loaves. The bakery had their own ovens and was still pumping out loaves in preparation for the next morning. We picked up 2 bags and headed to the counter where I noticed another man buying 3 bags. At least there was no limit on bread today. 

Our last stop was at a minimart where I'd picked out two ice cream sandwiches from the ice chest. Half vanilla and half chocolate sandwiched between the perfect chocolate crust, the sweet treat cheered us up as we drove the last few minutes home. 

We made it, I sighed inwardly as we pulled into the driveway, the neighbors' dog barking incessantly at our arrival. We made it for another week. I dreaded the thought of repeating it all over again a week later but knew that for now, at least, we had what we needed and wouldn't have to brave traffic again for any missing items. We would have boiled fava beans for a treat and I would make freshly squeezed orange juice from the leftover oranges in the fridge. 

But how much longer can this go on for? I wondered. How much longer can I manage this? 

I'm tired. 

How are you doing, really?

I’m angry, grumped out of my mouth as I’d stomped about the kitchen. We were cooking up a huge pot of dolmas but the water level was a bit too high so it was constantly bubbling over and splattering all around on the stove and floor. In a few hours guests would come over that I’d been putting off for nearly a week already. They wanted to come and pray with us. I understood why but it didn’t make me any happier.

Other people have perfectly clean houses but they also have someone staying home all the time who can cook and clean. They don’t think about these things. They don’t think about how when you’re not feeling well, you don’t have time to clean and tidy. I haven’t had time to myself this week to just sit and relax. Now I have to clean my house so people can come over and visit. So I’m angry.

My patient husband came over and looked at the wet floor. When the food finishes cooking, I can mop it, he said. He started organizing the bits and bobs on the kitchen table, then moved to the lounge. Realizing my grumpy mood wouldn’t change the fact that we would still have to tidy up, I started to help, picking up stray items and ferrying them to a pile on my bedroom dresser.

It looks much better now, doesn’t it? my husband proclaimed. I love you. Don’t be upset; I can help you and we can clean it up fast.

He was right. Together, we managed to make the house somewhat presentable. The day before, I had finally pushed myself to dust the living room and clean the bathroom after work. My husband had vacuumed, washed the steps, and done the dishes. Then we’d made up a batch of dolmas to take over to our friends.

I was wavering between emotions these days. The resident counselor whose small children attended the Cradle Roll Sabbath School class I taught had given me a huge hug afterward class. She’d reminded me that she was there for me professionally if I needed to talk and encouraged me to take care of my physical health to prepare for whatever lay ahead mentally and emotionally. I thanked her, knowing I didn’t need to talk yet but grateful she was there in case the worst happened. I was thankful for people who cared but at the same time I quickly got angry when it felt like they were being too intrusive.

I’m learning how to help others in similar situations, I told my husband as we lay on our adjoining sofas, relaxing at the end of a long uncertain week. Send them a message to tell them you’re praying for them, drop off an easy to eat dish and maybe give them a bit of money to help, give them a hug, let them know you’re there in case they need anything, and then Leave Them Alone. He nodded in agreement.

We came from vastly different backgrounds when it came to grief and loss in our cultures. His culture embraced the community, people coming together, sitting with you, driving hours to visit with you even if they were not immediate family or close family friends. In times of crisis, he knew he could count on so many people rallying together to help with food, money, a place to stay or any other number of things as the network expanded around the world.

I, on the other hand, while growing up in the same region as his, had not assimilated that part of the culture to the same extent as it came naturally to him. I swayed European for sure, valuing the spaces, politeness and reserve, calling ahead to make sure it was convenient to drop by. Support yes, but in a dignified demure manner, offered as needed but never pushed on the person.

So now, as we waited for news of my sister-in-law who still lay in critical condition in the hospital, we welcomed the community’s support but processed it in different ways. At first, I was thankful for the messages as each one signified another prayer to God to spare my sister-in-law’s life. They distracted me from dealing with the reality that it was a very serious situation and helped me feel a little less helpless. As I shared the oh-so-heavy burden with others, it didn’t seem so terrible to carry anymore.

As soon as I heard anything, I would send out updates via WhatsApp to the 110 or more people in my contact list. After the first few days, though, there were no more immediate updates. Now it was a matter of assessment and waiting. They didn’t understand that, however. Messages started to bombard me now at all hours of the day. How is she? Any updates? The any updates? part really got to me. I felt like I was their live social media feed, constantly being refreshed with the swipe of a thumb, for the latest news. And.I.Didn’t.Have.Any.News. I started to regret having informed so many people, though I knew it was important to activate prayer chains around the world to come together and intercede for my sister-in-law. But I didn’t know how to handle the barrage. So finally I told them.

I don’t have anything new for today. Of course I will send updates when we have updates available. But I am getting messages constantly asking me for updates and it becomes overwhelming to try to answer everyone. It makes me feel like I am people’s live Instagram feed and I cannot give information I don’t have. I understand everything wants to help and I really appreciate it. When we know anything significant, we will share. The best we can all help right now is to continue to pray for her. Thank you so much for your prayers.

I read and re-read my message, then pressed Send. To each of the people I’d been sending updates to. Some answered affirming my message and saying they would continue praying. Others respectfully read the message and didn’t respond. And finally the questions stopped coming. On WhatsApp.

They didn’t stop in-person though. Each day in the office, people would pass me, stop and ask how my sister-in-law was doing. Most of them were people in the WhatsApp group where I had sent the message, so it baffled me that it did not register that asking in-person was akin to asking via a message. I sighed inwardly, put on an appropriately somber face, and replied, Nothing new. Please continue to pray for her. Thank you for asking.

When they asked, How are you doing? I replied, Fine, thank you, or alternated with, I’m doing good, thanks. What else was I supposed to say? I was never going to say exactly how I felt, primarily angry that they were trying to invade into my world by asking questions as if they cared when they hadn’t cared before. I couldn’t cry on demand; I’d done my crying in private but was still operating somewhat in autopilot when it came to being emotional. I was trying to hold on to hope for now, hope that everything would be okay in the end, hope that her lungs would re-inflate, the bleeding in the brain would stop, and she would start breathing on her own again. Everything else could be fixed somehow, ribs mended on their own, a broken hand could be cast, she could live without a spleen. But if I would allow myself to truly feel the panic of the unknown, then I would not be able to function and I had to teach a class, work, clean a house, and feed a husband every day so I didn’t have time to think about how I really felt. So I retreated to the socially acceptable reply of Fine, thank you and hoped those who asked didn’t think I was heartless and cold.

I wondered if I would be angry if nobody asked. If nobody came to visit. If nobody dropped off food. I knew people genuinely wanted to help and realized that, like me many a time before when someone else was going through a difficult time, most probably they didn’t know how best to help. So I tried to be gracious and attribute the best of intentions to them but there were days where I felt like I had run out of patience. Days where the inquiries felt disingenuous at best; where I thought, You barely knew her name and said hello when you passed her on the sidewalk, why are you suddenly so interested in knowing all the details about her now? It felt like they wanted to know simply to satisfy their morbid curiosity.

One woman had asked my husband a question about my sister-in-law’s condition and then walked away before he had even had the chance to formulate an answer. When she returned, he said, Why did you leave before I answered the question? And she apologized, mumbling something about how busy she was, said I can listen now as she looked down, eyes glued to her phone, thumbs texting furiously. He finished his business and left, asking me later, Why do people even ask if they don’t want to know? He was right.

I realized I would have to decide on a standard answer and use that every time somebody asked how my sister-in-law was doing. An answer that would not invite new questions but would communicate enough so that people felt satisfied and would not insist more.

She’s still in the hospital in the same condition. We’re just waiting to see what happens.

It worked. I accepted that every day I would see one, or 6, or 8 people who would ask me how she was doing. I would have to answer them. But I would not have to do more than give a simple answer. It was all I could handle and it was enough for now. We would deal with the next hurdle when it came.

How to be present

We would like to come and pray with you. Let us know when is a good time to stop by, a friend texted. I smiled at their thoughtfulness. They knew we were caught up in the middle of a difficult time and, while wanting to support us, were understanding of our need for space to do what needed to be done. 

I will let you know when it's a good time, thanks so much for reaching out, I replied. As my sister-in-law continued to lie unconscious in the hospital, and the prayers, messages, and food poured in, I started to see a pattern and understand more about how to support others in their time of difficulty. So, for everyone's convenience, I decided to blog about it. 

What not to do when someone is going through a difficult time

• Don't show up unannounced unless you are a pastor. The family is most likely trying to coordinate a million and one details, depending on the situation, and having a steady flow of visitors coming through will tire them out and take their focus off helping the one who is in critical condition. 
• Don't stay long when you visit. 30 minutes is a good length of time. Any longer and again, you distract them as they are trying to answer calls and decide what is best for their loved one. 
• Don't share stories of other people you know who were in similar situations and died. That is super discouraging. If you haven't dealt with your own issues of loss, go talk to a counselor; don't burden a family already upset with your personal problems. 
• Don't tell them, This is a test from God as if that is supposed to make them feel better. They will more likely end up resenting God for the bad situation or you for trying to make God out to be a bad Being when all blame for evil rests rightly on the devil. 
• Don't message them one or multiple times a day asking, Is there any update? You may think you are showing your concern but the family are not your personal Instagram feed, providing updates in real-time each time you refresh the page. Just because we live in an instant world does not mean that life happens instantly. Especially in critical medical cases, some decisions have to be thought through carefully with all their implications and constant hounding of messages asking to be updated just frustrate those who are providing the updates. They will update you when and if they are able. 
• At the same time, don't ask them in-person the same question, as if every time you see them there will be something new to report. Say hello, give them an appropriate hug or handshake, remind them you are praying for them, pause appropriately for them to share if they want to, and if they are silent, take your leave. 
• Don't say, Oh, I cannot imagine how you are feeling right now. This must be so difficult for you. If you cannot imagine it, telling them that won't make them feel better. On the contrary, it will seem as if you are trying to put the focus on yourself and they will end up resenting you. Remember, they are operating with limited emotional supplies right now as they have to be strong for other family members. Instead, try saying something like, You are being very strong but if you need a listening ear, I am here for you. Or, You are doing an amazing job supporting your spouse during this difficult time. 
• Don't say, Oh, I wanted to stop by but I was busy doing x,y,z. This sounds like everything else is a priority over supporting the family who is going through a difficult time. Simply say, I'm thinking of you and praying for you. Would tomorrow afternoon be a good time to stop by?
• Don't tell them about your personal drama that you are going through right now. You probably have more than 1 friend other than the family, so talk to someone else if you need to talk. This is not the time to focus on your petty insecurities. Also, don't share random gossip or talk about topics that seem trite unless the person introduces the topic to distract themselves. If you initiate it, you will sound insensitive and uncaring, even if you mean well. You are not Dory; you can keep your attention on the one who is going through a difficult time for more than 15 seconds. 

Do try to do these things

• Give them a hug and say, I am here for you. If it's appropriate, remind them how much you love them. 
• Drop off a bowl of re-heatable food or salad. Healthy options are welcome as the family may not feel like cooking or have time to go grocery shopping. Don't worry about cooking something fancy; a simple plate of beans and rice is just fine. 
• Ask if there are any errands you can run for them. Maybe they didn't get a chance to pick up their dry cleaners or they are out of bread. 
• Send a message saying, We would love to come and visit and pray with you. When is good for you? This lets the family know you are there for them and, when they have some free time, they will be happy to invite you over. Don't worry if it takes them some time to reply; they know you are there and will let you know when it is good to visit. 
• Share some good memories about the person who is in critical condition. A funny story, a special moment, a deep spiritual interaction, all serve to either lighten the mood or encourage the family that the person is being remembered and they mattered to you. 
• Speak about the person in the present tense. Unless someone has passed away, it is insensitive to speak about them as if they have already died. Using the present tense helps the family to keep hope alive, rather than feeling like they should start grieving a death prematurely. 
• Share photos of the person with the family or post them on social media if appropriate. Seeing the photos will cheer them up immensely and they will probably save those photos to look at over and over during the difficult time. 
• Talk about random things here and there that are interesting or funny. These serve to break up the somberness of it all and help the family to shift their mood for a time away from the adrenaline of caring for the sick person.