When our boys were toddlers, I spilled hot tea on my lap in the car, resulting in second degree burns on my thighs. The doctor assured me that they would heal just fine, but then they didn’t, at least not completely, and I had to have a skin graft. It was outpatient surgery, so my in-laws kept our boys, and my parents and husband accompanied me to the outpatient surgery center.

Though it was a simple enough surgery, I was worried. Would there be a complication? Would my boys be OK? On top of my own fretting, the surgery center was running late. My original surgery was scheduled for the morning; by afternoon, I still was waiting. The nursing staff had given me a relaxant and hooked up the IVs. My husband went to grab lunch with my dad, and my mother came back to sit with me.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“Just talk to me,” I told her. And my mom proceeded to talk, telling me about what she had done that week, what my extended relatives were up to, and what plans she had for the next day. Her talk distracted me, but more importantly, it assured me that life keeps going, that this moment will pass and another will take its place.

I remembered that comfort years later when my mother-in-law, in the last stages of Alzheimer’s disease, was bedridden and noncommunicative. I would visit her each week to see how she was, and I would sit with her. “Well, Joan, today I did three loads of laundry, and I cleaned the bathroom,” I would tell her. “You know those tulips we planted? They’re coming up again. They look beautiful.” Her hands would move through the air, as if they were picking imaginary flowers. “The kids are looking forward to Easter. You know how they love that candy!” Joan said nothing, but I knew that she knew I was there. I told her nothing of importance, but everything I said was important. It helped her know she was not alone, just like my mom helped me all those years before. Sometimes we think don’t have much to offer, no wise words to say, but our presence shouts hope in volumes.