Enter, sit down, listen. The word and prayer come afterward — and knowing when to leave is part of knowing how to visit.
The visitor's temptation is to fill the space: to reassure quickly, to teach, to pray in order to close. Resist. Sit down and listen — truly, at length. The person has opened the door of her home to you; she will open the door of her heart only if she senses that you are not rushing off elsewhere. Baxter, who visited all of Kidderminster house by house, said that you teach best a heart you have first heard.
Once you have been spoken to, a word may come: a Scripture, not a chapter; a sentence, not a speech. The right word is short, fitted to this person, this day. If you do not know what to say, do not fill the silence: “I have no answer, but I am here” is worth more than a fine, hollow phrase.
Offer prayer, do not impose it (“would you like us to pray?”). Pray for this person, taking up what she has just confided to you, in her own words — not an interchangeable formula. A short, heartfelt prayer consoles more than a long, general one.
A visit has a right length, and it is shorter than one thinks. The visit that drags on wears out and ends up wearying. Leave while they still wish you would stay, not when they are waiting for you to go. A clean departure, a word of blessing, and you leave the home to its peace.
Everything said in the person's home stays in the person's home. A confidence is not an anecdote to be passed on, even “to pray about it,” even to your spouse. The day the community learns that a confidence has leaked out from you, no one will open their heart to you again. (See the sheet “The ethics of the visit.”)
A complete visit holds together in six gestures — not a checklist, but a framework so that nothing essential is missing.
After J. Arrais, “Wanted: A Good Pastor” (GC Ministerial Association, 2011), ch. 8.