My eyes flew open, but all I saw was the panther-black blanket of night that covered our bedroom. I felt disoriented as I tried to understand why I had awoken. I knew something was amiss, but all I heard was tick, tock, tick, tock from the clock nearby.

How can a man sitting in the upper deck spot an offensive lineman moving an instant before the center snaps the ball, but not detect that his wife has dropped into the funk of depression? How can a person take corporate-sponsored sensitivity training but be blind to the fact that a loved one lives in fear of some nameless, faceless enemy? How can people get so concerned about the gnats buzzing around their heads that they often ignore the elephants bearing down on their significant others?

My heart seemed to stop. I held my breath, trying desperately to catch some movement or sound that would give me a clue about what was wrong. Tick, tock, tick, tock, sob, tock. There it was, 10 inches away from my head. Sherrie had stifled a cry in the night. Then I felt her whole body shake with the subtlety of an aspen leaf blown by a slight breeze. For 30 more seconds I listened to Sherrie’s internal struggle, partially out of curiosity and partially because I didn’t know how to help.

Man’s instinct is to solve the damn problem. The emotionless executive inside me wanted to bolt out of bed, flick on the light, set up a bedside flip chart, ascertain the situation, and gain consensus for a four-step action plan designed to solve the problem. “There, that’s settled. Now let’s see if we can get a little more shut-eye before sunup.”

I kept the light off and my mouth shut. After a while, though, I rolled over and faced my wife, silently wrapping my arms around her like a child hugging a favorite teddy bear.

In this era of The Rational Man and Woman, when the mind rules, we often forget the power of simple, non-sexual touch. Mother Teresa once said, “We can do no great things; only small things with great love.”

When I made Sherrie my teddy bear, her muffled weeping turned into thunderous sobs combined with torrential tears. I continued to squeeze her, saying nothing. After 30 seconds the downpour of tears turned into steady rain, then sprinkles, then the calm after the storm, then sleep. Throughout the whole time, our lips and bodies remained still.

I am a full-time communication pro, making speeches and writing essays for a living. My mouth sprints at the microphone and my fingers fly on the keyboard. But my greatest communication achievement occurred on a still, dark night when no words slipped through my lips. In the years that have passed since that night, I never asked Sherrie why she was crying and she never felt the need to tell me.

Just before her steady, slow breathing tugged me back to sleep, I gave her one more gentle squeeze. We would make it through the night and face tomorrow.