Nobody joins a Pathfinder Club imagining this day. You plan campouts, rehearse the drum corps, chase down an Honor badge and supplies for the next meeting. And then, without warning, life hands you the hardest subject of all: an accident on the trail, a grave diagnosis that reaches one of your Pathfinders, the death of a member or of a parent. In that hour, the eyes of the whole Club turn to you.
This text will not make the moment light, because it isn't. What it does is give you solid ground. A roadmap built for when your mind freezes and your chest tightens, separating what gets settled in the first minutes from what gets cared for over the following weeks. It's about protecting the body first, then the soul, and never forgetting that you are a person who hurts too.
One warning before we begin: here we talk about care and human guidance. A real medical emergency has a number (in Brazil, SAMU 192), and it comes before anything you read on this page.
The first three steps, in the right order
When the worst happens, the human brain does a cruel thing: it either freezes or fires off in a thousand directions at once. The antidote to both is having a simple sequence memorized. In the moment you won't improvise well, so trust the order.
The first step is physical safety. Before comforting anyone, before making a call, before any words, look at the scene and ask: is anyone still at risk right now? In a fall on the trail, that means stabilizing the victim without moving them unnecessarily and pulling the other Pathfinders back from the edge. In a near drowning, getting everyone out of the water. In a sudden collapse, starting the first aid you learned and asking someone to go for help. If there is CPR training in the Club, this is when it's worth its weight in gold. The body comes before the conversation, always.
The second step is calling whoever needs to be called. Dial your local emergency number without hesitating (in Brazil, SAMU 192 or the fire brigade at 193); it's better to call and not need it than the other way around. Right after, notify the family of the person involved and the Club leadership. Keep the members' emergency contacts organized before you ever leave for any activity, because hunting for a phone number in the middle of the panic costs minutes you don't have.
The third step is controlling the information. Bad news travels fast, and distorted. Within minutes, a group of parents on their phones can turn a sprained ankle into an invented tragedy. Designate a single official voice (you or the Director) and ask that nobody else pass along details. To the Pathfinders, calmly say that there was a problem, that the adults are handling it, and that they'll know more soon. Well-managed silence protects; rumor wounds all over again.
How to break the news according to age
Telling someone that a person has died or fallen gravely ill is one of the hardest tasks there is, and it changes a great deal depending on the age of the listener. The rule that runs through every age group is a single one: tell the truth, in simple words, without dumping details that will leave scars. Truth and raw description are different things.
With the youngest ones in the Club, around ten or eleven, use direct and concrete words. Say that the person died, not that they traveled, fell asleep, or went to a better place with no explanation. Metaphors confuse and sometimes frighten more, because a child may start to fear sleep or travel. Avoid describing injuries, suffering, or the scene. One honest, short sentence, followed by a hug and a willingness to answer whatever they ask, does more than a speech.
With teenagers from thirteen to fifteen, you can be a little more open, because they already understand death as final and usually want to know what happened. Even so, spare the graphic details. They'll notice at once if you're hiding the essential or dressing it up, and trust breaks quickly at that age. Speak plainly, admit that you're shaken too, and make it clear that there's no wrong reaction: crying, staying quiet, getting angry, all of it fits.
One thing that holds for everyone: choose the setting. Heavy news isn't given in the middle of a line, in noise, in a hurry. Gather the group in a quiet place, seated, with Counselors nearby to support anyone who breaks down. And never let a Pathfinder go home alone carrying that; let the family know the news was given, so that the care continues at home.
Holding the pain without clichés
Once the news is given, the part with no roadmap begins: each person's pain. And here the well-meaning leader sometimes gets in the way while trying to help, because they blurt out set phrases that hurt instead of comfort.
Keep in mind what not to say. "It was for the best," "God wanted to take them," "now she's a little angel," "you have to be strong," "at least they didn't suffer." All of these phrases, said to fill the silence, send the message that the pain shouldn't be there. The grieving person doesn't need an explanation for the loss; they need company inside it. A child who hears "don't cry" learns that feeling is wrong, and that's the opposite of what you want to teach.
What works is simpler and harder at the same time: to validate. "How sad, I'm feeling this too." "You can cry, it's part of it." "I don't know what to say, but I'm here with you." Staying silent beside someone, a hand on their shoulder, communicates more love than any ready-made phrase. Crying is part of it; that's how the body works through the loss.
Open space for the questions, even the ones you can't answer. Teenagers will ask why God allowed it, what happens after death, whether the person suffered. Answering "I don't know, and it's okay not to know" is honest and respectful. Offer prayer as shelter, never as obligation: invite, don't force. A short, sincere moment of prayer, where each person can speak or simply be present, tends to unite the group and give the pain a place to breathe. Respect those who don't share the faith; the care comes before the belief.
Read alsoHow to recruit and retain counselorsCaring for the caregiver
There's a silent trap in crisis leadership: you get so busy holding everyone up that you forget you fell too. The leader who lost a Pathfinder, or who held the hand of a child injured on the trail, carries that for a long time. Pretending to be whole only pushes the bill forward, and it arrives larger.
Give yourself the same permission you give the Club. You can cry in front of the Pathfinders; seeing a trusted adult feel the loss teaches that feeling is human, not weakness. Then, find someone to share the weight: another Counselor, the Director, the pastor, a friend. No one was made to process tragedy alone, and leading was never a synonym for walking by yourself.
Watch for the signs that grief has turned into something bigger, in you and in the Pathfinders. Insomnia that won't lift, crying that won't ease after weeks, a child who has stopped eating or talking, a teenager who withdraws completely or speaks of not wanting to live anymore. In those cases, the Club's care isn't enough, and pushing on alone can even make it worse.
Know the path to a referral before you need it. Talk with the family about seeking a psychologist. Keep at hand the number for the CVV, 188, free and available at any hour for emotional support. If there is immediate risk to life, your local emergency number holds for the soul just as it does for the body. Referring someone is a gesture of humility: recognizing the size of what the person carries and calling in someone better prepared to help.
Resuming the routine at the right time
After the blow comes the practical question of when the Club goes back to normal. The answer doesn't fit on a calendar date; it depends on a sensitive reading of the group. Coming back too soon feels cold; taking too long leaves the pain without ground and without a structure to lean on.
Routine, in the right dose, is medicine. Reuniting with friends, having predictable hours, returning to a meeting with a beginning, middle, and end gives back a sense of safety to those left disoriented by the loss. It doesn't mean pretending nothing happened. It means resuming the activities with room for the subject to surface whenever it surfaces. A well-thought-out meeting plan can open with a moment of remembrance and move on to something that brings lightness, without rush and without guilt.
Marking the loss in a concrete way helps close cycles. A board with messages, a tree planted at the campground, a candle lit at a meeting, a minute of silence before the drum corps. Simple rituals give the kids and teenagers a way to say goodbye without depending on words alone. Let them take part in the idea; shared grief weighs less.
Keep an eye on the days that will hurt again: the person's birthday, the date of their passing, the first campout without them. Pain comes back in waves, and that's normal. A leader who remembers those dates and sends a message, or sets aside a moment in the meeting, shows that the care didn't end when the hard week passed.
Biblical comfort, with sobriety
The Christian faith doesn't promise that the pain will leave quickly, and that's exactly why it truly comforts. It doesn't ask you to pretend you're fine. It sits beside you in the dark. For the Adventist Club, and for any open heart, the Bible offers a God who draws near precisely to those who are broken.
There's a scene that says it all. Standing before the tomb of his friend Lazarus, knowing he was about to raise him, Jesus wept anyway. The shortest verse in Scripture is just this: "Jesus wept" (John 11:35, NIV). God made flesh did not step over the pain with a sermon. He wept first. That gives permission to your tears and to your Pathfinders'. Missing someone is love still alive, never a sign of weak faith.
Psalm 34:18 sums up the promise: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit" (NIV). It doesn't say he fixes everything at once. It says he stays close. And in the beatitudes, Jesus goes beyond accepting tears: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matthew 5:4, NIV). The comfort is promised, but it comes in its own time, moving through the pain rather than leaping over it.
Offer these verses as shelter, never as a demand. No one in grief needs to hear that they should have more faith. The Christian hope in the resurrection, a theme the Club can go deeper into in conversations about the great controversy, is a powerful solace when it arrives at the pace of the one who suffers. Present it with respect, including to those who don't believe, and let the Spirit do the rest.
Grief and safety are different things
It's worth separating two conversations that tend to blur together in the panic of the moment. One is emotional care, which this guide covers. The other is the safety procedure: what to do, technically, to prevent and respond to a physical accident. Both matter, but they solve distinct problems and are prepared at distinct times.
Care you improvise with your heart, guided by the principles here. Emergency response, on the other hand, isn't improvised. The campground's escape route, the emergency contact list, the checked first aid kit, who calls the emergency number, who watches the children meanwhile, the meeting point. All of that needs to be written down and rehearsed in the Club's emergency plan, put together calmly, long before any crisis.
If your Club still doesn't have that plan on paper, that's the most concrete lesson you can take from a hard day. Gather the leadership, define responsibilities, train the Counselors. A group that knows what to do with the body buys time and clarity to care for the soul afterward. Advance preparation is a form of love no one sees until the day it saves.
This text is a starting point, not a substitute for training. First aid courses, guidance from health professionals, and pastoral and psychological support remain irreplaceable. The best leader is the one who knows when to call in someone who understands the subject better.