My neighbour died recently. She had been ill for some months and although she was over seventy could have passed for ten years younger easily. She was involved, was the thing, full of life and interest and action. She was involved in her local community, involved with her church, and let her actions speak louder than her words. Genuinely decent and nice woman. I was not a close friend, just knew her as a neighbour.
Word went out that her funeral procession would leave from her home and that some friends would be congregating on the street so on the day I went out to join them. As I turned the corner I was amazed to see scores of people , perhaps as many as a hundred, in little groups all down the road. It was so moving, and must have meant such a lot to her family. Nobody took pictures on their phones, nobody made a thing of it, just quietly shared a moment and sent their love and good wishes silently to the family as they passed.
I don’t mean this to be a morbid story, quite the opposite. It was a beautiful, respectful way to show support without bells and whistles and a big fuss.
I grew up in a small village in another country and that was how we did things so it took me back. We had wakes, where people dropped by for endless cups of tea, with organised prayers at a certain time each evening. We shouldn’t hark back to the past – our memories deceive us, they weren’t really the good old days at all-but this way of stopping, pausing, and quietly demonstrating respect felt meaningful and loving. I wonder if it’s something we should keep going even when life returns to normal.
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