I went to a funeral yesterday, that of a lovely lady whom I did not know well, but one I had great respect for through numerous meetings and phone conversations in the course of some years in my association with her tradesman husband. We are about he same vintage. The service was in Cockatoo and I could not help but shed tears after hearing her children, about the the same age as ours, speak so lovingly well in their eulogy. She was a Christian lady, 58, totally dedicated to her family, who was diagnosed last December with motor neuron disease which claimed her in the short space of six months.
I could not attend the burial later at the Gembrook Cemetery, I had arranged to meet Mrs B on my way back to look at something she wanted me to do in her garden. Mrs B as it turned out wasn't there but I picked some red holly berries and before going home to change I decided to visit the cemetery to pay my final respects in the quiet of my own company, everyone having left by then.
I found the grave and said my prayer then strolled about the cemetery where so many of my aquaintance have found their final resting place. This is inevitable the older you get and the longer you stay in one place. I have lived here thirty one years now. Four of my close neighbours are there. Les down the end died ten years ago, collapsed in the shower aged 51. I used to find empty VB cans on my nature strip, obviously tossed from a vehicle by someone on their way home. They stopped after Les died. His son Dwayne died in a car accident a decade earlier. Young Luke across the road, 21, hit the oak tree opposite the pub, early on his way to work, when he swerved to miss a car that went out round the school bus after dropping off kids. The lady next door to them died of breast cancer aged 37. My dog Blitz got after her kids' guinea pigs once. And my old friend Lionel, and Harry, Gord's Tim, Pat's Franz killed by a tree, a wall fell on 'Squid', and many others.
The weather is cold and wet. Business is bad. I am struggling with a lack of enthusiasm borne of weariness and sorrow. This morning, after my walk and letting out the chooks I heard the phone inside. Catching it before it stopped ringing a voice shaken by emotion told me it belonged to Jenny Hughes, daughter of Allan and Shirley. Allan died last night, a massive stroke.
He was 90. No one can begrudge the grim reaper. He survived war and heart attacks and brain tumour. I hung up quickly, Jenny was not seeking counsel from me. I could not help but cry. I'll not see Allan again and I grieve with his wife and daughters. I shared a beer with him last Thursday.
I'm feeling desolate today.
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Think I pressed the wrong button and my comment wasn't accepted so will try again.
Have been searching Frederick Beuchner quotes. Trust this one can help alleviate that creeping desolation. All is not lost, even though it sometimes looks like it may be going that way.
"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."
Thank you Lesley. That helps. In the rare periods of despair in my life my senses are heightened and my love becomes deeper. In a little speech at the afternoon tea service today Jenny quoted the Queen, "The price of love is grief."
From a small spark a wisp ignites the spirit. I feel the breeze. It is a mystery common to all of us.
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