Losing two friends, two women within a week, is quite sad.
It is Advent and I sing again and again of the great mystery, “A great and
mighty wonder”, which has befallen us. The eager expectation of the coming of
Christ, the Light in the darkness. A darkness which we experience literally as November,
December and January are indeed very dark and dreary months in this part of the
world. Months when we need artificial light almost all day long. Just as well
Christmas and the winter solstice come together. We can light candles, make the
darkness bearable, look forward to the true light. The light of the Christ
child, which has nothing to do with our pagan rituals and festivities: the
giving of presents, consuming too much food, drinking far too much wine. It is
the hope of new life, of eternal light, the living light. It is also the warmth, love and comfort of
family life, of friends. Friends leaving us during such a period of happy
expectation, is a shock, feels like a betrayal. But perhaps my two friends are
the privileged ones, perhaps they see the light before we do. Don’t we also
sing that those who have died need no lamp, no light, for Christ shall be their
light, their all?
The problem is not the friends who died, the problem is those
who are left behind, the unfinished business. All those things we wished we had
said to them when we still could. And all those things we wished we had not
said. Where they are now, do they know
of our good intentions, do they know our thoughts? Does one of my friends know
I wrote her a letter telling her how much I had appreciated her friendship and
how sorry I was for the things I had done which seemingly had offended her? Hoping
she would feel the peace that passes all understanding. That she would be
surrounded by it. I wrote that while she was dying, unknown to me. I delivered
it at the hospice, only to be told she was no longer among the living. She had
seen a great light before I had. I am still waiting for that Light, the Christ
child born on Christmas morning as the Bible story goes. I hope that I can sing
for her. Sing with the choir at her memorial service. But if not, if I am already
travelling as I have planned, I will sing for her wherever I am. Friendships,
none of them perfect. But there was mutual love, care, and understanding I
hope.
One of the friends I had known for over 56 years! Once I was
her bridesmaid. She had three, made all the dresses, also her own. She was
proud to have me and I was honoured. Enough? She was poor, I was rich in
comparison. She struggled through life, suffering from depression but never
giving up. Doting on her husband, her two sons, being hospitable and welcoming
to anybody in need. Was I good enough to her? Did I do enough for her? Did I
show my admiration, my love for her? Or was I a bit aloof because of her very
poor background? Questions which can never be answered now. I spoke to her for
an hour on the telephone two months ago and she was so thrilled and happy
although she had been ill for two years and knew that the illness would kill
her in the end. I didn’t know about her condition. We had not really drifted
apart, but lived too far away, lived such different lives. She was no letter
writer so did not answer my letters. She thought her end was still far off,
made plans for us to meet, plans for next summer when we would spend time
together. I cannot go to her memorial service as I will be elsewhere. But for
her too I will sing. Knowing her has enriched my life. Her optimism against all
odds, in the face of unemployment, depression, illness and poverty, her zest
for life, her kindness and her hospitality, her struggle to give her sons a
better life, chances she never had, they have taught me a lesson. And I will
miss her a lot.
