I’m a chronic volunteer. Last week, I volunteered to clean up the food service at a memorial for a woman I’d never met.
I decided to go to the memorial and listen to the stories.
A woman who was in the church choir with her spoke fondly of how the dearly departed sang off key and was tone deaf, but probably didn’t know it.
A man talked about how he worked the night shift and liked to sleep late, but when the dearly departed was visiting at his home, she walked into his bedroom and woke him up early in the morning, saying “You’ve had enough sleep. It’s time to get up and fix me breakfast.”
Others talked about how she could eat 4th servings of food she enjoyed.
From the photo of her on the table, she was a woman of normal proportions. The extra food didn’t make her gain weight.
But most of all, they talked about her Faith. She never doubted that people would be there for her. At the end of her life, she was in a wheelchair. But when she wanted to go to the beach, people were there to lift her and her chair into a van, drive her out onto the beach and stay there with her until she was ready to go home.
People were there to wait on her and bring her those extra servings she craved. People seemed to enjoy helping her with whatever she desired.
She’d already recovered from brain cancer once, so her friends thought she’d survive this final illness, too.
I found it endearing that people loved telling and hearing these stories about their friend, whose company they had clearly enjoyed.