Death at the Most Appropriate Time

My wife had gone to the dog park with neigh­bors and their dogs and I decided to go out and take pho­tographs, walk­ing around for 90 min­utes or so as I often do. As I walked passed the house on the cor­ner, there were a lot of peo­ple around, cars try­ing to park, and I finally saw the yel­low hand-drawn signs say­ing “estate sale.” There were things lined up on the lawn, con­tain­ers filled with toys and school sup­plies, Christ­mas lights and dec­o­ra­tions, children’s books and fur­ni­ture. I knew from walk­ing the dog late in the day that the woman who lived there had a day­care, and fre­quently par­ents in very expen­sive vehi­cles were often double-parked, pick­ing up their chil­dren. She appeared to be in her for­ties, was quite obese, had bright dyed-blond hair, and was very loud – you could hear her “speak­ing” a block away. But I must say that I fre­quently smiled at how much she cared for the chil­dren in her care and how much they cared for her, and like­wise the par­ents. These lit­tle chil­dren would run to hug her, and they would wave to her from the car. But as I passed, I had to move into the street because the street was crowded with peo­ple rum­mag­ing through con­tain­ers. I thought, “Who needs other people’s junk?”

I got home and was read­ing when my wife came in with assorted spices she picked up at the farmer’s mar­ket, and she had a small bag of school sup­plies. I said, “You bought other people’s junk!” She said, “There is an estate sale up the street, the woman who had the day­care died sud­denly.” WHAT! “What hap­pened? I just saw here a few days ago.” “They just said she died sud­denly, and her par­ents and brother are sell­ing her things to help pay for her funeral.” And it is in these nau­se­at­ing moments I am the Phar­isee, and the shal­low­ness of my char­ity, and the depths of my sick­en­ing judg­men­tal mind is shown to me like a hor­ror film. And I sat down at my desk, and in the cor­ner of the screen is a still unsaved “An inter­view with Met­ro­pol­i­tan Hieroth­eos of Naf­pak­tos and St. Vlas­sios by Pavel Chir­ila, Pro­fes­sor and Doc­tor at St Irene’s Hos­pi­tal in Bucharest (Romania)”:

I was ashamed. I told my wife I was walk­ing over to the house, and it was a very long walk of a half-block. I felt like a fool, and I was, and thank­fully there were very few peo­ple left. The “house” is part of a “row” of very small one-bedroom con­struc­tions built with mil­i­tary per­son­nel in mind, and they are numer­ous in my neigh­bor­hood. Her home, in fact, was given over to her day­care. I went to the older peo­ple I cor­rectly pre­sumed to be her par­ents, and I started to tell them my story: I had never met her, never spo­ken to her, “you know how it is these days…” blah, blah, blah, bull­shit. And they smiled, nod­ded, and my voice started to crack, and my heart was pound­ing, and I started to cry, and I sim­ply told them about the hap­pi­ness of the those small chil­dren. From there I have no idea what I said except I was sorry for their loss, I would pray for her and them, and I would try to stop back tomor­row. I cried on my way home, and then it struck me: I never asked her name. I must go back.

ADDENDUM: Her uncle told me her name was Mary Lou. I would ask you, if you are so inclined, to say a prayer for her and her fam­ily

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