When Water is Everything

There was a line of people at the front of the room who were both supposed to be there and weren't. One was a man, about forty, and the other two were his children. The girl was 14, the boy 18--and in the long box beside them, as if sleeping, lay the man's wife and the children's mother.

Hundreds of people were filing past them, giving condolences. They all felt the unnaturalness of the occasion, and yet they all felt compelled to be there. Classmates and their parents, co-workers, family, and friends had all come out of the woodwork to grieve briefly together before they all went to grieve apart.

The little family huddled together, surrounded by a wall of flowers behind and people in front. There would be hours of this, followed by the hours of a funeral, the burial, the mounding up of dirt, the weeks of the dirt being pounded down to even ground again, the years of flowers fading at the site memorializing loss.

Little cousins ran around the big room playing games, and the extended family snacked in the kitchen. Still, the little family stayed at their post between the walls, numbly shaking hands and responding blankly per good breeding rather than anything they were actually hearing. But one man sat by himself, just watching and listening. He didn't seem to know anyone else there and wasn't talking to anyone. He didn't get in the line but sat quietly with a water bottle beside him. I noticed him because the funeral was being held in my church, and as the pastor, it was my job to know everyone. I was about to introduce myself when I saw him get up, with a water bottle in hand, and quietly slip in between people in the line to the father. He put the water bottle into his hand and I saw the father suddenly realize he was thirsty. He took a grateful drink, flicked his eyes to his friend, and then went back to the conversation. The man then took back his position in the single chair.

Throughout that long afternoon, this man cared for the father's basic physical needs while the line of people cried and laughed together. He was the only one who wasn't family who stayed all day, just watching and paying attention. He brought tissues and fresh water, and only when the line died down did he have some quiet conversation with the grieving husband. All he took for himself was water and didn't stay for the funeral dinner when invited. His job, it seemed, was finished.

When I finally got to talk to him, I discovered that he was the husband's manager--and clearly, friend. I learned that he had only met the man's wife once and never his children. But he knew what it was to lose deeply and was there just to fill in the gaps and be present to meet needs. He took the day off of work himself just to be there. He had no platitudes or advice to offer--just his presence. And so he came and stayed, and stayed, and stayed.

It was dark when he finally left after making sure that he was no longer needed. It was astonishing how meaningful a bottle of water and a friend watching out for his simple needs in the middle of tragedy was to that husband. Such a simple kindness moved him to tears talking about it later, and for me, that same simple kindness seemed to be a masterclass in compassion somehow or other.

And it was just cold water.