I just finished making a tossed salad and will be taking it to our neighborhood clubhouse inn a few minutes. A family whom I do not know lost their teenage daughter just before Christmas. More than a year ago, she was hit by a car while crossing a busy intersection. She was at fault, but somehow that simply didn;t matter as she lay in a coma for weeks after ward and then woke up to a frightening a shocking new world of nonverbal paralysis.
Oh merciful Father in heaven. . . .
Several neighbors made arrangements to take meals to the family when caring for their daughter became a full-time job. When I took a chicken pot pie, I was humbled by the father's quiet gratitude and graciousness. "Homemade chicken pot pie," he said, smiling. "That will be a treat!"
This evening they will say goodbye to their child, they and other family and her many friends. Again, several of us in the neighborhood will provide food for this, their celebration of their daughter's life. As I chopped mushrooms and sliced tomatoes, my heart said all the things that I know I will not be able to say, words that seem meaningless in the chasm left by their beloved.
I don't know you, but I grieve for your loss.
Perhaps they will hear those words and the words of other neighbors in the pasta casserole, the chocolate cake, the veggie tray.
Here is our love.