Rain Dancer

He knew he was going to die. He knew ‘metastasis’ was a just a big word for ‘cancer again’.

The last time I saw him he was weak and frail. His treatment was making him so sick that he needed someone around to help him all the time.

I found myself in deep admiration of him, found myself admiring his calmness and peace, the sureness that surrounded him. He had seen death and was not frightened.

He was small and fragile and yet he held the world’s weight as if it were nothing.

The people who helped him loved him, smiled at him, absorbed his presence, touched and held him. They seemed to find their task the greatest privilege.

The funeral was gut wrenching. The family was obviously devastated – they had lived in hospitals for months praying that this day would not come.

Those who talked at the funeral spoke of a person who lived a selfless life; a person who in the week before he died had gone to give his money to a friend because he didn’t think he would need it anymore.

I sat in my pew thinking of this person who I hardly knew and remembered his eyes, his deep sad and joyful eyes.

Afterwards someone told me “You know, he could be a bit of a rat bag”.

I was glad to hear it.