Well. . .
what B E L I E V E
Y O U ?
Are you on the side of
C O I N C I D E N C E S
O N P U R P O S E
(as in, everything is ON PURPOSE?)
the famous Swiss psychiatrist came up with his own explanation
far past coincidences or on purpose. . .
Coincidences were, to him,
meaningful events that couldn’t be explained
by cause and effect,
which, so far so good,
but he also thought that there was another force,
outside of causality,
which could explain them. . .
This, Mr Jung called:
S Y N C H R O N I C I T Y
In their 1989 paper,
Methods for Studying Coincidences,
the mathematicians Persi Diaconis and Frederick Hosteler
considered defining a coincidence as a
“this included too much to permit careful study.”
Instead, they settled on,
“A coincidence is a surprising concurrence of events, perceived as meaningfully related, with no apparent casual connection.
Forget Scientific Studies
Forget what I believe
THIS IS WHAT I
as an ever-striving Caring Catalyst
K N O W
It can happen–A N Y W H E R E–
You can meet Some One.
I never met the patient, now the deceased.
He actually died before he got out of the hospital. . .before he went home. . .before he went to a nursing home/assisted living/rehab center. . .he went to the funeral home.
The family didn’t have a minister, an Officiant to help celebrate his life. They had been told that I might be of assistance to them by the Assessment Nurse and then the Funeral Director.
I never met the family before the morning of the funeral. I talked briefly to the patient’s son and offered a visit to see if they wanted to me to specifically include anything in the service. I offered a visit to hold space with them; to offer supportive presence, to provide a time for them to do some life/family and life review.
I arrived at the funeral about a half an hour before it began to introduce myself to the family members and ask again if there was anything else they would like me to include or if there was anyone else who might want to share a thought, a memory, a story, a word. . . .
“No. . .whatever you do is fine; we trust you.”
It was a roll of the dice–ON THEIR PART. . .they didn’t know me. . . .
I began the service; welcomed everyone and before a short prayer
He came running in and sat in the next to the last row. . .on the end seat.
We talked about how out of all the roles, out of all the jobs, out of all the the phases, all of the things he was able to attain and achieve, maybe the greatest was that he was loved and that he did love. . .that his life was not a gift so much as that it still is. . . .
I kept noticing that the man who had come in late, sitting near the back was weeping. . .then sobbing quietly to himself. A few beside or in front of him shot him glances; one lady handed him some tissues.
When the funeral was over we went the very short distance to the cemetery and did a small committal service at the graveside where I spoke about the green grass and the flower blooms being present where there was once, not long ago, mounds of snow. . .that life is a Season, that THIS, too is a Season, a See-You-Later and not a good-bye. There was a final prayer, blessing and a hope that his Peace might be our Peace. . .
and then. . .then it was over
and just beginning
The family and friends quickly left the graveside, having been invited back to the funeral home for a luncheon. All were leaving except for him.
“Hello, my name is Andy and I just wanted to tell your how much I really appreciated your words,” he said as he introduced himself and extended his hand to shake mine.
His eyes were red and a wet blue.
“I gotta tell you, I’m a little embarrassed,” he said not giving me back my hand, and still shaking it slightly up and down.
“I came here for the funeral of a guy I used to work with, and not only did I come to the wrong funeral home, but actually to the wrong funeral too. I didn’t even know this man. . .”
And before I could say anything, a tear rolled down his face again.
“My dad died about three months ago we weren’t really close and then we kind of got together again right before he died. There was so much I wanted to say to him and didn’t and the funeral was a blur and I have been hiding from the loss and the pain and today I walk into a funeral of a man I never met by mistake and what you said was everything I was suppose to hear. . . .”
We weren’t shaking hands now. . .
we just hugged
“Thank-you. . .Thank-you. . .Thank-you. . .Thank you. . . .”
I never got his name. . .
I firmly believe that every time I speak,
every time I write something it’s just for
One Single Person
I just don’t know which One Single Person it ever is, most of the time
He let me know it was him,
that moment. . .
It’s happened on other occasions when I’ve written what I consider to be a bad blog post (maybe even this one) or really bombed at a talk–thinking it was the worst ever–and it’s usually at those moments when
One Single Person
comes up to me and tells me how it was exactly just what they needed to hear.
Hmmmmmm of the day:
sometimes. . .the wrong turns out to be the absolutely right thing to happen
Question of the day:
Are you the One Single Person, now?
Thought of the day:
Who’s your One Single Person, today?
Psssssssssst of the day:
Don’t be mistaken into thinking it’s
N o O n e. . .
(and that ain’t no coincidence)