Doer of good

Dear Friend (you know who you are!), 

Doer of good remorselessly. 

Placing wreaths on old graves. 

Remembering lost ones over decades. 

Tidying and cleaning their resting places in honour of the love that lives still. 

Visiting lonely living elderly relatives and nurturing them with that life-affirming connection. 

I care, you matter, these regular long trips, crisscrossing the country affirm. 

Keeping friends, tight, through stress, divorce, separation, and loss of loved ones. 

Making sure the safety net of your love and concern is strengthened with additional knots of love. 

Never failing in loyalty, even when brought to the knees by the suicide of dear ones. 

The devastation of losing dear ones by their own hand strikes that huge heart to its core. 

But keeping that love alive despite the loss, the pain and absence.  

Remembering and holding their spirit in gentle arms of understanding and compassion.  

Dropping everything and giving anything to help a friend in real need. 

Providing constant help of finance, time, and love. 

Not buckling in the face of death but tightening the armour of love and heading anywhere for those you hold dear. 

"The betterment of the world can be accomplished through pure and goodly deeds and through commendable and seemly conduct. "

Baha'i Writings

Dear David

A good heart,

kindness embossed throughout,

Expressed in word and deed.

He stood upright, tall and regal.

With a mind clear and agile.

An excellent honest Inspector of police.

He proved himself as one of integrity

in the difficult days of The Troubles

when shifting sands caused better men to stumble.

Perhaps his stability came from his warm faith

working as a Gideon to provide all he could

with what was his mandate - the Bible.

His unusual quiet humility was accompanied

by a deep devotion to his wife.

He met her as a young constable on his bike.

Entering the village shop he heard the bell above the door

and then he saw her!

It was love at first sight.

Instant, total and devoted.

Not some fleeting fancy

but a love that grew over many decades

into over a half-century like a mighty oak.

As once we walked past a neighbour’s home

eighty-year-old David shivered in sympathy.

The owner was recently widowed

David said the thought of him ever losing his own wife

made his heart ache in horror.

But the years brought dementia to his door.

It was hard to see words take flight from his mind.

That agile, fluid, articulate mind began to stumble.

Making a sentence an impossible hurdle.

When he fell down his staircase

and was left with huge black bruises on his chest

he struggled to explain what had happened.

But in trying to express his gratitude

in surviving the bad fall

he raised a finger pointing above

and managed to convey his gratitude

to the "Big Guy" upstairs.

He had three loves.

His wife his Faith and his music.

Long after conversation stopped completely

he could sing the old songs of Ireland

in a beautiful tone that stirred the spirits.

Then that too stopped

and there was nothing

that was not taken from him. 

I will not dwell on this final bereft phase.

Who knows why tests rain down on mighty souls?

Is it perhaps our test not theirs?

Who knows?

But this week he threw off this fleeting shadow of a world.

I like to think of him striding out on sunlight fields.

Full of his old vigour of mind

surrounded by all his great loves.

I am grateful for the fragrance of his existence

that lingers in my mind

the citrus tone that ever cleanses the senses.

Monty

He was the runt of the litter, that was obvious.  All the rest had already been sold and here was the remaining pedigree black Labrador puppy, a little smaller and a lot less smarter than his siblings.  But we were ecstatic.  For years my father had stopped on innumerable journeys and announced that he was going to see a man about a dog and my juvenile heart had soared in happiness every time.  Perhaps we were going to get a dog at last, but of course it was a euphemism for taking a pee.  Such was my longing for a four legged pet, that my heart still hoped that just maybe this time my Dad was actually stopping the car to see a man about a real dog.  So to find ourselves looking at this real little fellow was heavenly.  We didn't mind if he was the runt, he would be our Monty.  And so it was we took him home and into our hearts and he filled our hours, days, months and years with glee. 

His stupidity was legendary.  All it took was my Mum to go to the hairdresser and he didn’t recognise her.  He either forgot when he’d been fed or just remained ever hopeful because he invariably greeted you with a huge empty biscuit tin in his mouth looking both mournful and yet eager.  When we left him at my grandfather’s farm he consumed an entire bucket of pig meal and swelled up like a balloon and had to be raced to the vet to be saved.  For years after that, my grandfather shook his head and muttered that he’d never met a more stupid animal, every time Monty’s name was mentioned. 

He was also the smelliest dog and I remember using roll on deodorant on him to cover his natural aroma.  Washing served only to urge him into a sweat of feverish excitement, as Monty found water second only to food on his list of favourite things.  It could be a puddle, a river, the sea, an inflatable pool, a bath of soaking sheets – he was not fussy.  He loved them all and would throw himself in head first in total abandonment.  Despite threats and shouts and curses hurled at him he would jump in with a yelp of, “I know you don’t want me to, but it’s gonna be so great!” 

His good nature was equally legendary.  He forgave everyone anything.  He was simply incapable of holding grudges.  Either that or his brain capacity was such that it could not hold on to information for long enough to remember the offence.  His approach to the world was a combination of ecstasy,  “there is my food bowl” and complete abandonment to the moment,” here is water, it’s a river and I’m diving off this bridge”.  Restraint was just not in his vocabulary.  Even when told to sit he would do so at an angle with his hind leg hanging out and his tail beating furiously.  Come on you are killing me with laughter, he seemed to be saying, and gradually the shaking tail would become a moving body and then he’d be on the move towards you, so grateful that you were speaking to him.  Then, he couldn’t stop himself jumping up on you, to show how much it meant to him that you spoke.  Sports were also popular with Monty.  He took down my uncle Junior with a flying tackle during a fun game of rugby.  Poor uncle Junior was fly swatted by six stone of flying Monty and lay winded and bruised in the long grass. 

You know, when it’s said that animals are better than people, I get it.  Monty was by far the most good-natured member of our family.  Heads and shoulders above any of us.  He bestowed his love lavishly, slavishly.  If you were not careful you could indeed drown in the saliva of his love.  I am grateful that just once in all the car journeys and stops we made, one memorable day my Dad actually did stop to see a man about a dog.  A really lovable dog called Monty.