Little Moments of Grace

Last night I was at a viewing for my wife's aunt. The room was full of family, mourning together in small groups. We brought all of our children, and for some of them, it was the first time they'd met certain people who were there. 

As I sat soothing my seven-year-old, not so much for the loss of his great aunt (whom he didn't know), as for his sense of the heightened emotions in the room and his unease about the prospect of seeing a dead person, I got to witness one of those little moments of grace that brighten our lives and keep us going when things seem dark. 

It came in the form of my three-year-old daughter. Like many small children, she's remarkably empathetic and can at times be entirely unconcerned with herself. She was the youngest person there, but she moved quietly from group to group, introducing herself to adult cousins and elderly great aunts and uncles, and patiently conversing with them about whatever entered her young mind. Everywhere she went, expressions of sorrow softened, and rigid postures of endurance eased towards something more like comfort.

I didn't hear what she said to anyone, but she made a point of visiting everyone.

There were peppermints in two decorative bowls by the door, and as the evening concluded, my wife's mother invited the children to come and take the candies that remained. Some of the kids stuffed their pockets, and my three-year-old took a couple handfuls too, but she didn't hoard them. Instead, she went to every mourner who hadn't left yet and silently offered them a candy. Sometimes it took a moment for them to notice her standing there, back straight, arm extended, but she waited in silence. When they finally noticed her, each of them accepted the gift with gratitude. 

Perhaps most touching to me was that the first person she went to was her wheelchair-bound great aunt, a woman so bent with arthritis that she can't even fully lift her head, and who had been sitting alone, weeping as the lid of her sister's casket was shut. My daughter walked straight to her, placed the peppermint on her lap, and looked at her long enough to know that she had been seen, then moved on to the next person on her list. Most of the people hadn't known her when we arrived that evening, but everyone thanked her by name. 

She could fit just enough peppermints in her hands that there was one left over after the gift giving. She came to me and asked me to open it for her. She ate it immediately, and with relish, but didn't go looking for more.