I find it good, particularly when doing government reports for the minuscule amounts of funding they give us, to have a distraction.

My desk is opposite a bank of windows facing a parish church. The church has ramps and steps and multiple entrances, three of which I can see. My view is partially obscured by a tree branch and the large blue sign that hangs in our window announcing our center. My view is also obscured by the fact that I am supposed to be working.

Even so, I see a lot.

The church is open during the day and there is a steady stream of men and women going in or stopping to make the sign of the cross as they pass by. A young woman with a pre-schooler goes up the front steps. We used to call it “making a visit.” I wonder what they call it now, if anything.

My biggest distractions are weddings and funerals. This morning there is a white casket, adult-size but very light—only four pall bearers needed. There were very few mourners, but they were sobbing. Sometimes there are none. Once there was only the bagpiper.

And life goes on all around their sorrow. It reminded me of walking through Jerusalem for the Stations of the Cross, how many people ignored us, carrying on their business. Probably the same when Christ was there.

Other times the funerals appear to be social occasions, reunions. Large families can tend to create celebrations even at the saddest times.

One Saturday evening, again while I was supposed to be working, there was a wedding. The bridal couple was remarkable for their red hair. And there was an older man in a wheelchair that the groomsmen, instead of using the ramp, carried up the stairs with clapping and laughing. A few weeks later the red-headed duo were back. The man in the wheel chair was not. The crowd was much smaller. I wondered if it was he who had died.

There is so little I know about these men and women. I catch only a glimpse of lives, and know from my own life that both mourning and rejoicing are temporary. We know so little of others–and of ourselves. How futile are judgments.

An older woman stops to pray at the statue of the Sacred Heart, while an older man, possibly her husband, stands a few feet apart. Come to me, all you who are heavy-burdened.

For me being opposite a church is a call to prayer. I have wonderedwhen my turn will come to mourn again—or to be mourned. I pray for those who are in sorrow, and for the Christian who has been called home. I pray for the brides and grooms, for the unmarried bridesmaids, for those who have wandered from the fold. I pray that their dreams come true. Ordinary prayers for ordinary people.

Three women in black hurry down the street. They are fifteen minutes late for the funeral but at least they have come. A younger man hustles after them (their driver?). They go in to the funeral.

A young man holding a toddler stops by the Sacred Heart. He is talking and pointing. The baby is more interested in the trucks going by. The man blesses himself and goes on.

I go back to work.

Eileen Fane, O.S.U., is the Executive Director of the Adult Learning Center
in New Rochelle, New York.

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