Compassionate Truth

She lived alone, you know.

No family, they say…

An estranged daughter somewhere maybe, they say…

So sad, they say.

Last Saturday morning the Democratic party headquarters where Deborah volunteered like it was her life’s mission was filled with the people who knew her best. And for many, who knew her only there, in that space. Campaign mode, voter registration, poll worker, election official. You name it, she did it—and then some.

This morning her fellow Dems joined together for a different cause. We came together to remember her, to see her off as the family she chose. And to somehow ease the wincing absence of family, the lack so glaringly present now in her loss. One after another people stepped forward with a memory or two. Poems were read, the microphone crackling. The created circle also held what wasn’t said until one woman spoke honestly, her clear voice pouring into the painful void.

She said, “It’s true. Deborah lost connection with her family. Those few we contacted did not respond. As we remember her here today, we must also remember this: No one knows another’s story. Not really.

This compassionate truth filled the room.