After death, you know only God

We went to my friend Martin’s funeral.

During the short, lovely service his chaplain talked of his life and struggles.

A reading was given from St. Paul to the Corinthians, Chapter 13.

Love is patient,
love is kind and is not jealous;
love does not brag and is not arrogant,
does not act unbecomingly;
it does not seek its own,
is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered,
does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth;
bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails.

In a nice gesture, his family told us to take home one of his gifted naïve paintings, namely of Tintin on a Donkey in an Oriental Court, and we did.

I walked slowly back to Hammersmith Station from Mortlake along the towpath where I had so often walked with my dog, Freddie, when I lived there as a boy. Looking at the soft, grey Thames water in the twilight, I saw the rowers from Latymer boathouse glide by, the ripples from their oars fading as ther expanded out. I thout of Martin’s soul fading from earth, too.

Where is he now?