18 May 2026

After my mother died, I realised we didn’t have a photograph of her on display in the manse. Despite all the photographs which I had collected, my camera-shy mother avoided being caught by the camera.

In the end, I found one, only one but it was the right one. It was a photograph of my mum and dad taken at a wedding a few years before her death. I got it enlarged and framed. I put the original inside the Bible which I use for funerals.

The framed photograph was duly displayed on a little table in the hall. At first it stood there on its own. Then one day, I noticed that a tiny vase of freshly cut flowers had been placed beside it. The flowers looked beautiful.

Mary-Catherine had been at work. My mother loved flowers. We knew she would have appreciated the gift. They were a silent but eloquent witness to our love for her. Nothing more needed to be said.

In a way, words were inadequate. We would never have found the right ones. The gift of flowers did a much better job. They communicated our love in a simple, deeper and more direct way. It was a much more fulfilling means of communication.