There was no way that the text message I received, saying for Kayla (my sitter) to call her Mother, stood any chance of involving good news.  Within seconds of me passing the message along, there was screaming in the kitchen - an unexpected death in Kayla's family.

Kayla is 19 and can't drive yet, so I drive her home every day and always ask for some of the kids to accompany me.  Mainly, the twins, as they stand the highest chance of getting injured while I'm out on that short 15min drive, and I'd hate to put the boys in that position if it ever happened.  Usually, getting any of the kids to go drive Kayla home involves negotiation, arguments and sometimes bribes.
In other words, they absolutely despise having to put clothes and shoes on and leaving the house for that short drive at the end of the day. 
But today, as I said "I'm taking Kayla home" all four kids silently got their shoes on and stood by the door, while both she and I stood there in awe.

Kayla's family is from Guyana with Indian roots, and they live in a small house a few miles from us. 2 bedrooms, 5 kids, 2 parents, all incredibly kind, generous and hard working. Usually, I drop her off in the yard and leave. But today, I needed to go in.

Even though it had just been a mere minutes from when Kayla got the call, by the time we got to her house, there were no less than 25 people in and around this tiny house, all part of their family in some way, all there to show their willingness to share in the pain.
About 10 men were sitting around, on the porch and yard of the house, still in their work clothes, still covered in paint or mortar or some other evidence of their day jobs. I went to shake the hand of the brother of the deceased, but he just smiled at me, nodded and told me to go inside to "the women".

As I stepped through the doorway of the tiny 8 x 10 ft living room, the air got thick and heavy, like silly putty jello you have to fight your way through. I looked around to find all the curtains in the room shut, virtually no daylight penetrating the small windows. Inside this "mourning room" were 14 Indian women, crying and sobbing, with a giant bowl of tissues in the middle of the room. No words were spoken, only tears were exchanged among these gorgeous women with dark black hair.
As I looked at each of them, stunned, the crying got louder and by the time I went to hug and kiss the two people I knew in that room, the sobbing was loud and the only words spoken were "thank you for coming".

I had never experienced such a thing.
I was speechless and in awe.
Somehow, it was amazingly beautiful.
I had never seen a family, much less a community come together to grieve like this and I was slightly envious of this extraordinary ritual.  Organized and surely predictable, with each gender doing what they surely have been shown to do for generations.
 
It made me think.....
.... how would the deceased feel about all that?
Would she find comfort in her community coming together to grieve her passing?

And then it dawned on me....
.... mourning rituals and funerals and all that stuff, truly is NOT about the dead at all, but for the survivors, as it lets us know, that when we die, the same "big event" will be put together, to mourn us.