Lloyd Den Boer

Suppose you were to meet the word “ comfort ” standing alone on a page . What images would come to your mind ? Would you imagine yourself relaxed in a reclining chair , tranquil in a shady spot under a favourite tree , or snug in a warm room with a crackling fireplace ? If you read “ comfort ” as a noun , you probably thought of pleasant conditions like these , conditions that help you feel at ease .

On the other hand , if you read “ comfort ” as a verb , you probably imagined reaching out to ease the distress of a relative , a dear friend , or even a stranger whose plight has moved you . In contrast to naming a pleasure , this meaning of comfort names a response to suffering , loss , and grief , touching a weighty feature of our lives . When comforting or being comforted , we face a discomfort — evidence that we are fragile creatures . Among the comforts and joys in our lives , there will also be losses and sadness .

In the past two years , most of us have relearned this lesson . As the pandemic rose , spread , and upended our lives , it left losses behind . Some losses , like being physically separated from the people we love , seem less severe than others . Yet who can measure the cost of separation , especially to the young and the old ? While most of us have lost at least this much , some of us have lost much more , particularly if there will be an empty chair at our next holiday table .

Thinking of loss , I remember my grandfather ’ s words on his seventieth birthday . He responded to my birthday greetings with a paraphrase of Psalm 90:10 , saying , “ People have been given 70 years of life . If they live to be 80 , the extra years are sure to be filled with sorrow .” My grandfather was born in the early 1900s . At 70 years he had lived through the First World War , the Spanish Influenza , the Great Depression , the Dust Bowl , the Second World War , and the untimely deaths of several relatives younger than himself . He had more than a passing acquaintance with fragility and loss . Though I would

not want to adopt his melancholy disposition , after the pandemic , I understand it better than I did before .

When we pass through loss , what comfort can support us to reclaim confidence and joy as we look to the future ? One option is to rely on ourselves , calling forth the inner strength that we need to tamp down sadness or grief and stand upright . Another option is to look beyond ourselves . At one time , the church denomination in which I was raised taught its youth using a catechism written in the sixteenth century . The catechism ’ s first question asked in part , “ What is your only comfort ?” The answer — which we were expected to memorize — stated in part , “ That I am not my own .” Deep comfort comes from belonging to something larger than oneself . Some people will agree with the catechism that we belong first to a loving Creator . All people can accept a corollary that we belong as much to each other as we do to ourselves . We are , as Mary Pipher argued in her book , The Shelter of Each Other , a source of strength and comfort in the lives of others , just as they are a source of strength and comfort in ours .

These days , my image of comfort has a table at its centre . The table is weighed down with delectable things to eat . The food , however , is not the point . The point is the people gathered around it . Even more , the point is that the people gathered there belong to each other .

Lloyd Den Boer is a retired educator who lives with his wife in Edmonton . Together they are already making plans for a lively round of autumn holiday meals . news & views AUTUMN 2021 | 17