My mother recently held a ‘celebration of life’ event for my late father, who died aged 80. Most of the 150 guests who travelled from around the country were around his age. One had just been diagnosed with cancer the day before, two checked themselves out of care homes for the day, another guest was hooked up to oxygen. Yet we all came, to remember my father.
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My mother recently held a ‘celebration of life’ event for my late father, who died aged 80. Most of the 150 guests who travelled from around the country were around his age. One had just been diagnosed with cancer the day before, two checked themselves out of care homes for the day, another guest was hooked up to oxygen. Yet we all came, to remember my father.
It brought my mind back to a time nearly thirty years ago, when I was one of a larger crowd making a much longer journey for a very different type of remembrance – millions of Muslims embarking on Hajj, a pilgrimage to Mecca. Some of us came by plane, some by coach, others came on foot. Some of us stayed in hotels, some in tents, others slept on the roadside. Yet we all came, to remember Abraham.
As a Muslim, I believe God commanded Abraham to leave his wife and his son in the desert of what is now Mecca. His wife ran between two hills searching for water for her thirsty son. Later, Abraham and his son together built the sacred structure in Mecca. I recalled and honoured these stories and more.
My Hajj was a collective prayer of millions, saying: There is no god but God, with no partner; all praise be to Him. It was an individual supplication with hands raised up to the Heavens, asking for God’s help. For me, it was also an intense reminder of life’s purpose and meaning as well as a resolve to be better.
Thinking again about the event for my late father, his former friends and colleagues spoke eloquently and often emotionally about stories they recalled from the different chapters of his life. And I thought privately about the mark he made on mine and the responsibility I felt to build on what he left behind.
I reflected that so much of a pilgrimage is about the physical journey to external places and collective remembrance, yet its essence lies in what happens inside my own head. I believe God is always accessible, as are those I love. And I’m learning it is up to me to figure out any personal change I need to make – preferably well before I become eighty.
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