Friday, 31 August 2018
Gilbert ... Gone
Now this makes me sad. Apparently Gilbert lived down our street for three years and now he's moved South and I'll never see him again. Admittedly, I never saw him, or knew him when he lived down the street. Well, I may have seen him but not recognised him as Gilbert. We were never introduced and I didn't even know he was living down the street, let alone he was Gilbert. He could have been any Tom, Dick or Peter living down the street or any where else for that matter. But he wasn't. He was Gilbert. And he lived down the street. And I never met him. Talked to him. Or possibly have been a friend with him. That's sad.
They say a stranger is a friend you are yet to meet. Well, there's no chance of that with Gilbert is there? He came. He lived. He went. And I didn't even know he existed. Probably, he didn't even know I existed. That's sad.
And that's what makes me sad. How many other Gilberts are there down our street that I know nothing about? They would not be called Gilbert, of course. That would be a coincidence. But whatever they are called I don't know they exist and they don't know I exist. That's sad.
I go to church frequently. I often sit in the same place, behind the pillar out of sight of the priest. I see many people in church. They often sit in the same place. I don't know all their names, and have not spoken to all of them. I just know them by sight. The old lady with a walking stick. The old man with a moustache. The couple with their children and so on. They are all people coming to church on Sunday and no doubt giving God a headache with their problems and their different wants and requests. I just go to church and for the most part I ignore them, and they ignore me. That's sad.
The other Sunday, the man who gives out the hymn books as you enter the church, what is his name? You know? Tall man, with a limp. In his sixties. Anyway, he told me that Mrs Haricot had died. I did not know who Mrs Haricot was. I did not know she was alive let alone that she is now dead. The man with the hymn books told me she sat on the left, just by the Statue of St Anthony, over there ... Come to think of it. I remember an elderly lady always dressed in black who always sat over there. Well, she is now dead. That's sad.
I never knew her. But I could have. She was there every Sunday and I never spoke to her. And she never spoke to me. We could have been friends. But we were not, because we never spoke to each other. We both went to church every Sunday and bothered God with our problems rather than bothering about each other. That's sad.
Gilbert makes me sad. Mrs Haricot makes me sad. The man with the hymn books makes me sad. And the old lady with the walking stick. And the man with the moustache. And the couple with their children. These are all people who are here today and probably gone tomorrow. To Bognor Regis I shouldn't wonder. Have you ever been? Don't bother ... nothing to write home about. That's sad.
And all the Bloggers who visit me and I visit them ... they make me sad. Because I don't know them either. They are like Gilberts. People known by name only. But to me, they are more than just names on my monitor. They are real people. I believe they are mostly good people with their families, their friends, their lives and their hopes. We visit each others' blogs and leave a short message, saying "Hi" and that's it ... We really don't know each other and chances are we will never meet in real life because of distance, I suppose. That's sad.
And what happens when someone suddenly stops blogging and visiting? Their blog posts have stopped suddenly with no explanation. What is the blogging etiquette then? Do you write to them checking they are OK? Or is that not the done thing? I don't know ... and that's sad too.
Personally, I just pray for them. And give God a headache as I add to my list of prayers.