How inscrutable his ways

The first surprise is that the funeral is being held in the Holy Trinity Church. Honestly, I didn’t take Nathan for a churchgoer. Off course, I got the address through a WhatsApp message. But it didn’t ring a bell. But that is maybe the way our mind works. To me, Nathan was a free-spirited man. Someone who was going his own way. However, without being a selfish, egotistical person.

The parking lot is already full when I arrive on my bike. I carefully manoeuvre past the Mercedes’s, Audis and BMWs. You shouldn't even think about damaging those beautiful cars on a day like this. I put my bicycle against the wall of the centuries-old house of God. A line has already formed. I join the flow of guests.

This is the next surprise. How fancy most people are dressed. Sober skirts, classic dresses, anthracite-coloured jackets, polished leather shoes. I'm wearing casual trousers, a thrift store sweater and worn-out derby shoes. Should I have known better? I look around to see if I see a familiar face. But among all those neatly made-up, serious-looking visitors, there is no one I can talk to. I shuffle with the others to the place in the church where Nathan's family is standing. Quite some guests are sitting on the wooden benches.

What should I say to the family? I've never met them before. In fact, how many times have I really talked to Nathan? But the moments met him in the store, we greeted each other as if we were best friends. Sometimes we had a quick chat. We had a laugh. He belonged to my world. No matter how brief our encounters were.

Nathan was responsible for the fresh produce department of the local supermarket. And although most of the employees were still schoolchildren, Nathan was much older. But he loved his job. When I was in the store he was always in a good mood. He helped the customers. He explained to them the difference between green beans and princess beans, He made sure all vegetables and types of fruits were in the right place, in the right conditions.

The service begins with a sober organ playing. We listen humbly to this piece of music. The serious sounds drip dutifully from the massive silver-coloured pipes, the solid wooden framework. The massive instrument hangs like a mighty decoration to the left of the choir. I keep my eyes focused on the spot in front of the church where the coffin has been placed. It is on a Formica table. Alone, strange, forgotten. As if someone accidentally left it behind.

The pastor enters. I didn't pay attention to where he came from. He walks slowly, hunched over. He's a big man. Short hair, stubble, wide neck, impressive shoulders. Is he playing rugby in his spare time? Since there’s is no stage in this old church, the cleric has to climb the narrow steps of the pulpit. A gold-coloured Bible is on the lectern. But the man holds his own book in his large hands.

“We have gathered here to remember the sudden passing of our son, brother and friend.” His voice echoes through the wide-open space. It bumps into the pillars, the vaults, the stained-glass windows, the oak benches. For a moment I am convinced that an actor has been hired to supervise the service. But judging by the reaction of bystanders, the preacher belongs at this funeral.

I heard it exactly a week ago. I was doing the usual shopping at the convenience store when I noticed some stock clerks mentioning Nathan's name. What alarmed me were their intensely sad faces. I spoke to them and asked if there was something wrong with Nathan. Then came the terrible news. That morning, he was found in the warehouse. The ambulance was called, but it turned out to be too late. Nathan had already died. What was the cause of his sudden passing away, I wanted to know. They didn’t know yet.

There was great dismay in the local shop. On all occasions, Nathan was the life and soul of the shopping floor. With his smile, his help, his humanity, his jokes, his wisdom. And even though I didn't count him among my group of close friends, his loss affected me greatly. Maybe that's why I was now present in the Holy Trinity Church. To say goodbye to a very special and unique person.

After the man of God had told his story and we had sung a few songs, it is the turn of the relatives to contribute to the service. I notice that my feelings of suspiciousness grow stronger. It started when I pulled into the parking lot. I had an inkling something was wrong. These cars, this luxury. Is it really Nathan's funeral?

And now this woman standing at the front of the church. Medium-length bleached hair. Dressed in a dark blue sheath dress, black stewardess shoes. Gold-tone plated earrings, rhodium necklace. Is she really Nathan’s sister? Or are we being fooled?

“As a family, we say goodbye to our brother and son today. To someone we were closely associated with in the past.” She hesitates. She looks intently at the people at the front of the church. She bites her lips, clears her throat, closes her eyes.

“After he decided to say goodbye to his family and his descent at the age of twenty and tried his luck on Deep Sea Shipping, we had only sporadic contact. Nathan became a stranger to us. A memory, a recollection. And while he was so promising at the start…”

Her voice breaks, she wipes the tears from her shiny cheeks.

“In elementary school, in high school, the first years of college. Nathan excelled. A whole future lay open to him. Everyone was proud of him. His father, mother, brother and sisters, friends, acquaintances, vicars, professors. It was of course obvious that he would eventually become director of The Southsea Group of Companies, the famous trading house founded in the nineteenth century and owned by our family for generations.”

Now that she's reached this point, the woman's voice becomes firmer, louder. Decisively and determinedly, she tells how family and friends occasionally heard how Nathan was doing. How he had sunk into anonymity. How he was throwing away his talents, network, fortune. But as a family they had to respect his choice.

“Father was often about to drive his Bentley to the town where Nathan lived. To bring him back to his senses. To show him our deep love and warmth,” she concludes her personal speech.

Then suddenly she breaks out crying. A man stands up from the front row. He puts an arm around her narrow shoulders. When she sits down again, it is dead quiet in the Holy Trinity Church. For a moment I think I hear a strangled scream from the coffin. Is it Nathan who protests against what has been said about him?

Just when everyone thinks we are going to sing the closing song, a boy walks forward. Hair dyed blue, polo shirt, jeans, sneakers. He stops by the coffin. Without looking up or back, he starts talking.

“Thank you, Nathan, for always being there for us. You were one of us. Even though you were many years older. When we were in need of money, you lent us some of your savings. Whenever we didn't have a roof over our heads, there was always a place in your little house where we could stay for a few nights. You never forgot a birthday. And do you remember when Farah came to work with us in the store? You taught us some Somali words and sayings so that he would feel at home in our group more quickly.”

Then he takes something out of his pocket. And puts it on the lid of the coffin. Next to the flowers. A tiny pack of crisps.

“A snack for on the road, Nathan. You always gave to us when we had worked for so long and then had to go back home.”

The pastor speaks again. He sees the boy walking back to his place at the back of the church. Then he addresses the guests at the front of the church. Eloquently and with broad gestures, he explains that God's ways are inscrutable. That we as people sometimes have the notion of how it all works. But that's not true. And that also applies to our judgment of Nathan. He may have wandered away from his family, his faith, but we should never think too little of God. And how He may have looked after Nathan after all these times.

I didn't go to the cemetery. Most likely he is buried on a bleak spot at the outskirts of the graveyard. Far away from the family grave. Far away from the other dead relatives. Far away from the pride and complacency that he preferred to avoid in his life.