Monique, a Lesson in Timelessness

With caring hands and tireless dedication, our neighbor sculpted her garden into a living tapestry of love and attention. Despite her old age, a timeless order reigned, where the seasons danced under her thoughtful hands. Every blade of grass, every flower bore the traces of her patience and devotion.

When the house was sold to a family with four children, time was redefined. The garden transformed from neatly arranged flower beds into a playful labyrinth of vegetables, herbs, and childlike chaos. Greenhouses rose where dahlias once bloomed, and where silence had ruled, the bleating of a goat and the quacking of ducks now filled the air.

Fortunately, my former neighbor never had to witness this transformation. Her heart, intertwined with the old order, would not have endured the unleashed wildness.

The new residents, Monique and her family, brought their own rhythms, shaped by their Congolese roots. For months, the garden lay still and abandoned, like a breathless waiting room. I always assumed Monique was simply retreating indoors, avoiding the cold climate.

At times, music would fill the garden—a piano concert under the stars, accompanied by the voices of many visitors.

Whenever I found Monique in the garden, we shared deep conversations about nature and healing. It made me realize that she was far more connected to the earth than I was. She brewed soups from nettles, her kitchen serving as an altar to nature.

In her front yard, she diligently removed all the grass to make space for wildflowers and shrubs. "It will be beautiful," she laughed as I passed by and asked about her plans.

Fate struck during her visit to America; a stroke robbed Monique of her former self. For months, she fought in a rehabilitation center, pushing against the limits of time and health. Just when she started making progress, it was too late. Death caught up with her before the house could even be adapted to her new needs. "The Lord had other plans," our neighbor sighed.

We were invited to Monique’s farewell services—a three-day tribute of gratitude, from Friday to Sunday—where we were expected to wear black.

In our haste, we left the driveway just ten minutes before the service was set to begin—only to find our neighbor still standing outside his house, dressed casually.

"Are you sure the funeral is today?" we asked through the car window.
"Mais oui, j’arrive," he replied, with an unusual calmness and kindness.

Judging by the sea of empty chairs, we had arrived more than on time at the church.

While waiting for our neighbor and his children to arrive, someone took the lead, and the singing began.

As I was struck by the intensity of the voices, people continued to stream into the hall from all directions. Whenever an elderly person entered, a younger one immediately stood up to offer their seat. Many had brought their own Bibles, and some sang so loudly and emotionally that I couldn't take my eyes off them.

By now, the hall was nearly full—some arriving just in time, others without any awareness of the clock.

Not until nearly ten o’clock did our neighbor appear, impeccably dressed in a black suit, his four children following closely behind. Time did not dictate him; he dictated time.

The preacher took the floor, and one by one, people were called forward to speak about Monique—starting with those who hadn’t had the chance to do so on Friday. The service had no strict schedule, only a set ending time, as another gathering was planned afterward. Everything was simultaneously translated into English or French, depending on the speaker.

The number of people who had traveled from all over the world to honor Monique was astonishing. They had known her at different moments in their lives: as a young mother, a friend, an aunt. Suddenly, everything made sense—those months when Monique had 'disappeared' were moments of complete presence with the people who needed her most. All the testimonies about Monique’s life formed a mosaic of memories and tributes that transcended time and borders.

Suddenly, an elderly woman was called forward, gently supported by someone at her side.

She began to sing and murmur in an unknown Congolese dialect. There was no simultaneous translation. It was Monique’s mother. Her voice, raw with grief yet filled with gratitude in its own tones, seemed to pause time itself. Her emotion spoke universally and touched every fiber of my being.

The ritual lasted minutes, maybe even a quarter of an hour, yet no one felt the urge to check the time. Her vulnerability and strength deeply moved all who were present.

My respect for this mother grew with every passing second, as did my admiration for Monique and the profound impact she had left on all these people who had gathered today to honor her.

Monique had always known that life was about connection.

I had entered the church as a restless soul, worried about finding a seat. But I left fulfilled. Time, it seemed, had ceased to exist.

Monique’s life, though cut short, taught me that time is not measured merely in hours or years but in the depth of connection and the echoes we leave behind. Like her garden, her influence continues to bloom, far beyond the ticking of the clock.

As I walked past Monique’s front yard today, I saw her daughter removing the plants to replace them with grass.

"It will be beautiful," echoed in my mind. It was Monique’s voice I heard once more.

I smiled up at the sky and, in my thoughts, thanked Monique for the beautiful lesson she had given me about time.

And I wondered: which friend will one day stand before others to speak of me? Not to list all the things I accomplished, but to remember the time I gave her—even when I had none to spare.