Yesterday I attended the funeral of Herman D., he of the prosperous family with whom he was, as I understand it, sometimes at odds. Herman was a regular at Mass, and years ago he tended the grounds of the cloister. He stood out then with his thick glasses and earphones and the three-wheeled cycle he used as a precaution against occasional attacks of epilepsy. He was against abortion and demonstrated against it, but then felt bad when he got into arguments. Though he had plenty of money, Herman lived frugally. One Lent the parish found a donation he’d tried to make anonymously, two thousand euros in crumpled bills in a sack. This past year I sometimes ran into him on his way to Mass. It took him over an hour to walk there from his house. He’d be bent over and wobbly, pushing his walker. Sometimes the police stopped to ask if he needed help. But no, he had his help. The Lord was that for him, throughout and to the end.