The other day I asked a wise older mentor of mine how he might express why suffering is worthwhile to someone who does not consider there to be anything redemptive about it.

This mentor then discussed how, apart from the perspectives of any religious tradition, it is possible to see the example that those who suffer give to the young, the healthy, the strong.

How does the sufferer respond to his suffering? By whom is he accompanied? What message does he, by how he suffers, send about how to handle the disappointments and drama of life?

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Today I visited the Tsuutʼina Nation Cemetery with community member Regena Crowchild.

Here’s what I saw:

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When I was a teenager, I remember walking down the street after an event with a provincial politician who had summited Mount Everest.

Getting to speak casually for a few moments, I decided to ask him about what it had been like to reach the summit.

He spoke of the initial thrill but then admitted that it had been terrible to lose this goal in life by having accomplished it. He didn’t really know what to do with himself next.

“So then what did you do?” I asked him.

“I did it again,” he told me prosaically. “I became the first Canadian to double summit Everest.”

My admiration for him was tempered by my sensitivity to this restlessness he expressed, and I never forgot this story.

This evening a friend of mine spoke about how, for many, the pandemic became an opportunity to discern priorities rather than simply living in the momentum. I found this a quite astute way of putting it.

Momentum is concerned with motion and priorities are concerned with what is prior, primary, or fundamental.

Upon reflection, we might ask ourselves: Why is the momentum of my life a priority? Or, in our own particular variation on the theme: why am I trying to double summit Mount Everest, after all?

This matters because when we die, we lose the momentum of our lives but, if we are wise, not the priorities toward which our momentum was driven.

Have you stopped at any point during the pandemic to take note – and perhaps even photos – of the deserted streets? Maybe you noticed that you were the only person on the entire bus during rush hour. Or maybe you noticed the gradually shuttered businesses. Maybe you noticed the empty schoolyards and office buildings.

The extent to which you took notice of the dramatic emptiness is likely to correspond to the extent to which you are likely to revel in the return to life. After all, there was never a “new normal”, but only something very abnormal.

I have thought for some time that reuniting with friends (and heck, even with strangers) after the pandemic will feel a bit like a foretaste of the resurrection of the dead. After all, if anything can help our imagination of the phenomenon, it seems to me to be this experience of acute absence, separation, and isolation that will next be countered with intense presence, reunion, and togetherness.

Today I was in my hometown revelling in the return to life of people, businesses, worship, and optimism. As I walked through Prince’s Island Park, down Stephen’s Avenue, and along 17th Avenue, I marvelled at people – real human beings with flesh and bones associating with only the occassionally mediating plexiglass divider along the patios.

Today, in my hometown, I also visited the cathedral and, unexpectedly, saw three people who were great a surprise to see. Seeing these people who were so pivotal in my early life all in one place and after all these years also felt like a foretaste of the resurrection of the dead. There was something timeless about it.

The resurrection of the dead, an essential belief in Judaism and Christianity, is full of mystery. Still, I like to think we can enjoy intimations of it in everyday life, and perhaps particularly in the return to life from lockdowns and travel restrictions.

In families, people become known for certain recipes that they perfect and make their own by a certain flair.

This creates a connection between the particular food and the love of the cook for their family and friends.

When the dishes reappear annually on holidays and special occasions, the indispensability of those foods is a symbol for the indispensability of the person.

Without certain dishes, the table would seem as incomplete as it would if family members were delayed or absent.

My mother showed me this cookbook (pictured) that belonged to my paternal grandmother. About it she said, “It’s a real connection to your grandmother’s love for our family. She embellished it with many recipes she received from her own friends over the years and handwrote inside, making it a one-of-kind book that could not simply be re-purchased or replaced.”

In fact, after my grandmother died, my mother used the flourishes in this cookbook to inform the dishes she prepared for my grandfather. Of course, being served the same foods his wife had lovingly prepared during their sixty-eight years of marriage was a great blessing and consolation for him.

Recipes passed through generations can season life with the flavours of those who came before us.