Recently, I found myself in the South, visiting my sister and squeezing in some shopping for an upcoming cruise. It was one of those carefree days, driving down a Main Street, windows down, catching up, and just enjoying being together. Then, something caught my sister’s eye.
“There must be a funeral,” she said, slowing the car and easing over to the side of the road. I glanced around and saw it too—cars all along the road had pulled over. Without hesitation, she joined them, stopping the car, as we waited in quiet respect while the funeral procession passed on the other side.
“We honor the dead here,” she said simply, as if explaining something every Southerner knows instinctively. And in that moment, I saw it—this collective act of reverence, the way the living paused their lives to acknowledge and honor someone’s passing. It was quiet, it was powerful, and it was deeply moving.
I couldn’t help but think about how that moment would look in Boston, my hometown. We’re a fast-moving city—always rushing, always on to the next thing. A procession like this wouldn’t even register. Cars wouldn’t slow down. People wouldn’t stop. It’s not because we don’t care, but because we’ve built a culture where slowing down feels like weakness, and everything has to keep moving—no matter what.
“This is why I like the South,” I said to my sister, almost without thinking. And I meant it. There’s something deeply grounding about a culture that makes space for even the smallest acts of respect. Something about it felt right in a way that made me question my own habits and the pace of life I’ve become accustomed to. When did we stop pausing for life—or death?
In the South, this simple act of pulling over wasn’t just about the dead; it was about the living, too. It was a reminder of the fragility of life, the importance of community, and the value of honoring someone’s journey—even if you didn’t know them personally. It made me think about how we create space for humanity in our everyday lives, or how often we don’t.
That moment stayed with me long after the procession disappeared down the road. It wasn’t just a fleeting observation; it was a lesson. A reminder that sometimes, it’s the smallest gestures that speak the loudest about what we value as a community. I don’t know if I’ll ever see that kind of reverence in Boston, but I know it’s something I want to carry with me, no matter where I am.
If we all took just a little more time to pause, to honor, and to acknowledge each other—living or departed—I wonder how much more connected we’d feel. Maybe it’s not just about the South. Maybe it’s about what we can learn from each other, and what kind of world we can create when we stop and make space for respect.
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