Because of Angé: The Candlelight on the Stoep
One night, maybe six weeks after Angé died, I came home later than usual. The world was unnervingly still. The air had that thick, weighted quiet that usually comes before a storm. I pulled into the driveway and looked up at the house — our house. It was completely dark. No stoep light left on for me. No soft glow from the kitchen window. No smell of food drifting out into the evening air. No gentle sound of her voice calling out, “You’re home!”
And suddenly, I froze.
That stoep had been our place. It was more than bricks and tiles — it was a piece of our story. We sipped wine there under thick blankets in the middle of winter, watching the mist roll in over the trees. In summer, we sat after long walks, her legs draped over mine, the dogs curled up at our feet. She would light candles in mismatched jars and talk about ideas, dreams, memories. Sometimes, we didn’t talk at all — we just existed together in the glow.
That night, I walked up and sat on her side of the stoep. It was cold. The space felt stripped of warmth. I didn’t cry. I didn’t talk. I didn’t pray. I just sat in the dark — no candle, no wine, no her. Just me and the unbearable weight of her absence.
And then my phone buzzed.
It was a message from someone I hadn’t heard from in weeks. Just eight words:
“I lit a candle for Angé tonight. Thinking of you.”
That message didn’t bring her back. It didn’t fix anything. But in that moment, it felt like someone had stepped onto the stoep with me. Not with advice. Not with noise. Just presence. Just memory. Just love.
That’s what this chapter is about — how to step onto the stoep with someone who is mourning. How to be with them without needing to change their grief.
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1. Show Up, Don’t Disappear
Grief has a way of emptying the room.
In the days before and after the funeral, the space is full. People arrive with flowers and food. They speak gently. They cry. There’s an unspoken sense of duty to “be there.” But slowly, quietly, people begin to fade away. Life pulls them back into their own routines. The mourner is left alone — with paperwork, with silence, with echoes.
If you want to support someone in mourning, resist the urge to vanish after those first few weeks.
Even if you don’t know what to say.
Even if you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing.
Even if you feel uncomfortable.
Show up anyway.
And when you show up, remember: your role is not to fix anything.
There’s a story I’ve always loved — from Winnie-the-Pooh.
Eeyore was sad. Deeply, profoundly sad. He was sitting alone, tail dragging in the mud. Pooh Bear saw him. And instead of giving advice or jokes or clever solutions, Pooh just sat down beside him. Quietly. Calmly. Lovingly. No speeches. No attempts to cheer him up. Just presence.
That’s the whole story. And it’s everything.
The truth is, mourners rarely remember exactly what you said. But they will always remember that you came — and that you stayed.
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2. Say Less, Be More
One of the easiest ways to lose connection with someone who is grieving is to speak too much.
Grief doesn’t want neat explanations. It doesn’t want spiritual slogans or Instagram-worthy encouragements. It doesn’t need you to explain why things happen, or to assure them that “time heals all wounds.”
It just wants company.
We often stumble into unhelpful territory when we’re uncomfortable with silence. We fill the air with well-meant but clumsy phrases:
• “At least they’re not suffering anymore.”
• “You were lucky to have them.”
• “Everything happens for a reason.”
The problem? Those words sound like instructions to feel better. They imply that there’s a “right” way to grieve, and that you’ve decided it’s time.
Instead, try these:
• “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”
• “I miss them too.”
• “Would it be okay if I just sat with you?”
These words carry no agenda. They allow grief to breathe without being pushed toward a timeline.
And sometimes, skip the words entirely. A hand on the shoulder, a shared cup of tea, or simply being in the same room without demanding conversation can mean more than any speech.
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3. Do Something Practical
When you are deep in mourning, even the simplest tasks can feel like climbing a mountain.
After Angé passed, I couldn’t decide what to cook — or even whether I wanted to eat. Bills piled up unopened. I’d find myself standing in the kitchen staring at a cupboard for ten minutes, unable to remember what I’d gone in for.
The people who helped most didn’t wait for me to tell them what I needed. They didn’t say, “Let me know if you need anything” — because in grief, decision-making is almost impossible.
Instead, they just did things:
• A friend dropped off meals in small containers I could heat up.
• Someone quietly came in and washed the dishes without asking.
• Another person handled communication with family I didn’t have the energy to face.
If you want to help, don’t make the mourner plan your help. Decide on something small and doable, and follow through:
• “I’ll drop off dinner tomorrow night.”
• “I’m going to the shop — text me what you need.”
• “Can I fetch the kids on Friday so you can rest?”
Practical kindness creates breathing space in a life that has been shattered.
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4. Walk With Them, Not Ahead of Them
Grief is not a race. There is no finish line. There is no medal for “getting over it.”
And yet, well-meaning people sometimes try to pull the mourner forward:
• “It’s time to move on.”
• “You have to be strong now.”
• “They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”
Often, what they’re really saying is, “I’m uncomfortable with your sadness. I want you to go back to who you were so I can relax.”
But the mourner isn’t who they were. And they won’t be again. They are learning to walk again — often with a limp that never goes away.
Your role is not to drag them toward a version of themselves they can’t return to.
Your role is to walk beside them.
At their pace.
In their time.
Even if that pace feels painfully slow.
The gift is in your willingness to stay — not to rush them through their pain.
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5. Remember the Dates, Tell the Stories
One of the deepest fears of the bereaved is that their person will be forgotten.
The photos may still be on the fridge. The toothbrush may still be in the bathroom. The perfume may still linger in the cupboard. But in the outside world, their name is spoken less and less.
One of the most powerful ways you can support someone is to say the name.
Share the memory.
Mark the birthday.
Acknowledge the anniversary.
A friend once messaged me on Angé’s birthday:
“Today I’m remembering the smile she gave me when we all went to her house to celebrate her birthday – all day . I can see it so clearly in my mind.”
That took her four seconds to send. I’ve read it twenty times. It told me three things:
1. She remembered.
2. Angé mattered to her too.
3. I wasn’t the only one who still missed her.
Every time you tell a story about their person, you aren’t “reopening wounds.” You are affirming that their life mattered — and still matters.
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6. Know That Support Looks Different for Everyone
What comforted you in your own grief may not work for someone else.
Some people want visitors. Others want space.
Some need to talk endlessly. Others need silence.
Some throw themselves into projects. Others can’t get out of bed.
The only way to know is to ask — gently:
“What helps right now — talking, silence, coffee, a walk?”
And then, adapt.
If they lash out, don’t take it personally. If they withdraw, don’t assume they don’t want you around. You are standing near a raw nerve — expect tenderness, confusion, and inconsistency.
The most valuable thing you bring is your willingness to be present without needing to be perfect.
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7. Stay at the Table — Long After the World Moves On
Grief does not run on a schedule.
The hardest days may not be the first Christmas or the first anniversary. They might be eight months later, on a random Tuesday, when the house feels unbearably empty.
That’s why long-term support matters.
Mark your calendar: three months, six months, one year after the death. Send a message. Make a call. Drop by.
Let them know that while the world may have moved on, you still remember.
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What Not to Do: Don’t Pretend Nothing’s Wrong
One of the most painful things you can do to someone who is mourning is to step into their world and act as if nothing has happened.
It might feel like you’re bringing “positivity” or “light” into the room, but to the mourner, it feels like erasure. You’re not lifting their mood — you’re denying their reality.
I’ve had people come into my space after Angé died and carry on as though everything was perfectly fine. No mention of her. No question about how I was coping. No willingness to even sit quietly if I wanted to speak about her. Instead, they laughed too loudly, changed the subject if her name came up, and steered the conversation toward safe, cheerful topics.
It’s as if they believed that if we all behaved happily enough, the grief would simply vanish. But grief doesn’t vanish when you ignore it — it grows heavier.
If you really want to support someone, don’t pretend. Acknowledge the loss. Say their person’s name. If you’re not sure what to say, admit it: “I don’t know the right words, but I’m here.” You don’t have to make it better — you just have to make it real.
The biggest kindness you can offer is to face the grief with them, instead of pretending it isn’t there.
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Because of Angé — The Chair Beside Me
There’s a wooden chair on the stoep that no one sits in anymore.
It’s nothing special — just a slightly faded chair with a faint coffee stain on the armrest and a small nick in the back leg from when one of the dogs knocked it over. But it was hers.
In the weeks after she died, I couldn’t bring myself to move it. I didn’t put anything on it. I didn’t let anyone else sit there. It stayed exactly where it had been the last time she used it, angled slightly toward me, as if she were still there, listening, smiling, sometimes interrupting with a thought that made me laugh while tilting her head in that way only Ange could do
One evening, a friend came over. She didn’t ask if she could sit there — she just noticed the empty chair, took another one instead, and placed her cup of tea on the stoep between us.
She didn’t say a word about the chair, but she saw it.
And in seeing it, she saw me. She saw what mattered.
That’s what good support looks like — noticing without announcing, honouring without taking over, making space without making a speech.
Now, whenever I think about how to support someone in mourning, I think of that chair.
Because of Angé, I know that sometimes the best thing you can do is simply leave the space where their person once was — not to avoid the absence, but to acknowledge it. Not to fill it, but to let it remain theirs.
