“We planted trees, not tears.”
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Opening Reflection: A Different Kind of Goodbye
There was no printed program.
No priest, no organ, no line of chairs facing a podium.
Just a dusty road leading up to the farm at Bokrivier, a field full of stories, and a quiet instruction:
“Please bring a fruit tree.”
That was Angé’s memorial.
It was what she wanted. Not because she ever said the words “please plant trees instead of praying,” but because we knew her. We knew how much she loved earth and roots and hands in soil. We knew she wanted to give life, not be remembered in marble or stone. And we knew that this place — a happy place — was the right place to begin saying goodbye.
So we invited friends, family, loved ones. And they came.
Carrying guava saplings, lemon trees, plum trees. One person brought a fig tree. Another brought a wild olive. People arrived in pairs or alone, planting with spades and with tears, often in silence, sometimes in laughter.
There was the smell of fresh-turned earth in the air, sharp and damp. Birds called from the fence posts, their songs mingling with the scrape of spades and the low murmur of voices telling stories. The breeze carried both dust and the faint scent of the first blossoms from an old peach tree nearby.
And between it all, I planted my own tree. Just me. Later that evening, I turned over the old vegetable garden and planted sunflower seeds. Not for anyone else. Just for Angé. Just for me.
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1. There’s No One Right Way to Say Goodbye
Let’s begin here: there is no universal “right” way to have a memorial.
Some people need a church — the steadiness of pews, the comfort of liturgy, the power of shared faith.
Some people need hymns and candles and formal readings.
Some people need the structure of a service that follows time-honored rhythms: opening prayer, eulogy, sermon, song, benediction, burial.
And that’s not wrong.
In fact, it’s deeply right if that’s the life the person lived. If they were raised in that tradition. If the people around them find peace in ritual. If the church was their community — their anchor, their rhythm, their place of belonging.
A traditional memorial can be beautiful and profound.
It can offer containment for overwhelming grief.
It can carry the mourners when words fail.
And for many, it provides the cultural and emotional scaffolding needed to begin the journey of mourning.
What matters is not how we do it — but why we do it.
The memorial should reflect the person.
It should reflect their story, their spirit, and their connections — whether that’s through sermons or spades.
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2. Let the Life Guide the Format
Angé’s life didn’t fit in a chapel. Not because she rejected it — she just lived differently.
She was nature, not walls. She was spontaneous, not scheduled. She found her connection to God in flowers, not formal prayers. Her community wasn’t confined to a Sunday — it was lived out in meals, text messages, swims, and sunrises.
So, her memorial needed to reflect that.
We didn’t print orders of service. We handed out seedlings.
We didn’t give a speech. We dug holes in the earth.
People arrived in hiking boots and sandals, some holding children, others holding back tears.
The space filled with laughter, stillness, and shared memories. No microphone was needed. The birds sang more than we did.
And that was exactly how she would have wanted it.
If someone else’s life had included choirs and communion, that would have been right for them.
If someone’s life had included mosque prayer, or a drum circle, or silence in a meditation hall — then that’s what the memorial should reflect.
The way we say goodbye should match the way they lived.
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3. The Communal Memorial: Letting Others Say Goodbye Too
When someone you love dies, it’s natural to feel possessive.
They were mine, you think. Our relationship was special.
And it was.
But others hold their own stories, too. Their own Angé. Their own heartbreak.
And the memorial is the one time where all of those stories are invited into the same space.
At the Bokrivier memorial, it was incredible to see how many versions of Angé arrived.
People talked about her horse riding — her confidence, her gentleness, the way she spoke to the animals like old friends. Others told stories of firefighting — the intensity, the commitment, the strength it took to show up again and again for others, even when the flames were close and the terrain was rough.
Someone mentioned her endless energy for helping a neighbour — showing up with bread and coffee when their power went out. Another recalled the way she would laugh, head back, eyes closed, at some silly joke only she found funny or the way she tilted her head when she was making a point.
Everyone had a version of her. And that day gave them space to hold that version up to the light, to grieve, to smile, to say goodbye.
We sometimes forget that a memorial isn’t just for the immediate family.
It’s also for those whose grief may not be loud — but it is real.
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4. The Private Goodbye: The One That Belongs Only to You
But amid the crowd, you also need something else:
A goodbye that’s just for you.
After the fruit trees were planted, and people had gone home, I stayed behind.
The sun was setting, and I walked alone across the garden.
I turned over the earth with my own hands, pulling out weeds, smoothing the soil.
And then I planted sunflower seeds — one by one — into the ground Angé loved.
There was no one watching. No one speaking. Just me, my breath, the wind, and her memory.
That was my real memorial. My private ritual.
It was quiet, raw, sacred.
Private goodbyes matter because they are where you can be unguarded. No hosting, no managing, no explaining your tears or your silence. It is where grief is allowed to stretch its legs without fear of judgment. Some people find this moment in a place — a favourite bench, a mountain view, a garden bed. Others find it in a ritual — lighting a candle, writing a letter, reading a shared book.
Everyone needs this. Whether you create a ceremony with two or three close friends, or simply sit alone with a photo, a candle, or a memory — you need a space that isn’t shared.
That quiet goodbye doesn’t need a date or invitation. It just needs truth. And time.
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5. Who You Invite — And Who You Don’t Have To
Here’s something people don’t say enough:
You don’t have to invite everyone to the memorial.
It’s okay to have boundaries.
It’s okay to say, “No, this space is not for them.”
There may be people who want to be there out of curiosity. Out of obligation. Even out of ego.
And if their presence will disturb the peace, distract from the moment, or bring stress — then you are fully within your rights to say no.
Not everyone who wants to mourn deserves a seat in the front row.
A memorial should be a safe space. A sacred space.
It’s not a social event. It’s not a performance.
It’s a goodbye.
And if that goodbye would be hurt by certain people, then don’t feel guilty about drawing a line.
You’re allowed to protect your grief.
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6. Memorials That Grow On
The most beautiful part of Angé’s memorial is that it didn’t end.
It continues.
Every time I walk through that patch of land, I see fruit trees growing stronger.
I see the fig tree sprouting new leaves. The guava bearing tiny fruit.
I see sunflowers turning their faces to the sky.
This is not a frozen moment in time. It’s a living memory.
Something that changes with the seasons, that invites return, that offers shade, food, color.
And that’s the quiet magic of a living memorial — it calls you back, again and again. Birthdays, anniversaries, or simply on days when the missing is too heavy. It gives you a place to talk to them. To stand still. To remember.
We don’t often think of memorials as something that evolve. But they can.
You can return to them. Add to them. Let them grow.
Because grief doesn’t end with a service. And neither should remembrance.
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7. Planning a Memorial? Ask the Right Questions
If you’re facing the hard task of planning a memorial — here are the questions that matter:
• What reflects their spirit?
• What reflects your relationship with them?
• What do you need in order to begin your own goodbye?
• What do others in their life need?
• Are there traditions, rituals, or settings that bring comfort?
• Are there expectations you need to release?
• How might this memorial live on in the years to come?
And perhaps the most important one:
What would they have wanted — and what do you want to carry forward from that day?
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Conclusion: The Goodbye That Roots You
A memorial isn’t a performance.
It’s a turning point.
A space to begin the work of carrying someone inside you — differently, now.
Angé’s memorial wasn’t a goodbye carved in stone. It was roots in soil. It was fruit trees swaying gently in the wind. It was a forest being born — one that will feed others for years to come.
It gave others space to remember.
And it gave me the sacred silence to say: Goodbye, my love.
Whatever memorial you choose — traditional, informal, or somewhere in between — let it be honest. Let it reflect the person. Let it begin your next step.
And don’t forget to make room — just for you.
You deserve that moment too.
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Reflective Prompts
1. If you could design a memorial that reflected your loved one’s spirit — what would it look like?
2. How do you feel about including or excluding certain people from the memorial? What boundaries do you need?
3. Have you made time for a personal goodbye, separate from the formal one? If not, what would that look like for you?
4. Is there a way for the memorial to live on — a ritual, garden, gathering, or tradition you can return to over time?
5. If you could add to that memorial over the next five years, what would you add — and why?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I know that a memorial can be alive. Not a static plaque, not a cold headstone, but something that grows — something that changes with the seasons, just as grief changes with time. She taught me that remembrance can be both tender and practical, that love can be planted in soil as much as it can be spoken in words.
Because of Angé, I know the value of inviting people into a shared goodbye — not because it is easy, but because it allows every person to carry a piece of her forward in their own way.
And because of Angé, I know that my own goodbye doesn’t have to be public, loud, or perfectly scripted. It can be quiet, private, and held only in my heart. The sunflower seeds I planted in our old garden will grow for her, but also for me — a promise that love, like roots, doesn’t end where the ground begins
