Once again, yesterday, I was struck at the difference between serenity and tragedy, and how the two coexist simultaneously, right next to each other.

I conducted a final inspection of a construction project yesterday. It was a big project, and we divided it into two mornings. Yesterday was the second. I met folks on the site at 9:00 a.m., though I was there early enough to drive the roads around the project and check them. The day before had been hot, and I was exhausted at the end. Yesterday was cooler, cloudy, with rain threatening. It did in fact sprinkle on us soon after we started. At one point it was more than sprinkling, and we ducked under a covered entrance. The coolness helped us; the rain hindered us. Less than two hours after starting, we had a short punch list of things to correct, and I headed back to the office.

It was pizza day at the office, a replacement for bar-b-que day since our lunch room is closed for renovation. While on site an e-mail had come through to my phone that said the pizza would be there around 11:30. I think it was just before 11 that I parked and walked to the building. Three guys from the office were standing at the door I use, so I said, “I bet you guys are here to intercept the pizza dude and get first dibs!” One man said no, they had come outside to give a certain woman in the office some space (I won’t identify her), that she had screamed loudly, having learned of some significant problem over the phone.

I walked inside. All was dead quiet. We have a relatively quiet workplace, but not like this. I wasn’t sure what was going on, and stayed in my office for a while, waiting till I heard something. I checked the woman’s Facebook feed, and found nothing. A half hour later I was still as much in the dark. Then, on the Facebook feed of the wife of a co-worker came a notice to pray for an unnamed close friend, who had lost a son in tragic circumstances. Could this have been the tragedy? I checked the pages of her adult children (to the extent they were public), and again found nothing.

The pizza was there, so I went to eat. Everyone was talking as you normally would at a lunch provided by the company. Or, perhaps slightly muted compared to normal. I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. The woman wasn’t around, but she often isn’t for these kinds of lunches.

The afternoon rolled on, business as usual for me, and for those I encountered. My work didn’t take me at all by this woman’s desk, and I didn’t know how to ask about what had happened. Finally, the workday over, I headed to my pick-up, and in the parking lot talked with one of our admin assistants who was also leaving. She said that our co-worker had indeed lost her son, unexpectedly in tragic circumstances.

I drove home, stopping for milk and ice cream. We heated leftovers for supper, then I picked blackberries around our circle, finding a new patch not very far from the house. It was my best day yet for picking. After that I went through the mail, did some trading accounting work in The Dungeon until my computer locked up. Then I went back upstairs and read till close to 11:00 p.m. A small but strong thunderstorm knocked out our internet and cable, so all was quiet within the house—serene.

All evening the contrast stayed with me, in a way I hadn’t felt for about three decades. All was serene with me and, in the office, with my co-workers. Except for this one woman, who started the day serenely but ended it having to bury her son. I thought how tomorrow (which is now today) would be the same way. This morning her Facebook page finally confirmed publicly what I’d been told privately.

For most of us the world goes on. Most of our times in America are serene, calm. Business sometimes brings stress, as does the myriad of simple chores required to live. But our worst problems are serenity compared to what she is facing.

Dear God, give her and her family strength through this tragedy. Bring them through the initial grieving to a place of peace, your peace. Help them to say goodbye to their loved one and to carry forward fond memories. Heal their scars from this, and bring them to a place of triumph. And may we, who live lives or relative serenity, be more observant of and helpful to those who don’t.