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It was a funeral; a strange one in the sense that a church had been found 40 or so miles from where the person had lived for large parts of their life and some way from where they spent their last few months. The funeral director had also come from 40 miles away.

We gathered to celebrate her life: someone sang who had sang to them in the rest home, a poem was read and a hymn was sung.

That’s when I noticed it: the typo. Every last verse of the hymn had a typo on the same word. Initially, I was distracted but then I began to smile; this was life being celebrated- broken, imperfect, affected by ill health but life.

Life has typos, imperfections, glitches, catastrophes and things that don’t connect. Often there is a temptation to airbrush it out: ‘living my best life: now’ , #perfectmoments etc and that temptation can be strong at the end: ‘they were perfect- would do anything for anyone’ etc.

I believe that this temptation has to be resisted; keep the typos centre stage.

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