I was at a coffee shop recently and became aware of an intense conversation at the next table. An elderly parent was pushed right back in the chair, their daughter leaning forward. It was clear that something was amiss – the mother looking ill-at-ease and the daughter angry. I felt sad for both. What had brought them to this point of the white knuckles around the cup, I wondered. Quickly followed by the thought that the day may come when one of them will be gazing across at an empty chair and they may ponder the value of the cross words.
In September the Age Good Weekend magazine published an article about the ‘wind phone’ (A disconnected phone is giving people a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. by Paul Connolly, September 12 2025). Originating from Japan, the ‘wind phone’ is a white, glass-panelled telephone booth which contains a dis-connected black rotary phone. Visitors step inside the booth to ‘call’ those who have died, speaking words that ride the wind rather than the wires. It was created in 2010 by Itaru Sasaki, a garden designer grieving the death of his cousin. Sasaki placed the booth in his garden, saying, “Because my thoughts couldn’t be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried on the wind.” After the devastating 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami which killed over 15,000 people, Sasaki opened the wind phone to the public. It became a place where survivors could speak to family and friends lost in the disaster.
Since then, the idea of the ‘wind phone’ has spread throughout the world and there are three located in Australia. They are in a sense, a testament to the universality of grief, the longing we have to connect with those we love who have died.
In a sense, November is like the Catholic ‘wind phone’. This month of remembrance offering the invitation to think and pray for our beloved dead. I think the tradition of the communion of the saints is one of the great gifts of the Catholic world. This lovely sense that those who have died never really leave us. They live in eternity with God forming part of this ‘the great cloud of witnesses’ (Hebrew 12:1) with whom we can continue to share our deepest hopes and longings. The harsh words, the missed opportunities, the times when we were not our best – all of this we can offer in prayer to our loved ones who have died, in the sure knowledge that all can be healed. This is the world of God’s time where wounding words can be reconciled, and feelings of hate can eventually be transformed into patient acceptance of ourselves and the other.
We all have experiences, I am sure, of those very early days of grief in the wake of the death of a loved one. The world seems strange and loud – we feel untethered and it seems impossible that life can continue. The pain of this time is beautifully captured in W H Auden’s ‘Funeral Blues’ with the closing lines:
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
for nothing now can ever come to any good.
For people of faith, the knowledge that death is not the end is part of our DNA. It might take awhile, but eventually our hearts reshape and we are able to live a life that is different. There is a sharpness about grief that, even after many years, can stop us short. But we learn, overtime, to recognise it and know that the God of the living is always present. This, in essence, is the story of resurrection. This is the difference between the Catholic understanding of grief and the ‘wind phone’. We are never disconnected from those we love.
I think this understanding is part of the Catholic imagination. This idea that creation is infused with grace, where symbols, stories, and rituals reveal deeper truths about God and our human condition. At its heart is the deep belief in the incarnation – that Jesus revealed God to humanity in a new way. It’s in the eyes that look at the cross as both a symbol of suffering and of hope. It’s the capacity to hold the paradox of knowing death is not the end.
As we draw close to the end of the Church’s liturgical year, this week’s gospel reading is filled with big and troubling images: stones, warnings, earthquakes, plagues, famine, mighty signs in the sky. There is a sense of foreboding, and we may wonder what we are to make of this reading in our time and place. What is God whispering to us through this ancient text when the images seem so foreign to us?
The church historians amongst us will recall that the city and Temple of Jerusalem were destroyed (70 AD) in what must have been a devastation for the community. So, for the early followers of Jesus, this gospel would have spoken directly into their experience of loss and persecution. Perhaps the voice of God is calling to us all these centuries later to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus. Jesus is the one who stays with us through every test or endurance. A message of consolation and hope, for all of us, perhaps.
As we go about our Remembrance month, let us remember that even though grief may encourage us to put out the stars, every one – the God of all hope is with us, ready for the moment when we are ready to once again look with joy at the brightness of the stars in the sky.
Eternal rest grant unto our loved ones, O Lord.
May they rest and may our hearts find peace in the knowledge that they are gone, but not forgotten.
By: Cathy Jenkins
19 Brenbeal Street, Balwyn VIC 3103
Telephone: 03 9816 9291
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Laura Facci says:
Thank you Cathy for a very beautiful reflection.