Joy Farrington considers how we value the life and death of the broken and marginalised

Joy Attmore

It's really interesting observing people's responses to you when you tell them that someone you know has passed away. It can often be a conversation killer or introduce an air of awkwardness as they try to figure out what is appropriate to say. A stroke of the arm or an embrace might follow soon afterwards, depending on how well you know them, or they may even cry on behalf of your grief if it is someone with empathy as a strength. Soon however, they will gently ask questions as to how well you knew the person and how it was that they came to die. It's at this point that a shift can sometimes be felt in the level of sympathy you receive or the amount of time that you are allocated by your friend to grieve; if it was a close friend or family member then an abundance of love and sympathy is shown towards you, however if it was someone that you weren't as close with then your grieving time is significantly cut. What I only discovered recently is that people also respond differently when they hear of the person's worldly status.

A week ago today my phone started ringing whilst I was in the middle of leading a meeting at work. I didn't recognise the number and so quietened the ringtone, allowing the voicemail to pick up any messages. About an hour later I returned to my phone and rang back my mystery caller to find out that it was a lady that I've become good friends with over the last few months.

"Joy, have you heard the news?"

"No, is everything ok?"

"Amy has passed away!"

My feet stopped dead in their tracks and I found myself asking her to repeat what she had just told me. I had last seen Amy two days beforehand and although she was still recovering from having been in hospital for a couple of weeks, she was smiling and seemed well. To hear that she was no longer alive came as a massive shock and didn't seem at all real. Rachael was her best friend of several years and she sobbed as she relayed what she knew down the phone to me.

"I'm coming over to you now," I responded immediately, both to her need of desiring comfort and a friend and my own need to process what was happening. I had spent the last two days talking with my workmates about how to still live with joy when your circumstances don't go the way that you want them to and now here was a big circumstance that I didn't want anywhere near me!

In the hours that followed I sat with Rachael, at times in silence, at times with tears and with moments of smiles as we talked about Amy and how amazing she was. We then drove around Liverpool, listening to gospel music and taking comfort in the rhythm of movement.

I had come to know Amy several years ago through my church. I had sat with her in moments of personal darkness and had rejoiced with her in times of great happiness. Life hadn't been easy for her, but she was a woman of great joy and love.

Amy passed away whilst living in a hostel. She had battled with addiction and at times had worked on the streets to supply for her wants and needs, but that isn't what I remember her for; that isn't who she was. Amy was a woman who fiercely loved those around her. She stood up for truth and justice and a laugh was never far from her lips.

Statistics have shown that in many people's eyes a woman who has worked as a prostitute or has lived a life haunted by addictions is of lesser value than the rest of society. This is even a response that I have felt as I have shared the news of Amy's death with people around me and the thought of this has been weighing on me all week.

Amy was a beautiful woman and a dear friend to me and many others. May she never be viewed as having lesser value because of how she used to earn her money, but may she be remembered with the love and honour she deserves. May we all learn to love in a way that is opposite to statistics and goes against what the world values as great and wonderful. May the broken become our friends and be fully invited into our hearts that we may celebrate and mourn with them both in their own time.