I became a cyclist 8 years ago, in the year I turned forty. I learned what to wear in the dark and the wind and the rain, how to fuel my body for long rides, and how to share the road with vehicles. I learned what hand signals to use when turning, slowing, stopping, or letting the cyclist behind me know about gravel or potholes or roadkill. My favourite hand signal is the one cyclists use to say hello as they bike in opposite directions: a little left-handed wave or a slight finger lift from the handle bar. Nothing dramatic or lengthy – just a quick ‘hey.’ I never feel more like a true cyclist than when I get that slight wave. I feel seen and connected to a community.

This summer I added a hand signal: my right hand on my heart. 

I use this signal twice while on my regular 30-kilometer route (Bath Road along the northern shore of Lake Ontario between Kingston and the ferry to Amherst Island). I first place my hand on my heart for just a few seconds when I pass by the white ghost bike of Jeff Vervaeke. 

In the late spring of 2018, Jeff and several other cyclists were in the midst of a charity ride and were gathered on the side of Bath Road to assist a member of their cycling team who had been injured in a fall. A van slowed as it came upon the group, and an impatient driver behind the van attempted to pass on the right shoulder. Jeff was struck and died in the hospital a few days later. Right hand on my heart.

The other place I use this signal is at the point where County Road 6 T’s with Bath Road. A tall, large black and yellow sign on the lake side of the road indicates that southbound vehicles on County Road 6 must turn right or left – certainly not straight into the waters of the lake. That road sign is now wrapped with flowers and marked with a cross and a name: Roxy. I do not know for sure, but I wonder if Roxy is the name of the person whose body was recovered after a vehicle went straight into the waters of the lake at this very spot on a cold January morning in 2023. Right hand on my heart.

My hand on my heart is a sign – not made for the purpose of communicating with vehicles or other riders, but for myself and in honor of those who died in those places. To remind myself that they were mortal creatures and I am a mortal creature and we are connected as humans in a world where … things happen. 

As human beings, we are connected to the living whose paths we cross and whose waves we return. We are also connected to the dead, whose memorials and resting places we often pass by in the midst of our living.

I love the part of the film, King Richard, when Venus and Serena Williams’ father is driving them and their three sisters to practice tennis. As they pass by a cemetery, Richard lays on the horn and calls back to his girls: “Say hi to the peoples that’s gone!” And the girls respond in a rhythm that tells the viewers that this is just a thing they do: “Hi to the peoples that’s gone!” A ritual of connection between the living and the dead. 

In the hospital where my husband works as a spiritual care provider, many of the staff appreciate the use of what’s called the Medical Pause, immediately following the death of a patient. Introduced into practice by Jonathan Bartels in 2009, it goes something like this:

Could we take a moment just to Pause and honor this person in the bed? This was someone who was alive and now has passed away. This is someone who loved and was loved. They were someone’s friend and family member. In our own way and in silence let us stand and take a moment to honor both this person in the bed and all the valiant efforts that were made on their behalf.

This ritual of connection honors the humanity of the person who has died and the humanity of those who cared for them. 

My hand finds its way to my heart a lot lately. For the living and the dead. For the things that happen. For victims of earthquakes in Afghanistan and landslides in Sudan. For people who drive into lakes and dead cyclists. And for impatient drivers, too. For the victims of gun violence and the victims of James Dobson’s teachings. And for the perpetrators of gun violence and for Dobson, too. For the victims of bombings and starvation in Ukraine and Gaza. And also for those in power who gave the directives to send those bombs and withhold that aid. Somehow, we are connected to the living and the dead. Somehow, we are connected in this world where… things happen. 

As I hold my hand on my heart, I entrust all creatures to the judge of all the earth, who will do right. I entrust us to the One who is Love, to the One in whom we all live (and die) and move (and rest) and have our being.