On Tuesday, June 16, I left Jakarta at 3:00 in the morning.
The city was still asleep. The streets were quiet, illuminated only by rows of streetlights and the occasional passing truck. As I drove eastward, leaving behind the endless concrete and traffic of the capital, I had five hours to think.
This was not a business trip or a holiday journey.
I was on my way to attend the funeral of a friend.
As dawn broke, the landscape slowly changed. Jakarta’s skyscrapers disappeared behind me, replaced by rice fields, small villages, and stretches of green countryside. The air felt cooler. The rhythm of life seemed slower. Somewhere along the journey, I found myself becoming unusually quiet, knowing that I was traveling not toward a celebration, but toward a farewell.
When I finally arrived in Sukamulya, a village in Kuningan at the foot of Mount Ciremai, I immediately understood why people often describe the area as sacred.
Mount Ciremai stood majestically in the distance, its slopes wrapped in morning mist and soft clouds. The mountain seemed both powerful and gentle at the same time. Nearby lies Gua Maria Sawer Rahmat in Cigugur, a place where many people come seeking peace, prayer, and spiritual comfort.
There was a serenity in the air that is difficult to describe.
The cool breeze, the quiet roads, the sound of birds, and the presence of the mountain created an atmosphere that invited reflection. It felt as though nature itself was whispering a reminder that life is bigger than our daily worries and more fragile than we often realize.
Yet on that beautiful morning, our hearts were heavy.
We had come because a friend was gone.
Just over a week earlier, she had been involved in a tragic accident. A motorcycle struck her from behind, causing severe brain injuries. For more than a week, she remained brain dead while her family, friends, and relatives held onto hope.
Hope is a remarkable thing.
Even when doctors explain the reality, people still pray. They still hope for a miracle. They still believe that somehow, somehow, things might turn around.
For days, her family lived between hope and heartbreak.
Then came the news none of them wanted to hear.
She had passed away.
Standing there among the mourners, my eyes kept drifting toward her family.
Her husband.
Her two children, both entering their teenage years.
And suddenly the tragedy felt even more real.
I thought about the future they had imagined together.
A husband expecting to grow old beside his wife.
Children expecting their mother to be there for birthdays, graduations, first jobs, heartbreaks, achievements, and all the ordinary moments that make up a life.
No one imagines that those moments can disappear so suddenly.
As I watched her children, I could not stop thinking about how much they still needed their mother. Not only for practical things, but for the countless small things mothers do every day—encouragement, advice, comfort, understanding, and unconditional love.
Some losses are simply impossible to measure.
No words spoken at a funeral can make such a loss feel fair.
No explanation can remove the pain.
Sometimes all we can offer is our presence.
A handshake.
A hug.
A prayer.
A willingness to stand beside people who are hurting.
As friends and family shared stories about her, I noticed something that happens at almost every funeral.
Nobody talked about money.
Nobody talked about titles.
Nobody talked about achievements.
Instead, people remembered her kindness.
They remembered her smile.
They remembered the way she helped others.
They remembered moments that seemed small at the time but had become precious memories.
And perhaps that is one of life’s greatest lessons.
When our journey ends, people rarely remember what we owned.
They remember how we made them feel.
Standing there, with Mount Ciremai watching silently in the background, I felt a deep sense of perspective.
The mountain has stood there for centuries.
It will probably stand there for centuries more.
Human life, by comparison, is astonishingly brief.
We make plans.
We build careers.
We chase dreams.
We worry about things that seem important.
And then one day, we are reminded that what matters most has been in front of us all along.
Family.
Friendship.
Love.
Kindness.
Time.
As I drove back to Jakarta later that afternoon, the image of Mount Ciremai stayed with me.
So did the image of a grieving husband and two children whose lives had changed forever.
I returned home carrying sadness, but also gratitude.
Gratitude for the people who are still part of my life.
Gratitude for conversations that seem ordinary today but may become treasured memories tomorrow.
Gratitude for another day to tell people that I love them.
The journey to Sukamulya began as a trip to attend a funeral.
It ended as a reminder.
A reminder that life is fragile.
A reminder that tomorrow is never guaranteed.
A reminder that love should never be postponed.
Because in the end, our lives are not measured by how long we live, but by how deeply we love and how much of ourselves we leave behind in the hearts of others.
